Groundhog Day
We are, self evidently,
entering upon a retroactive form of history,
and all our ideas, philosophies and mental techniques
are progressively adapting to that model.We may even see this as an adventure,
since the disappearance of the end is in itself
an original situation.It seems to be characteristic of our culture and our history,
which cannot even manage to come to an end,
and are, as a result, assured of an indefinite recurrence,
a backhanded immortality.Up to now, immortality has been mainly that of the beyond,
an immortality yet to come, but we are today
inventing another kind
in the here and now, an immortality
of endings receding to infinity.
The Illusion of the End by Jean Baudrillard, trans. by Chris Turner, page 115, pub. 1992
Today is the first day of February. Tomorrow is Groundhog Day. According to legend when the rodent comes out of its burrow, if it sees it’s shadow, we are in store for six more weeks of winter. Though what I have in mind is the 1993 move by Bill Murray. To jog your memory of the plot, here is a snipped from Wikipedia:
On February 2, Phil [Bill Murray] awakens in the Cherry Street Inn to Sonny & Cher’s “I Got You Babe” playing on the clock radio. He gives a half-hearted report on the groundhog Punxsutawney Phil and the festivities. Contrary to his prediction, the blizzard strikes the area, preventing all travel out of Punxsutawney, and although he desperately searches for a way to leave, he is forced to spend the night in the town.
The next morning, Phil wakes once more to “I Got You Babe” and the same DJ banter on the radio in his room at the Cherry Street Inn. Phil experiences the previous day’s events repeating exactly…
The movie presents an ironic rendition of hell, to be trapped in a time loop, a repetition of events, inability to escape recurring form of events, to end anything. This was a dark movie.
We are living in a dark time in 2025. In similar fashion we are likely to awaken day after day over four years, perhaps even more, to the voice and the image of Donald Trump or his acolytes intoning “I got you babe…”
A retroactive form of history as Baudrillard wrote would include a retrograde of rights for women, especially access to healthcare. Another ghost, that of involuntary servitude, chattel slavery rises up from America’s past. Remember the President’s comments of a day or so ago of housing 30,000 exiled immigrants at Guantanamo, Cuba, placed in tents within barbed wire pens. A final example is the freedom of speech that we felt sure was granite-rock-solid. This bulletin:
President Trump’s new head of the Federal Communications Commission has ordered an investigation of NPR and PBS, with an eye toward unraveling federal funding for all public broadcasting. – CNN
Do you catch the philosophers sardonic tone, his notation that this material return of what we thought to be ghosts in our rear view mirror, the indefinite recurrence, – amounts to a backhanded immortality?
Some Americans see this as an adventure…
One thought on “Groundhog Day”
We are indeed a small part of an historic series of events; witnesses to the unraveling of the “Grand Experiment”. Not certain if this is what Baudrillard meant but there is a kind of immortality to recording our thoughts on these momentous disasters as they unfold. If future historians will exist (an unknown at this point) they will certainly look back at this era in amazed wonder at the mass stupidity and utter disregard by a majority of American citizens for the entirety of the human species and for potential extinction of all of life on earth. Perhaps they will ponder why we all sat by and watched as the world spun out of control. Why didn’t someone, anyone do something.
Yes, I know there are hundreds of thousands of folks working to at least slow down our march towards the cliffs of no return, but it’s clearly not enough to stem the tide of ineptitude. To this end please allow me to offer yet another of my old poems (and thank you for indulging me).
Not Going Gently
Take the few coins from my pocket,
vestiges of ignorance,
symbols of a fictitious god,
and toss them into waves.
Possessions gone, disbursed,
dispensed to the depths.
Not a pennyweight
to hold me to this earth.
No fortune could keep
me from this moment,
no yachts, or bobbles of bright and
multi-colored stones, no gold
or vast hallways stretching
to nowhere could stop time.
Do not pull my fist from the air
or muffle my voice as I scream.
Allow me to rail against
human ineptitude
until the moment
I am swallowed by the void,
blasting those who believe
they’ve purchased the answers
but whose stagnant minds
are caught and canned
by ephemeral fantasies.
Living an alternate reality
where the wealthy play let’s pretend
and where everyone else pays the price.
No illusions, no magic,
or redeemers’ promises.
No pretense of eternal life,
only one final question
for those who lay waste
to the lives of others:
What’s the point?