Yeah, I Don't Get It Either . . .
Into the night, they said, Bring your laterns.
Why do we need laterns?
To light the way, of course!
But where are we going?
To the beach. We need sand.
We have lots of sand here.
Yes, but not beach sand.
Why do we need beach sand?
To cover the bodies.
Of course!
Of course.
Let us go.
Yes. Off!
To the beach!
Yes! The beach! Off we go!
Into the night, laterns and all!
Lanterns to light the way!
Light the way to the beach, yes!
Things are happening. Foreign dignitaries are mumbling threats in back rooms and democracy is crumbling like the pieces of cracked pavement we used to kick off the pier.
Yes!
And they cry, Yes! And they pump their fists, half a world away, across oceans and ages and people. Echoes from the past, they say, always circling, always in circles.
Action!
A tank commander fires the first shot.
Right, we say, But how does this affect us? My soap opera remains unchanged, why would I change it by changing my mind? Out of sight, out of mind, things are happening.
Action!
Or silence.
Something tells me that we're far beyond silence. They are chanting.
The Nation State is no longer
We control the lives of the many
Even together, you cannot be stronger
You have the little, We have the plenty.
In the dark, the tank commander listens for impact. He closes his eyes.
The night explodes.
We speak in irrelevant generalizations. The revolution will not be televised because it has already happened, under our watch, under our feet. The revolution is over, we've been had.
We've been made.
Yes. Constructed, developed, engineered, produced. The revolution has made us and now it has left us afraid and sitting alone in the dark, listening intently for a loud bang.
But it never comes.
There is nothing but sand and bodies. It is a stage set for actors for which we spend our time looking for. But we will never find them, because we are them. We are the actors fleshed out in a ragged dark dramedy.
And we aren't getting paid.
Slaves don't get pay. Or benefits for that matter. That's why we all have rotten teeth and bad eyes.
That's why our fingers are falling off.
Because men with stubs for hands are easier to control than men with ten fingers. Fingered men can push buttons, blow whistles and point out things on a map.
Yes. On a map, yes! Impact!
Why do we need laterns?
To light the way, of course!
But where are we going?
To the beach. We need sand.
We have lots of sand here.
Yes, but not beach sand.
Why do we need beach sand?
To cover the bodies.
Of course!
Of course.
Let us go.
Yes. Off!
To the beach!
Yes! The beach! Off we go!
Into the night, laterns and all!
Lanterns to light the way!
Light the way to the beach, yes!
Things are happening. Foreign dignitaries are mumbling threats in back rooms and democracy is crumbling like the pieces of cracked pavement we used to kick off the pier.
Yes!
And they cry, Yes! And they pump their fists, half a world away, across oceans and ages and people. Echoes from the past, they say, always circling, always in circles.
Action!
A tank commander fires the first shot.
Right, we say, But how does this affect us? My soap opera remains unchanged, why would I change it by changing my mind? Out of sight, out of mind, things are happening.
Action!
Or silence.
Something tells me that we're far beyond silence. They are chanting.
The Nation State is no longer
We control the lives of the many
Even together, you cannot be stronger
You have the little, We have the plenty.
In the dark, the tank commander listens for impact. He closes his eyes.
The night explodes.
We speak in irrelevant generalizations. The revolution will not be televised because it has already happened, under our watch, under our feet. The revolution is over, we've been had.
We've been made.
Yes. Constructed, developed, engineered, produced. The revolution has made us and now it has left us afraid and sitting alone in the dark, listening intently for a loud bang.
But it never comes.
There is nothing but sand and bodies. It is a stage set for actors for which we spend our time looking for. But we will never find them, because we are them. We are the actors fleshed out in a ragged dark dramedy.
And we aren't getting paid.
Slaves don't get pay. Or benefits for that matter. That's why we all have rotten teeth and bad eyes.
That's why our fingers are falling off.
Because men with stubs for hands are easier to control than men with ten fingers. Fingered men can push buttons, blow whistles and point out things on a map.
Yes. On a map, yes! Impact!
posted by James at 8:52 PM
1 Books were burned:
I'm always so impressed by your long posts. Keep it up mister.
Throw one on the pile
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