Rigging Stockholm to the End of the Shining Seas

For a future we can all relate to.

I returned home to a message on the answering machine, a digital recording locally stored just as in the days of analog cassette tape. The facsimile of the voice itself, too, was of a computer, as the original message was an apparently typewritten text message, which was then read by a robot larynx service so that advanced hominids can accommodate the endangered troglodyte. If time travel were possible, this’d be it.

The problem is, People Of The Future, I can’t understand you. Maybe you could speak more slowly, mind your Ps & Qs (& Ts & Ks).

And I cannot identify your number because I lost my phone. I know this is the running bullshit excuse, but I have documented evidence here if you don’t believe me.

Why am I getting so defensive? Okay, I admit it. And since I have it on goog’ authority that state-of-the-art hominids don’t click on complementary links, I’ll excuse myself on the technicality that I have, of course, pencil’d each & every number into my analog address book (same one going on two decades). But you see, Dweller Beyond the Cave, as easy to read as those lead marks are, they are not cross-filed by number; for there are two things I refuse to do in this regard (three if you count not cross-filing) and that’s get a smart device or search my entire address book for a number.

What good am I?  I’m using this computer, aren’t I?  Why am I getting so goddamn defensive?!

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Moron missing link

It occurs to me that the technological advances that achieve the dual duelling result of making life easy & queasy are so numerous as to make the human not just incomprehensible to ancients like myself but also to the smartest version of themselves. Whence the coining of ‘cognitive dissonance’? This language they’ve created to describe the dilemma does nothing to counter their forever recalculating tipping point, not that the tipping point itself is doing the recalculating. A recapitulation of duelling denials in due time.

For sure. there are many fissures past that’ve held the rift ’til today. In respect to (& apparent lack of respect for) the state-of-the-art hominid-named Anthropocene, they have become gaps gaping back at virtually everyone who’s ever adjusted their rearview. But this is a digression, for I mean to refer here to what reminded me of this, which is those technologies that at once enhance & diminish the quality (and quantity) of interpersonal communication, without which quality the collective cannot converse about anything but “the conversation”, and then ineffectively.

Benevolent Billionaires: They plundered themselves!

The claim by hominids who were raised on two-car plots that they can’t forgo the Fahrvergnügen of fossil fuel (gotta figuratively feed the family) forms a feed-loop of similar effect to what they could confess cannot be done without today: these always newly updated new-fangled talking toys that make what seems like yesterday’s way of living inconceivable (yet I think I’m still talking the wheel and fire here).

The conversation is constant and the frustration frequent, but all bets are on the benefits of having a connection. Collective consent is plausible. Each extra application is optional to the individual, yet unimaginable to most. Beneath it all lurks the notion of compulsion. Deeper still lies a kind of coercion. The choice of terminology is what’s not being denied by the chooser of the term. Who but the lexicographer can say for sure whether ‘denialism’ denotes a blatant refusal of accepted reality or a latent rejection of discomforting truth?

I’ve claimed the existence of two types of climate change denialist: 1) the dreaded disbeliever in human effect;  2) the critic of the former who spouts as if their own connotation of denialist is the only thing standing between present projections and the bringing of the Earth back from the brink of present projections. The former would say that they aren’t buying the bullshit, which the latter either deems dishonest, especially as it relates to the position of industry, or ignorant. It’s a different bullshit they’re not buying.

What they’re buying is somehow lesser and better. The only way to improve their own lesser & better consumption and to lessen & better the worse consumption of their lessers is by way of benevolent coercion by billionaires who run the putative pragmatists they prefer to vote for.

How many of the above have their own wheeled combustion, if not two, to haul their rotund rear-ends to places to reinforce what makes them so well-rounded? Where does the roundness begin and where is it shameful to even mention (or be posted to one’s mentions)? When is the trip detrimental and when is it indispensable? Just how small does a contribution have to be to be negligible?

Ennui

My abstinence above from the plural 1st person is so as not to identify you in “we”.  I used “you” in the opening paragraphs where it equals whoever might have left that message on my machine. If you feel implicated in any of the subsequent theys, that’s on you, but I do count me in both we & they when I tell you that I ask these questions of myself and, despite a belief that I burn an above average ratio of my own energy to live and a claim on my part of my part as only a part of the Pillage People, I nevertheless hasten to add that I deny the sensibility of believing in relatively harmless levels of rapaciousness amidst this enmeshed network of planet pillaging of ours and am convinced that a technological brainwashing of state-of-the-art hominids convinces them not only of that fallacy but compels them as prime contributor to the overall level of ravaging.

This horse is being flogged by individuals automated to increase their consumption, book it to the archives, and face one another delimited to a handful of choices of expression of preference (or simply set to ‘ignore’), irrespective of the belief about- or level of awareness of the mask of light reflected across the ayes of each lone ranger.

I have proof of nothing but if I were called to testify, I’d say I suspect we’re all full of shit and that a measure of each as compared to the whole is pointless. I’d also note an absence of evidence that there is a conversation expressing an authentic desire to do anything significant about it. 

It’s not in the interest of the captors’ court to issue subpoenas even where their subjects’ love is in effect unconditional. The trial, if there was one, would go to the issue of how we’re held hostage. The testimony would recount our apparent assumption that our addiction is worth our abduction and how each shot of serotonin makes the promise of depression all worthwhile. A scintilla earns a lifetime of devotion. </swipe>. 

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The Extreme Middle

*UPDATE, 09.02.2019 hour unknown, Berlin01.02.2019 0737 localish time, high above the Inglish Channel (I assume)

When I tell you that this recent experience summarizes all that is wrong with us, I do not mean each and every detail-able minutia of misery; it is however indeed a summary of sorts and it falls fairly into a realm of what should be obviously absurd as it relates to why we don’t express what is wrong with us, even if it is not strictly put the origin of wrongs or thereof explicative.

Brit Heir is my current host, I’m in the middle, and the gentleman in the middle in front of me, his dreads tied artfully into what would neatly form a Mohawk were they not grown long and lovingly matted into sections that too obscure that form, has just ordered a 2 guid-seventy Styrofoam cup of Joe.

“We don’t take Maestro”, says the attendant who had just spent enough time with the money card called Maestro that you’d think this was a new restriction he’d not been familiar with, “Visa?” Dreaded for Joe trades him for his Visa. Swipe. “Sorry, it’s been rejected.” DfJ hands him another piece of plastic, this one with an impressively printed, B&W lithograph-like visage of the sixteenth President of the United States on it. Honest Abe gets rejected as well.

I might have thought this third strike would suffice such that DfJ would forgo his liquid housed in the most lovingly designed disposable container you could imagine for such a thing. No. Before one could think “three” dude’s swapping Bank of Lincoln for something of identical size, to the approval of Mister Flight Servant’s female cart colleague.

“Sorry about that,” she says with an understanding chuckle as she delivers his order, which is followed by her explanation about the importance of using the cup’s lid, no less lovingly constructed for the important and, I infer from certain details, somehow unique purpose, which the cynically inclined might think is to make what’s not complimentary seem worth the 2 quid/seventy. I assume the explanation was preceded by an enquiry, ironic under the entire set of circumstances, that implied the wastefulness of including a lid. *Whether or my inference is misapplied, I include my part in this summary to be a part of all that is wrong with us.

[from Berlin]

Per oversight I had brought along with me to the plane stations a set of items I always carry in my bag should I encounter a bike breakdown. Mainly, for the purpose of this tale, I refer to the product for the purpose of temporarily refilling a flat tyre [spelling courtesy of happening’s location], which is simply labeled “Reifen-Dicht”. The presence of this item necessitated no short delay on my way over, a lesson learned, and a measure taken for the return trip, using the clear plastic bag provided by Heathrow airport security.

So on my layover on the way back to Berlin, the nice Lady in London looked at and fondled my baggy with bike-lements and uttered to no-one in particular (at first) a quite proper and professional-sounding name for my emergency tyre filler-upper, a term which I cannot recall, nor did I know (i.e. still can’t recall & still don’t know), and then, after doing something else related to her activities, but unrelated to me or my baggy, wandered back to it, picked it up again and repeated the name in the form of the question to colleagues “A [proper name of bike-tyre filler-upper] is allowed, innit?”

I heard no response, but it was apparent she got an okay, put it down, and things continued uneventfully, unless you include my observation of one Yank in line before me who (unnecessarily) removed his shoes and placed them in a plastic tray and onto the conveyor belt… and that most of us were waved around the full-body scanner, which might mean that either Albion’s arbiters of a world ostensibly safer from terrorists go one level lower in passenger profiling (and hence more or less racist and/or more or less ridiculous (i.e. ridiculously thorough)), or that Yanks are just more Yanky than their Limey counterparts. The previous comment about my previously potentially misapplied inference here to my assumptions applies.

 

The Unfortunate Rejection of Resistance

Regrettable as that fuzzy rubric may resound, I recall Robertson’s 700 and Buchanan’s culture war that scared R & D to the stations for 41 & 42 — two Ps in an oval pod after all these years still slick as sieves.The elder rejected vision as a mere thing, which of course was cause enough to reject him in favor of the younger. The younger for his part — virtue signalling his judicious centrism to his targeted base of self-styled reasonable liberals and moderates who will always be scared of Black people who get too loud — renounced Sister Souljah for her poverty of perspective as it relates to her suggested response to her default nation’s war in the ‘hood.

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Agaze or a Sundae

O! wendily, wendily. For one to know if another’s take is correct, one must know if the take of the take bears integrity. Finally new use of ‘political correctness’. My apologies belatedly, and in advance of what’s to come. I reckon I am guilty of expound-splaining as ones’ of redundant blogarrhea do do… albeit having forgone the clichéd link to an on the subject essay of mine own, though certainly rife with pretension (‘mine own’, in-deed). With what shall we win, well why not go on, true take, true take. Too is the take of C des Cs’ twittling worthy of such similarly deeper consideration (anarchier than thou, anyone? .. good times).For, you see, I was talking about my burgeoning belief that it is, in fact, only the plausibility that TPTB actually believe that repairing &/or buttressing their credibility is necessary as such. It is where I came up with (warning, near-narcissistic self-referencing of an essay in effect) ‘manufacturing plausible consent’. I swear to Bejeezelbub Lucichrist that it is not just a portmanteau but a very real theory of my own very own, still yet incomplete in the flesh, which is why I probably do not link to it. If I may quote the late junkie, WSB: It’s full of holes, it’s full of holes. Prolly cuz I forced Gnome together with plausible deniability… but, no, I think I still think that they belong under the same analytical frame.

In short: they can do what they want, they that be, so at best the propaggrandising is long-already of indirect influential intent, seeking to maintain merely the canard that they gotta keep up appearances. They only feel the need to keep up appearances of keeping up appearances. Who in the last quarter century or maybe longer has done anything to stand in the way? —dly

As to Sundae all over the world:

Best Ficktion: a wondrously shifting subject, of length for on-line, so print it out.

As to the gaze:

Referencing still that I didn’t get smart until he behind the mask I thought was his own own face explicitly gazed upon itself providing the context, now in recursive mode.

“Snap one more time, see!”

 

October’s Objects of Possession

I’d like, for once, to argue with people who’d gotten their preposterous opinions on their own, reflecting the genuine shapes of their own minds as buffeted by private experience… rather than arguing indirectly with The State’s proxies in the form of brainwashed consumers who inadvertently ingest opinions and pre-fab personality traits with the media products they absorb like addicts.

T‘s that shit you let fly that lays the ground on which you sound bitter or crazy for your all of a sudden one day saying something that implies your not thinking that shit should fly. Like, by the time of the meddlesome mother’s objection to her kid’s having to recite “under God” in school, you missed the boat on calling out in front of God & her PTA just how retarded the goddamn Pledge is in the first place.

How many y’all ever really thought ‘Ye’ was a musical genius? Name one track he’s ever done that even ever accidentally rocked your brain stem. I mean, what’s his actual legacy defining moment?

Can’t one at least take pleasure in Maga cum Dickface’s abrading his anus all over the oval rug, branding the presidential seal, or is it that his followers’ certain justification of their hero’s soiling of the inviolable accessory just grate on each last nerve that conveniently responds to trumped up triggers? As in, the only reason that shit’s sacred is because of them. Fuckin’ hypocrites. Imagine the gall it takes to profess to hold something dear that you don’t hold dear.

The following image is from 1885, one century before the rhetoric of the Ray Gun Revolution’s being cemented in history. For the Millennial, an adequate comparison for context would be when Bo Rama was re-elected, his nation’s approving his legacy in all of its vainglorious disposition matrix, which is just another stone along the path of what will continue to pass for one of those many feel good American moments one’s questioning is questionable.

Stralauer Plz, Berlin-Friedrichshain 1885 (Am Ostbahnhof 2018)

 

Belabor Day is Twenty-Twenty

So does this mean that the nominees for the next US Presidential Election are Nike, Inc. and the Fraternal Order of Police? If the shoe stitching operation comes marching back home again because it’s cheaper to pay dirt poor Americans than it is Hondurans or Chinese will the company respond to Red, White & Blue cops beating & tasing workers with the wherewithal to strike for better wages or working conditions with promises to Just Do It Better?

Der Parkbank Pinkler: Teillos

„Geschäftsidee: sich präsentieren als ein großzügiger und alternativ-bewusster Betreuer mit peinlich schablonenhaften Werbebranche Begriffen wie „bezahlbarer Luxus“ und „echte Gesellschaft“ und agieren wie typisch ausbeuterische Eigentümer, dessen Mieter/innen mit Blick auf das größtmögliche Gewinnmotiv einsargen.“

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∅.