Contretemps are the warp, kompromat is the woof

Perchance to dream a comforting dream that settles all disputes and resolves all doubts in favor of an ahistorical absolute. Death by boredom to follow quickly, replies anyone with insistence as a conversational style and antinomian spite as a guiding ethos.

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I was told there would be platters of barbecue and cheese plates balanced on the backs of Jungian analysts on all fours and seedy elements would be out in full force. This turned out to be a fraudulent inducement.

Instead it was just mini-crowds of young folks, standing in semi circles, saying nothing and watching as others recorded themselves documenting being there on their phones until it came time to document their own selves being there, with Lunchables and boxed wine and large bins of Mr Goodbar minis. No one seemed to be wary of an orgy or a brawl breaking out.

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It strikes me now that it was not so much the ahistorical absolute that we were stalking, as the conversations unspooled, with detectable amounts of malevolence hiding in plain sight at the upturned corner of each sparkling smile. It was an urge to end with a grace note of poise, coiled sprezzatura, while still playacting as predators who would not stoop to being prey.