For better or worse, the age of the internet has resulted in a homogenization of our lives. It has blurred boundaries in ways never before possible. Counter-culture is now the performative norm. Punk is dead; long live punk.
It is tempting to put a sandal on one’s head in the way of Jōshū and then just leave the courtyard. Better yet would be if we could put the courtyard on our head and leave the walking to the sandal while we talk a bit about mū with a dog.
If the normal position is resistance to authority to the point of mediocrity, there is little left to rebel against.
During the heyday of 80s punk, people would look at my hair, my clothes, my makeup and ask what it was like to be a punk. I told them they would have to ask a punk, not me. “But aren’t you a punk?” they would ask. “No,” I would say, shaking my head in sadness. “I am a poseur.”
We all were — only a few of us realised the truth of the matter. Products and poseurs, each and every one of us. Even fewer embraced the derisive label — which, I suppose made those who did more punk than the punks. I don’t know. I never pretended to understand the logic of these things.
But… going back to what got my head all in a muddle, was that I was thinking about that third sentence this morning: Counter-culture is now the performative norm. And that seemed like it might have implications.
I could not find anything online that felt truly counter-culture or underground (if you prefer). Everything is daylit. Everything is accepted in the right places. Even being “goblin” is considered acceptable. Taboos are falling by the wayside. Radical normality is a thing even. Forget being “feral” to make your mark, there’s an app for that too.
When there is nothing left to counter, we are left with only ourselves.
And that goes beyond the pale for many. Time to pick up a fetish or two to balance it out as you dust off that motorcycle leather you have tucked away in the back of the closet.
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