“Divorce is adultery!,” demands the monolith of Judeo-Christian mythology. And adultery is heresy. And heresy is unforgivable. Thus spake the intolerant of our era–prohibiting our natural yearnings for divorce.
It could be said that adulterers and other supposed heathens ‘have a hard time’ appreciating the edicts, even etiquette, of those whose claim to shame derives from a reverence for a White Jesus with blue eyes–and his greedier, more unforgiving antecedent Moses.
However, ‘strike the shepherd to scatter the flock’; and so when quick cultural forgiveness, even admiration, so soon meets so many of those so quick to betray their family, disposing of the advice of morality’s Third Reich, then not a ‘hard time appreciating’ but rather the ‘rewards in rejecting’ lead to what we see: Massive anti-mom mires, legions of morally incontinent cultural cogs; each and all content to fall, relent–to throw out baby Jesus with so much baneful bathwater. Nevertheless, “Divorce is adultery,” can, for those addicted to positivity, be easily structured positively: “For the sake of your children, and for the children of wider culture, you will maintain your pledge to your partner, regardless.”
Simple. And, as with so much that is simple: not easy.
Meanwhile, in an attempt to absolve themselves of the response-ability inherent, for motherhood, in marriage: Droves of divorceés spin fantastical, fetid, fabergé farce to each other, either as to their own morally exceptional matter–where, generally, enduring commitment is good but not in their case–else that the religious are all naive, that disposable relationships are the progressive wave of the future; this, after such women have hardly recovered from their extended celebration–their hurried, harried jubilation–of the empowered success of widespread infanticide, deigned to them by seven old white men, at the turn of the seventh decade, in the year of their Lord: the self.
Thence waddles one such social-succubus: Sherry Turkle, in her prosaic romance-novel, Alone Together (2011, Basic Books), bemoaning the moral inevitabilities which presently befall (i.e. bully and degenerate-shame) a culture filled with she-cowards too weak to woman-up to motherhood–shetards who don’t have the labia to stay married.
Turkle, an ambitious, elegant young woman in her late sixties wrote Alone Together while an ambitious, elegant young woman in her early sixties. In it, she bemoans the bearings of the discarded driftwood in the current of our current Lost Generations, for which she–along with plenty like-mindless, aged divorcées–now serves as matron, even matriarch. She wails that her transcendent moral-line–“People should not hump robots”–was likened to the hateful moral-line of certain, certifiably bigoted others: “Men should not pretend to use a rectum as a womb; and women should not pretend that neurotic, penis-envy-bespeaking, throat-rotting cunnilingus is a ‘lifestyle choice’.”
By Turkle’s prose, she seems not to know of eunuchs–those relegated to sterility and servitude–and their modern-day equivalent: Homosexuals. Alone Together serves as her Magnum Opus of pretense–the feignedest fiction: that popularized pedantry left her better than any other quelled quilter, however hi-tech.
They will surely strut. They will indeed fret. They may, thereby, even extend their hour upon the stage. Yet these ’empowered’ yetis will also continue to avoid any and all mirrors not yet calibrated carefully enough to output their farce as success.
Many will choose to be Alone Together, albeit to Turkle’s lament, if only because they have long since lost the will, indeed even the vocabulary, to tell such obvious truths to the Sherry Turkles of the world–those wholly she-addicted to quaffing quaint queefs of pitiable she-elites: How awkward and socially-loaded it is to refer, as did Turkle, to “Ellen, an ambitious, elegant young woman–in her early thirties;” only to further describe the aged, ragged worker–doomed to die in a fem-anesthetized hive–as “unhappy.”
Imagine that: empowered and rewarded…for being delusional and hypocritical…and still unhappy.
They are their punishment. Thence: Alone Together.