Guilty of lusting after… authenticity… whatever that means.

Thinking perhaps that it doesn’t exist.

The allure of “the immigrant”

is not just about xenophilia

& their heroicism

although these things are very important.

It’s also of course, about the vestiges of “authenticity” they carry.

The perceived vestiges.

I know that actually “authenticity” is not even an authentic category.

Nothing is in fact more authentic than anything else, in a cosmic sense.

But I suppose, “fancy makes it so.”

“Authenticity” (the lust for) is definitely a kind of romanticism.

A la Rousseau (Jean-Jacques), I daresay (tho he’s been mostly discredited, perhaps rightly).

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And then there’s the xenophilia. What *about* that?

Contempt for this ikky baby culture — whose residual freedoms I nonetheless enjoy.

Xenophilia itself is privilege. Or is it?

Is the lust of a citizen in a developing country for “things American” not also a kind of xenophilia? How arrogant of me to only see it from this direction.