Once upon a time, there was a magical forest called Lasy Forest Ave. It was a place unlike any other, filled with enchanting wonders and captivating beauty. As you entered the forest, the air seemed to shimmer with a hint of mystery and excitement, inviting you to explore its hidden treasures. The trees in Lasy Forest Ave were tall and majestic, with branches that intertwined like a web of secrets. They stood proud and strong, providing shade and shelter to the creatures that called this place home. The leaves of these trees were vibrant and lush, displaying a myriad of colors that seemed to change with each passing season.

Meme Magic: Are You Ready?

The self-heroics of online gaming are blending into real life.

In November of 2016, a group of internet trolls became convinced that they had caused the election of Donald Trump through “meme magic.”

Meme magic isn’t real; but, critically, it’s also not not real. It’s the half-ironic superstition, never fully disregarded, that online trolling can affect real-world events—that trolling, also called shitposting, can manipulate the forces that govern the real world.

The meme magic of 2016 could be found on 4chan, a message board wildly popular with gamers, anime fans, shitposters, pornographers, and numerous others. This is the place where some of the millennium’s most absurd memes were popularized, from lolcats (pictures of cats talking, captioned in nonsensical English) to Rickrolling (deceiving people into clicking on links to a video of the 1987 Rick Astley hit, “Never Gonna Give You Up”).

4chan is anonymous. Posts are identified by just strings of numbers. Some number patterns, widely considered lucky, are known as “gets.” Sometime in summer 2016, posters on TheDonald, a Trump-themed 4chan subforum, noticed that Trump posts were particularly likely to result in “gets.” One June 16 post, reading simply, “Trump will win,” ended in 77777777, seemingly the luckiest of all.

It became a meme: Donald Trump, who had been widely seen as almost certain to lose the presidential election, was in fact going to win, just as 4chan’s shitposters had prophesied. The idea expanded to involve the chaos god Kek—an encryption of “LOL” in World of Warcraft’s chat engine and a reference to Pepe the Frog, a cartoon used in reactionary spaces online—and the fictional country of Kekistan, complete with its own flag. Enthusiasts claimed that meme magic had turned “sick Hillary” (the idea that presidential candidate Hillary Clinton was secretly ill) into a reality. In seeming confirmation, Clinton collapsed at a 9/11 memorial service on September 11, 2016.

By the time Trump won the presidency, the cult of Kek was a troll religion. A year later, Kekistani flags flew at the Charlottesville “Unite the Right” rally. Online trolling had become real-life violence.

Jumping the Fence

Four years later, meme magic seems a harbinger: The line between online trolling and real-world politics has been blurred. In April of 2018, the self-identified “involuntary celibate”—aka incel—Alek Minassian, a participant in the r/TheRedPill incel subforum of the Reddit message board, killed ten people in Toronto by driving a van into a crowd. He left behind a Facebook post announcing that an “incel rebellion” had begun.

An online supporter of his treated the attack as something like a prank-cum-video game triumph, celebrating Minassian’s position atop the leaderboard of history: “Wonder who is going to do a mass acid attack. He will have zero kills to his high score but in my book he’d have beaten all the high scores by virtue of lives ruined.”

Perpetrators of racially and religiously motivated attacks—on a mosque in New Zealand; at synagogues in Pittsburgh, and in Poway, California—have also couched their manifestos in the language of internet trolling, including the video game references. The document left by the Christchurch, New Zealand, shooter named video blogger PewDiePie as an influence and said he had been radicalized partly by the video game Fortnite.

Tactics like targeted harassment and doxing, which most people first saw in the 2014 Gamergate controversy, are now integral parts of far-right online organizing. The January 6 attack on the Capitol included Baked Alaska, a neo-Nazi internet troll who first became prominent for his self-published book about meme magic. The cult of Kek has given way to the religious fervor of QAnon. At least two Republican members of Congress, Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert, made their affiliation with Q a part of their campaigns.

In many arenas, there are now few obvious distinctions among online trolling, video game fantasy, and contemporary politics. We might argue that video games, like the shooting game Doom played by the 1998 Columbine shooters, have desensitized people to violence. We might conclude that screen culture more generally is rewiring the way our brains work so that our formative cognitive stimuli are more likely to be digital. With Ross Douthat, we might agree that the purpose of internet trolling is to participate in something like political engagement without, in most cases, incurring real-world bodily risk. We might also note, like Francis Fukuyama, the extent to which strongmen across the globe have promoted a “politics of aesthetics.” All these phenomena reflect the collapse of the distinction between politics and entertainment.

Less discussed but no less vital is the way in which our shared sense of meaning, animating both fantasy and real life, has been hollowed out. We experience a denatured vision of heroism, a psychologized version in which the good of the community is subordinate to the hero’s self-actualization.

In such a story, politics, or some aesthetic replacement for it, is the occasion for the individualistic creation of a particular kind of heroic identity. The effects of identifying ourselves as heroes are sold to us by politicians, corporations, and pop-culture creators. This is the narrative promised by online reactionary groups, by heroic narratives like Star Wars, and by games like Bioshock Infinite (yet another “redemption story” where world salvation is subordinate to personal epiphany): that of self-actualization as an inherent good.

As Joseph Campbell describes it in The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”

Each of us is, or can be, this hero.

The Anodyne Hero

The idea has its roots in late-19 th -century anthropology, inheritor of Romantic assumptions about the power of the self and the fundamental unity of humanity and nature. Before Campbell, colonial-minded anthropologists like Edward Burnett Tylor and James Frazier sought to reduce the complexity of world mythology to a single underlying narrative, a kind of lowest common denominator of theological truth claims. Within this idea, one could speak of a “true” self and a “true” narrative, shorn of cultural, political, and social context and understood through the hero’s own private journey.

Today, as traditional religious narratives become no more than a remote part of American life, Campbellianism is the closest we come to a shared cultural mythos, a grounding narrative against which we can form our own life narratives.

We find the same denatured tropes in the original Star Wars films, the Harry Potter book series, and the Marvel Universe: an anodyne vision of heroism divorced from complex metaphysics. These make up a mythologization of what sociologists Christian Smith and Melinda Lundquist Denton have termed “moralistic therapeutic deism:” the vague sense that God exists but one that doesn’t mind too much about the specifics of what you do with the information. There is something called good and something called evil; and, generally speaking, we want good to win. Love—an anodyne generic force, not a specific or complicated ethical directive—triumphs over all. Goodness is just an evanescent force or a team identity-marker: It’s the side our heroes are on.

In this telling, goodness has some, albeit not many, discernible qualities. It tends to be associated with originality, scrappiness, and a willingness to buck the status quo (cf: Gryffindors or the Rebel Alliance), whereas evil is conflated with sclerotic institutions or implicit aristocracy (cf: Slytherins or the Empire). At most, heroism and goodness are conflated with individualism and, in particular, the individual’s triumph over the dragon of the establishment. The hero is the one who blows corrupt society sky-high.

In modern Campbellianism, the hero is inevitably scrappy, or even—if he or she is a seductive antihero—actively, abrasively countercultural. The dragon, literal or metaphorical, is meant to be faced alone. In more contemporary, “edgier” versions of the story (think Mad Max or Grand Theft Auto), counterculturalism is not just one feature of heroism but its center: the heroism is defined precisely by the hero’s willingness to blow things up. Catharsis is brought about by apocalypse: The destruction of the system is the point. Every institution is a Death Star.

Meanwhile, the hero’s psychological journey—his sense of himself as a hero, with a heroic destiny before him—stands in for any investigation of what heroism actually entails. It’s telling that some of the most popular “hero” franchises turn on surprise discoveries of parentage or of relationships with one’s children (e.g., the parental sacrifice at the beginning of Harry Potter or the reveal of Luke Skywalker’s paternity). The heroic journey is, at its core, a story of psychological fulfillment. The world may be saved, but the trauma being healed is always personal.

That is not to say, of course, that all pop culture shows this tendency or even that all superhero movies or video games do. Nevertheless, in our increasingly fractured age, modern Campbellianism is as close as we get to a shared cultural narrative. Still, it is only a simulacrum of meaningfulness: an idea of transcendence designed to hit our pleasure centers, a hit of significance without reference to a wider moral, ethical, or metaphysical structure.

Its promise of heroism—the idea that we matter, that our psychological journeys have cosmic significance, that we are the main characters in the stories we tell about our lives and our world—is a cultural commodity. Certainly it is the idea embodied in the great majority of video games, whose missions tend to involve vast swathes of destruction in the service of a nebulous good. But it is also the promise of our wider “politics of aesthetics” of the Trump and post-Trump age, in which political will is primarily harnessed via spectacle. It is the idea that, whether through the apocalyptic “Storm” promised by QAnon or more conventional forms of protest and political action, we are participating in our own private heroic journeys. Once heroism has been “psychologized” in this way, it becomes easy to package and sell as entertainment—as the frisson of excitement from killing the final boss in the video game, the identification with the gruffly Byronic anti-hero in the franchise, or the sense of gleeful transgression in posting offensive content on an internet message board.

This is also the promise, in its most nihilistic form, behind some of the past few years’ most atrocious acts of violence: from alienated young men who, by blowing up the system, seek their own vision of heroic glory, even as their actions are untethered from any ideology beyond that of destruction. They take on the role of hero in their own internal narration. To say that video games, or even our technological culture of alienation as a whole, causes this to happen is to ignore the fact that our aesthetics and our political lives exist profoundly downstream of our shared hunger to think of ourselves as heroes, and the further fact of the economic and cultural systems designed to capitalize on this desire. Our sense of meaning has become divorced from any claims about actual truth in the world. The problem isn’t that people can’t tell the difference between video games and reality; it is that we don’t have a sense of reality at all.

Tara Isabella Burton, a contributing editor of American Purpose, is a columnist on millennial religion for Religion News Service. She is author of Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World (2020). Her debut novel, Social Creature, was published in 2018.

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‘You Can’t Kill Meme’ is a Genuine Attempt to Pull the Curtain on Meme Magic

Chaos Magic, 4chan, the 2016 election, and Egyptian gods were not the things I ever thought I would experience all at once but in You Can’t Kill Meme, a documentary film by Haley Garrigus that explores the idea of memes being magic and the magicians who use them. My third eye has been opened and I am looking deeper into the images I find funny and retweet on the internet.

What hints at being another casual retread of trying to dissect the chaos that was the 2016 election that a thousand other internet videos have tried, turns into an engaging character study of what I feel is the more important story about the lives of people who believe in magic. This documentary is peak internet in all of its glory and faults of tangential hyper-focusing on off-topics, to whiplash commentary and subject changes that feels like it speaks to me directly, as someone who grew up in these online spaces. You Can’t Kill Meme spells a world that sounds more deadly than magical in its YouTube commentary spectacle.

The film opens up with a quote from Kirk Packwood on the ability of memes to be used by meme magic social engineers who find weak points in society and culture in order to inject memes in the right places to have them go viral. This jarring quote is then juxtaposed to footage of several memes that have taken off as a reinforcement of this idea. This is how the central thesis of the film is introduced. Memes are a magic that can be used to influence public opinion in not just a sociological aspect but in a metaphysical space as well.

We are then led by several believers of this form of magic such as Billy Brujo, a YouTube meme magician, Carole Michaella, an energy worker, and Kirk Packwood, the author of Memetic Magic, the seminal text on meme magic. Each have their own way on how they came across this power and the philosophy on how it was used. Seeing each interview and glimpses on their lives stands to be the strongest part of this film. Meme Magic is portrayed as possibly world shattering from both the subjects of the film and the film itself but the lives these people live are simple and easily overshadowed by the constant turbulence of the almighty algorithm. These people are your neighbors or old Facebook friends you don’t talk to anymore for one reason or another but to them its all according to a higher plan.

Which comes to my biggest gripe of the film. It is not entirely sure of what it wants to comment on, other than there is something the rest of the world doesn’t know, but you now know. It gives its best impression of The Matrix without a consideration of how, why, and what the Matrix truly is. Memes are magic and the alt-right and 4chan harnessed their power in 2016 to get Trump elected by a collective desire to cause more chaos in the world. That’s all the film really has about that moment without any actual push-back or deeper criticism as to why people would like to cause this kind of chaos. Which I found fascinating, because I felt the film was slightly engaging with the why this was happening was in response to the world itself being deep in chaos.

Each person interviewed in this film had something to say about how society has failed. Whether it was it was a personal failing to them or society itself, meme magic was seen as a key to move culture to a way the user wanted. Giving power to those who felt powerless and the film glances at these possibilities but doesn’t engage enough to look behind the wizard’s curtain.

You Can’t Kill Meme is an engaging look into a world that is increasingly spiraling out of control in ways we could never imagine. Climate change, far-right political regimes, economic upheaval, and the endless pandemic we are still living in are all things I wish could be chalked up to some higher power’s work but even if it was, what does that have to do with how we live now? You Can’t Kill Meme tries to tackle an aspect of an answer some people have found, in a genuine human way but I wonder how much of it is just another sleight of hand trick.

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The leaves of these trees were vibrant and lush, displaying a myriad of colors that seemed to change with each passing season. As you ventured deeper into the forest, you would come across creatures that were straight out of a fairy tale. Delicate fairies fluttered around, their wings sparkling with every movement.

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Mischievous wood sprites peeked out from behind tree trunks, playing games and causing mischief. And if you were lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the elusive unicorn, its graceful figure disappearing into the dense foliage. The forest floor was carpeted with a lush bed of wildflowers, with their intoxicating fragrance filling the air. These flowers ranged from the vibrant red of poppies to the delicate blue of forget-me-nots. They danced in the breeze, their petals creating a kaleidoscope of colors that seemed to come alive. But it was not just the flora and fauna that made Lasy Forest Ave magical. There were hidden paths that led to secret clearings and hidden waterfalls. These hidden gems were known only to a select few, as if the forest itself was guarding its treasures. There were whispers among the locals that these clearings were where magic was at its strongest, granting wishes and fulfilling dreams for those who found them. The sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating a mesmerizing dappling effect on the forest floor. It illuminated the moss-covered rocks and trickled through the babbling brooks, creating a sense of tranquility and peace. It was as if time stood still in Lasy Forest Ave, allowing visitors to escape the chaos of the outside world and immerse themselves in the serenity of nature. As night fell, the forest transformed into a spectacle of ethereal beauty. The glow of fireflies lit up the darkness, creating a mesmerizing light show. The air was filled with the soft hum of nocturnal creatures, lulling you into a peaceful slumber under the starlit sky. Lasy Forest Ave was a place that captured the imagination and sparked the curiosity of all who visited. It was a sanctuary for those seeking solace and a playground for those with an adventurous spirit. Its magic was woven into every leaf, branch, and creature, etching memories in the hearts of all who experienced its enchantment..

Reviews for "From Fairies to Spells: Unraveling the Enchantment of Lasy Forest Ave"

- John Doe - 2 stars - I was really disappointed with "Magic Lasy Forest Ave". The storyline was confusing and disjointed, and I couldn't connect with any of the characters. The writing style was also quite amateurish, with unnecessary repetition and a lack of depth. Overall, I found the book to be quite boring and it felt like a waste of time. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone looking for a captivating and well-written story.

- Jane Smith - 1 star - I regret picking up "Magic Lasy Forest Ave". The book had so much potential with its intriguing title, but it failed to deliver on every level. The plot was convoluted and difficult to follow, and the characters were poorly developed and lacked motivation. Additionally, the writing was full of grammatical errors and awkward phrasing, which made it even harder to enjoy. I struggled to finish the book and I would advise others to avoid it altogether.

- Mike Johnson - 2 stars - "Magic Lasy Forest Ave" is not worth your time or money. The premise seemed interesting, but the execution fell flat. The pacing was incredibly slow, and the author seemed to focus more on descriptions of irrelevant details rather than advancing the storyline. I couldn't get invested in the characters or their struggles, as there wasn't enough character development. The writing style was also quite mediocre, with repetitive phrases and a lack of creativity. Overall, I was left feeling unsatisfied and disappointed with this book.

Lasy Forest Ave after Dusk: Unveiling its Twilight Magic