Day 861
Dominant notes of aspirin and cake
Po-faced and a bit snide at first, this Substack is picking up slow speed before gallumphing to a springy sunlight-on-hot-chrome apex, then splitting into rusty metal ringlets that roll and roll and gradually wobble off the shelves like discounted hula hoops.
Here in the land of borshch-eating never-surrender monkeys (last week Z’s government issued another batch of sanctioned merch including the Z Classic Tee) they’ve been selling radioactive berries and mushrooms for years.
Almost 200 Russian attacks yesterday, most along axis in Donbas, and more strikes on the airport in Myhrohod, Poltava region.
The first attack vaporized a couple of fighter jets, the second — military helicopters. Why they were parked on the tarmac instead of flying around shooting down drones targeting the airport is anyone’s guess. Lots of chronic remorse.
Yuriy Butusov writes this about the 59th Brigade and the defense of Krasnohorivka. The post reminded me of this song about herbaceous plants with hairy stems.
As for the the Swedes, the Finns, the Balts, Poles, the Dutch and the Brits. Yes, they are with us, kind of, at least on Eurovision. I have no idea what Dmytro Ponamarenko, our ambassador to South Korea, has been up to since Z appointed him in late 2021.
Yesterday, representing Hungary’s six-month presidency of the EU Council in Kyiv, Orban urged Ukraine to commit suicide (stop shooting) in order to facilitate peace talks with Russia.
As for Ukrainians abroad, most don’t want to come back until it’s safe(r). And that’s unlikely if Team USA re-elects Trump.
So. Lots of uncertainty.
Trust in Z among Ukrainians has decreased significantly this year, according to surveys. Confidence in Z abroad has also declined, according to Pew Research Center.
This occurred to me. Of the many stains left across the internet by the current crop of pro-Ukraine milibloggers — rubber-stamp obviousness and desperate cries for group hugs and attention being close-to-hand examples – surely one of the greasiest is the constant grousing about the scourge of ‘patriotic self-censorship,’ a complaint that plays as reliably well in the echo chamber as a frontman demanding if the arena is ready to rock.
Such staying power for a term unused outside the realm of parody since, oh, 2016? It’s a drained cliché, malleable, as was its antonym three years before Z smirked into view.
Yet the very same pious humourlessness, the very same shouting down of any opposing view, the very same presumptions of power, the very same claims to a higher purpose, the very same misappropriation of the suffering of strangers that dogged the very worst of what we came to know as ‘patriotic self-censorship,’ is now the breakfast, lunch, dinner and midnight snack of Ukraine’s telemarathon, the attack runts on Telegram and designated Ukraine mourners the world over.
Easy enough to laugh at. That is, until its impact hits home.