Thursday, December 23, 2004

The Surreal Life

I live in a pulp science fiction novel. The snow and cold beat down on everyone, but we coast at 60 miles per hour to our destination. Looking left and right you catch glimpses of other expensive boxes flying down the road. Their faces illuminated by the combination of the GPS navigation system and the glow of their cell phones.
Emotions are bought and sold, pushed on a populace unfamiliar with the power these messages have. The news sells fear, the sneakers sell glory, the radio sells angst, alcohol sells freindship, fashion sells sex, talk show hosts sell us anger, prozac sells happiness, and DeBeers sells true love.
Every day writings are delivered to your door. These can be used to send tickets to people caught running red lights on camera or even to try to sell you crap. All it takes is to start slow, a few cameras at the housing projects and a few on interesections with a lot of acidents. Soon you will have cameras on every intersection and every public gathering place...for the safety of the people of course. In this world Christians betray the teachings of Christ and Muslims betray the teachings of Mohammed to kill each other, but they still hide behind their respective religions for justification.
The symphonies have all been finished, the literature all written, the movies all have been filmed we are left with what we refer to as "free will": endlessly mimicking art until we are laid to rest. Art does not imitate life anymore, life imitates art completely, in fact art tells life what to do. Art tells life that they need a better dishwashing soap or they are not normal. Art tells life that accellerating the destruction of the enviornment is a small price to pay for the feeling of rugged individualism bestowed from piloting a hummer. Art tells life that they should pay $6 a day to slowly and deliberately kill themselves inhaling carbon monoxide and various carcinogens in 20 seperate delivery systems.
No longer is the world worried about the global economy which is a doomsday machine. No longer is the world worried about nuclear weapons. Instead the news shows footage of "terrorist" training videos, instructing people how to blow up civilians on a bus effectively. In this world the sanctity of life only matters if it creates a political gain.
This fantasy world is at war with a country that did not attack it. If an individual supports the war they must also ignore the war, helpful barriers are constructed to keep people from going through cognitive dissonance. They shield the dead bodies from cameras, they fabricate war victories, and they continually repeat that the war is close to over. As the body count rises individuals against it from the start ask everyone they can, so they can understand: "How can you justify this?". The answer always refers to an event which murdered many civilians. The details of who it was, how it was allowed to happen, and how it was being prevented from ever happening again are very sketchy and if one delves too deep the Government will stop answering their questions.
This fantasy world can be easily created. It takes powerful technology, a catalytic event that is perceived by everyone, and continued conditioning through some medium(in our fantasy world we call this medium "the media").
What is the meaning of progress?
It may be coming to terms with the fact that we could be THE last generation.
Maybe progress IS an endless war with an enemy that cannot be identified and will never surrender.
I think progress is learning.
Things cannot change unless the majority know the difference between Democracy and Facism.

-Jimothy J. Jones

"I got a letter from the government the other day I opened and read it, it said they were suckas. They wanted me for their army or whatever picture me givin' a damn I said never."
-Chuck D

"Now I have to backpedal/from the shower of glass and metal/wondering after it all settles/who provided power to radical rebels/the melting pot seems to be calling the kettle black when it boils over/but only on our own soil so the little boy holds a toy soldier/and waits for the suit and tie to come home..before we destroy his hopes for a colder war to end(now get a closeup of his head)makeshift patriot the flag shop is outta stock, I hang myself at half mast
-Sage Francis "makeshift Patriot"

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