Toward the end of the twentieth century it was pure coolness to be post-something.

A decade into the new millennium, this move was growing stale. And now, two decades in, post- is rancid.

It would be tempting to call today’s zeitgeist “post-post”, were it not for the fact that post- means something precise and crucial.

Post- indicates some truth or state of being has been internalized and integrated so fully that its own antinomies have emerged from its own internal logic, inducing a crisis, demanding departure without destination.

This time’s departure from post-, though, is the furthest thing from that.

This time is so diffuse and dissipated that it lacks capacity to enter or integrate anything. It never arrives anywhere and inhabits it long enough and attentively enough to notice much of anything. A time inattentive to consistency and unconcerned about self-contradiction never develops a degree of integrity required to detect antinomies. This time just drives past everything, sporadically glancing through the glass, barely noticing and seldom wondering about what is outside. If we sought a parable for what happened between the heyday of post- and now, we might find it in “Flowers for Algernon”, if we could sustain attention through an entire short story.

A decision to be post-something in this time might mean any number of things. Most will assume a clueless lagging behind the times or maybe insensitivity or contrarianism. But it might indicate a need for the precise meaning of post- that overrides distaste for mustiness.

Bearing all this in mind: what kind of spergy sociopath would aspire to be Postplotinian?