Sometimes I feel swallowed by all this endless dystopian cosplay. Or is it? All the dystopian novels, paintings, films, comedians, comic books, poetry, beer ads and fashion statements — it all seemed revolutionary in the face of faux-feel good narratives shoved, suggested, and taught by the shadow government we all suspected existed—( or doesn’t it? ) Maybe the entire dystopian nightmare reality we are so aptly playing out can simply be broken down to a lack of emotional coping skills in the face of towering incompetence by flawed humanity posing as ‘Ultimate Authority’?
Metaphor: Building a dam is impressive, maintaining it too exhausting, time consuming, and the sort of chore relegated to some uniformed functionary who (like you) is under-paid, under-appreciated and struggling to pay a car payment or cable bill. Is Faith the blinders on a plow-horse? Is the plow-horse now maintained by Artificial Intelligence? Remember: Busy Hands are Happy Hands. Heaven is the ultimate Big Box Store prescient and available to every sparking soul conjured by anthropomorphic task masters. ‘They’ graciously construct pyramids used to house myths, tropes, legends and scientific marvels, such as sea monkeys and Viagra crème. The monumental latte. The last possible piece of avocado toast before inevitable strains of a dystopian anthem plays in humanity’s tinnitus-plagued ears.
Silence is the only real ‘Alternative Music’.
The only cinema, a garden.
Hold that thought.
Even thinking this before writing this before leaning back and reading this has ( somehow ) fed the collective narrative that we are all doomed. If I am guilty, so are you. And so is your T.V. remote. The faceless thumb. The inventor. The rare nails used to tack up Jesus were, undeniably, a misuse of available technology.
Prediction: Robots will most certainly wipe your ass.
In the near future, which was a second ago (and now another now anothernowanother)= Emotions will complete the dystopian feast readily packaged like smiling meat at the super-tribal Big Box Pyramid near you. Popcorn and monkeypox. COVID comestibles. Acne crème peanut butter calliope. Miniature confectionary mountains. Malthusian turmeric smoothies.
Aisles of Smiles.
How long and how often will laughing at terror forestall a collapse that, in truth, is far from inevitable? Sensibly averted? Positively de-negativized? A double-helix mirror at which we are constrained to stare, laughing through tears of passive acceptance, certain in the aimlessly dystopian belief that nothing matters. Nothing is good. Nothing is worth pissing on. Nothing is Everything. And Everything is shit.
I gotta call bullshit on this one. Bullshit with a capital ‘B’.
And I’m not even an optimist. Or a Preacher. Or a dreamer.
I am the First Amendment in free-fall.
~ J.D. Brayton