Monday, December 05, 2005

Trailer Park Dancing

Thoughts filter in and out like pieces of cotton floating in the wind days after the harvest. They're all over the place, just like I remember those little tufts of white when they were scattered across the highways and biways on the way to my grandparent's house.

Strange ruminations, pieces of ephemeral abstractions that shouldn't be but are. The moon is made of organic cheese, but Jupiter is made of a synthetically produced government brand. My girlfriend is cheating on me, but I'm cheating on her and I'm all right. The professors at the front of American lecture halls are really CIA agents and hoping that I'll slip up and give them an excuse to investigate me with the Patriot Act.

I'm not paranoid. Far from it. I keep these thoughts in check, a piece of electrical cord in hand that I beat them cross the legs with when they rear their ugly head. I'm a task master from the old south, with a modern twist. Now I roam the trailer park of my own mind, weeding out the undesirable memes and cover them with gasoline, light 'em up, dance till dawn in the flickering, twisting light of this miniature dawn. My friends bring conga drums, and together we find new life in the illumination of my fallen brain patterns, wine and acid and pot bringing us into a closer harmony than ever before.

That's right, systematically I am destroying myself and everything I hold dear, offering myself up as sacrifice to the post-modern industrial combobulatory revolution that is this world. Hope transmitted along fiber optic wiring at the speed of light, destruction delivered with pinpoint accuracy, war games on our computer screens, psy-ops on our televisions, cheap beer in our hands keeping us dull and oblivious. And all through this there is the faint illumination and crackle of fat burning in the middle of our trailer park, the fuel I beat down, the fuel I tore out of myself, the fuel and the fire of my own making. We are as one in this, and we are as different as snow flakes mass produced by an assembly line in the halls of the mad scientists, our new religioso.

See the gleeful dancing of our rulers on high? See how they move to and fro, in a false mockery of our gyrations and dips? They mock our voices too, give hateful calls to meet our glorious whoops. They're in the next park over, just the next over, one step to the side of the evolutionary ladder, climbing their own path they've constructed. What is their best way to lead us, they ask. What is the next “Big thing” to keep us under their thumb, to keep us from becoming even more discontented. “Give them their thoughts, give them their self-sacrifice, their philanthropic zeal, give them something to pray to!” come the shouts from their own pit.

For, you see, they are no different than we are. True, they're more adapted to certain goals than we; we are adapted to leading lives, feeling hope, feeling love. Our masters, though, are evolved towards crushing those true emotions out. True emotions make us surly, unmanageable. Instead, they create new ones for us, god-creatures out of corporations, legal entities that exist only in the mortar between their bricks, only exist in the minds of those who conjure them and pass them off to all of us. We buy into it and give life to monstrosities, monstrosities that serve no purpose other than to eat our souls and subjugate us.

“And what do we do? What do we do? What do we do? What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?what do we do?whatdo we do? Whatdowe do?whatdowedo?”

Hark! An answer comes floating back beside those pieces of cotton on the winds! Read it to me my brothers! “It says,” reads one long haired, shaggy man after he deftly plucks it from mid-air stream, “bring this light out into the world, that they shall know they are not alone.”

And there's general mumbling, grumbling. Too Christian, too religious, too much like that which is being offered. And we are divided again. Already. It’s all too easy.


Post a Comment

<< Home