Sunday, 15 July 2018

T. the Terrestrial

Information, evidence, and advice are like paper and water. At some point, some is needed. Maybe just a bit, maybe a lot. For a while they were all saved in their receptacles — folders and sheet metal drawers and plastic bags and bottles — brick buildings and carbon steel cisterns. Unlike info & evidence, the unconscious has always gotten clouded, which is convenient to the collective, whether we know it or not.

They had bought it and screwed it. By the time he had returned he found America again after an unlimited supply of cigarettes but no more lighting bugs. Turns out the mark of the beast is a subscription to the general worldview otherwise understood as conventional, which also just happens to operate under the slogan Convenience, or the opposite of inconvenience right up until the indistinguishably ephemeral transition of time has elapsed when its circumvention becomes next to impossible, well-stocked with the collateral branding of HR-consumers not sporting industrial strength oven mitts over their aprons of lead and tin foil on top.

Every drip of tech was courtesy of Hangout Ltd, who were really just the above-ground conduit section of much deeper logistics, literally, though they were also responsible for marketing, which required the steady infiltration of media big and small.

R&D began under every airport, not just DIA. Neatly enough, the deeper the level of operations the earlier in the process of the theory of three economic sectors, falsely attributed to economists. Fourastié' would have categorised our middle earth as a primitive society, which couldn't be further from the fact that its mining operation is the most sophisticated part of the process, without which you'd still be talking telegraph. Wherever in the underworld this work is done, its workforce outnumbers the corresponding tertiary toilers ten to one. Thank the grey gods for cloning.

Those beings can wait for millennia before they harvest the horror that is their feed. It's hard to call theirs patience when you consider that each species has its strongest relationship to a respective span of time. A mass fear potential great enough to be worthy of the word feast is what they await. A feast to end all feasts. Until then a discipline of snacking on what there is going around.

You could call them ecological even if they disregard how their prey fall for all the toxic trappings and heap waste into every facet of their future. Of course cognitive dissonance floats somewhere in the earth-bounds' clouded unconscious, but if convenient wisdom knew of a vice unworthy of investment, they wouldn't be dropping so much dough into big tech's collection basket while praying for help out of the mess they won't stop making. Should the terrestrial tend to confession, their penance must be to pretend to have done due diligence by deputising their most self-important and mocking those among them that they feel refuse to punish and sustain them concurrently with professed love and enabling abandon. And yet, that's the only thing that the delegated do universally.

"Our guest here has just come from the New World."
"Oh, yeah? How is the New World these days?"
"Old. Getting old."