Galileo is long dead but we have the assurance that those who want to burn him at the stake still remain. The Sun, unmoved by this, continues to maintain the Earth in its orbit.
The more terrifying realities are not what bush has said and done so far at the behest of his handlers. They are not the recent findings concerning the Diebold polling software. They are not the hot raids into Syria and the US-British-Israeli car-bombings in Iraq, nor are they some piece of the thousands of bits of glaring evidence- or even all of the evidence taken in toto. The more terrifying realities are that this administration has 3 years to go and… what we haven’t seen in consideration of what they intend.
From the crushing legislations that, in all respects, deprive the poorest among us for the benefit of the richest, to the world wide disorder everywhere in evidence it is clear that no good can come from this fascist movement save for the great and universal joy that will be experienced upon their passing. And pass they will.
I cannot fathom what it is in the human psyche that permits so many people to believe the obvious lies. I do not understand how those who are being crushed in the machinery can so willingly support those who operate it. The myth of Al Qaeda is a bankrupt fairy tale. There’s no Bin Laden and there’s no Al Zawqawi. There are only outraged populations that resist criminal occupation. There was no Arab bombing of the World Trade Center. The sheer weight of the evidence is so great that the missing pieces are no longer important. The walking, talking duck is a duck and that’s all there is to it.
Perhaps one of the hardest features of compassion is to feel pity for those whose stupidity is beyond measurement. The recent mob actions in Texas and Florida (no surprise about the states involved) at various retail outlets speak volumes about the maturity of the American public. The free fall rate of dumbing down implies that some may go from two to four legs in the space of a single generation. It really is hard to believe. I rather suspect it isn’t Jesus who is coming for these people although a shepherd of some sort is altogether likely.
The hot pressing body of materialism; that’s got to be it- somehow the fascination with the objects of the sensory realm has lowered world IQ to the point that Howdy Doody is the new Da Vinci. Daily, the quality of everything is watered down. How far is down? It’s way, way down.
It brings up an interesting question. How will people who have become too wide to pass each other in a shopping aisle factor against the retailers need to provide maximum product in minimum space? How will such people manage to press and riot after goods when they can’t get through the aisles? Who are these people? Gerry Springer’s children have inherited the Earth.
Surely some of you who studied physics and related sciences must still remember some of what you learned. Some memory of the various theorems must still be lodged in the fatty portions of the brain’s pressboard. Extrapolating out in my own eccentric manner I must ask you; what is the cultural result of ‘stupid’ imploding? What happens when you become increasingly less well equipped to deal with ever more sophisticated requirements for existence? What happens when all of the sophisticated devices are manufactured for the purpose of entertainment and convenience alone? What is the factor of ipod volume to vehicle speed as it relates to your crossing the street for a Big Mac family pack?
If these people are having children what are they teaching them? What’s dinner like at that house? Where did Attila come from? It seems that in every time there has always been a barbarian horde of lean-muscled and hungry fighters forming in some wasteland far away from the splendored streets of Rome and… somehow they found their way there.
Oh, I believe it must be necessary. It must be necessary because it keeps happening and new cultures and civilizations continue to rise from the bloody froth of sacked cities and blasted landscapes. All of these barbarians aren’t massing in Mongolia or beneath the crust of the Earth. A great many of them are inside the gates of everywhere. While Pollyanna is listening to The Spice Girls and dreaming about Prince Benetton, a carload of ‘ain’t got nothing to lose’ boys are cruising up her street.
Nobody seems to see this. Nobody seems much to care. Somehow it’s still in the theater. It’s on a screen as life apart from life happening to somebody else. Where do you wind up if you follow someone who doesn’t know where they are going? What does it mean when the most prosperous nation on Earth needs more police than free fire zones? There’s math that handles these sorts of computations but people don’t seem moved to pursue or apply it.
If you take 90% of the people and you slowly crush them together to make space for the hi-life routines of 10% you can expect that a spontaneous encroachment is on the way. Some day the nut-jobs at the Wal-Mart are going to be climbing all over each other in new locations.
You get sick and you get better, or you get sick and then you die. It’s the same for a June-bug as it is for a person as it is for a nation. Police aren’t very effective facing in two directions at the same time. Where is the threat coming from? Who? What? Where?
Satisfaction is a state of mind. It isn’t a self-stocking feedbag. It’s like all the work that goes into getting to an orgasm; the rituals and meetings, the conversations and lies, the space station docking procedures and costs of environments and amenities and enhancements and then… spurt and then… what? You can’t design a culture around the schematic of a monkey with buttons for food and drugs. If the monkey doesn’t understand what’s going on; if the monkey thinks it can pull the avocado out of the clay pot with its fist it’s a dead monkey. If a handful of smarter, but still stupid monkeys are leading a nation of monkeys in the pursuit of monkey business then the results should be painfully clear to everyone but the monkeys. But that’s how monkey are and that’s what monkeys do.
You must first enslave yourself to become a slave; even if it is with the assistance of others already enslaved by whatever it was that convinced them you were meat. Pollyanna is gonna wake up in the alley in a stew of blood and semen and she is probably going to cry and ask herself, “Why me?” Don’t ask.
'My Pickup Truck got Pregnant' is track no. 1 of 10 on Visible's eponymous
'Les Visible' Music Album
Lyrics (pops up)