Tuesday, June 28, 2011

A Review of Gears of War 2, or, A Rare Treat for Fans of my Thoughts on Games.

Marcus Fenix, Gears of War 2's Great Meat Face, would vindicate Eisenstein's Theory of Montage if his blank grimace were ever juxtaposed with anything other than wrenching horror.



Everyone knows that all men are bastards.


Everyone knows that the tragedy of men is that they have built a world which is constructed to function as their own monument and throne and nothing else; that they have fashioned a language which compels its users with every breath to exalt men as their rulers and dominators; and yet every man knows the falsehood of this world that he have made, and thus strives always to witness its destruction and escape to a place where primal guttural screams are the only language, glossal shrieks imparting voices from the core he has buried beneath layers of ink and marble and leather and steel.


Everyone knows men despise their own flesh for its constant betrayal, its refusal to stifle as they would stifle all feelings of pain or pleasure that make them cry like children or smile like women. If a man were truly happy he would have flesh of cold iron, but a man could never be truly happy for to be a man is to know the world's grimness and to distrust relief and sneer in the face of respite.


Everyone knows that men make countries to keep out those they hate most, which is everyone who will not bend to their rod; and that those that bend as they ask, these they hate the most also, for their uselessness and their servitude and their demands for protection and cries for appeasement and requests for men to feel, and a man hates to feel because it reminds him that he Is, which he hates. And everyone knows that men will always find someone to lie to, someone to kill and die so that men may keep their countries; because if they had not, then others would rape their sisters before they themselves had had the chance.


Everyone knows men love war, because in war, the mistrusted and hated flesh is rent by metal, ground in the dirt, burned by fire and blistered yellow and crackling by scouring chemicals. In war, the chaos of the Abyss calls to men and shreds flesh from broken spirit until all that remains is grinning death, a final sneer for a world that deified and exalted and found no true use for them save fulfilling minor roles in a plan they constructed so long ago they have forgotten its purpose, only that its method is to dominate all things, and to this they must cling. Men are never unhappy to go to war; men are only unhappy that no war ever embodies the glorious promise of war itself, which is a maelstrom of blood and steel and bile and iron and stink and cry and fire and roar and red and black and drowning, enough to obliterate that deepest most hated truth, which is that they are still themselves, torn from all things and cold and alone.

Everyone knows that men hate to speak; so when they do, they will speak from a pool of their language which they have set aside for themselves, to be used only by men (never children or women) and specially chosen because all words and all combinations of those words mean nothing except I am a man and I will fuck you to death and hate every minute of it.


Everyone knows that men hate that which is natural and real, for it is the domain of women and children. For a man to enjoy something he did not build himself – crafted it to be false, made it ugly with his rough hands to show he cared not for it as would a woman – would imply that he had not ground enough children beneath his boot to afford the luxury of false things.


Everyone knows men hate all that is not of themselves; the alien, the sinister, the demonic and angelic alike; the nigger, the smiling wetback, the faggot, the whore, the arab, the bearded yid, the kraut, the commie, the wop and the wog, the retard, the socialist and the fascist, the good ole boy, the backwoods fuckwit, the cunt-lapping effete, the greased and grunting troll, the stupid bitch, the stinking hairy dyke, the acid-perfumed castrating harridan, the line-browed pornography-loving european moron, the haaji, the papist, the holy-roller, the atheist, the beaten prisoner, the glowering tormentor: there is no one that men cannot name so that they will hate them. Men know that there is only one thing which is holy and that is the mother, and all these Other would fuck her and dirty her before man could take his rightful place inside her.


Everyone knows that all men think their own mother a diseased and festering whore to be routed and exterminated so they may dwell at last alone and no one may question their pain and their hatred.


Everyone knows that all men hate ultimately themselves for they can see no way out of this, for it is what their fathers taught them, and their fathers are always war, because like war, a father's love is never complete and is always thus hate because it must be love or hate and they are still alone so it cannot be love. Everyone knows that men thus are born in pain and hate, and men are pain and hate is men, and this is truth, the only true thing that will live forever.


Eight point five.