I had pulled over on the side of a packed dirt road that rose out of a valley in which lay a lake. Earlier in the dream I had stolen a tank from an underground facility. On my way out, a wall-mounted camera had swiveled to take a picture of the vehicle as it emerged. The tank looked like an updated M4 Sherman with a set of advanced, modern treads. Its turret housing was studded with sensors, and it was painted in NATO snow camouflage, large mottled specks of blue, black, and white.
For some reason I had exited the tank and was over by a copse of trees near the edge of the dirt road - to pee perhaps. In a heap of brown leaves I saw a curled-up patch of fur, a bar-coded collar, and a pair of alert feline ears. I made the rapid whistling sounds necessary to get any cat’s attention, whereupon the animal lifted its head and turned its face toward me. It was wearing a disposable dust mask of maroon color under a metal muzzle affixed firmly with an adjustable leather strap to its head. The muzzle covered its entire nose and mouth and was made of an oval of scratched steel with some sort of alphanumerics stamped onto it.
The beast stood up, its tail flicking upward in the manner of a curious and approachable feline. It started walking my way, and I cast mine eyes about for a food or water dish, concerned that with the muzzle on its face the cat could neither eat nor drink. Just before the dream changed radically I noticed a tarnished, worn wristwatch of cheap gold strapped to one of the cat’s forelimbs, again over a patch of maroon cloth.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Showing posts with label collar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label collar. Show all posts
03 October 2012
importance of metrics
Americans – and, by extension, peoples in all parts of the world who are yearning for Liberty – appear to have lost sight of the more important things in life. Bombarded by constant advertisements telling us we need this new thing and that new service, this new skirt and that new car, we long ago gave in, affording these things by burying ourselves under mountains of personal and high-interest debt. Furthermore, we have come to define ourselves primarily by our current occupations; we have come to accept monikers such as Blue Collar, Middle Class, Working Poor, and the like, without batting an eye, without a single question, without the slightest outcry, without even taking a moment to see how such narrow definitions are deflating our once-buoyant and once-vibrant individual souls.
To accept such monikers, or to strive to be seen by others as belonging to one specific class or the other, is to step willingly into the artificial world that advertisers and their corporate slave-masters try so hard to craft for us (in order to get our money); to talk constantly about What We Do For A Living – to start every single fucking conversation with that exact question – is to declare that our lives are primarily boring, devoid of personal development, lacking in spiritual humility, focused mostly on grabbing and taking instead of offering and giving. When trying to remember when was the last time I spoke with someone about my recent efforts to increase my own Liberty or that of another person, my mind draws a blank; when trying to talk to the average Someone about the use of negative space within an artistic composition, or the importance of cadence in prose, they immediately change subjects and want to discuss the upcoming release of the blue-ray diskette of the fourth season of some worthless fucking TV show about super-models-turned-moms who run secret subterranean cabbage farms.
I am beginning to suspect that I am largely alone in my conscious rejection of modern consumerist culture, that my efforts to cultivate a shred of individuality – not by hoarding cash or working 70 hours a week but by reading books on a dozen different topics and trying to reawaken my artistic abilities – that my efforts to make myself a slightly better and more interesting person are being matched by few, if any, of my peers. Please understand that I am not trying to say that I am cooler or more valuable to society for rejecting its more knee-jerk and pitiful aspects, merely that I feel largely alone, a poor sob adrift on a sea of self-banishment that is fed by my own tears, a snake for whom the once-familiar tones have lost their charming edge. My disappointment with society is likely the reason why few people bother to read these blogs, anymore – my bleating has turned sour; my whining, incessant; and my holier-than-thou attitude has become so stale that even I am bored with it. Perhaps I too should just give in, work a nine-to-five, worry above all else about my choice of cable-TV provider, and gain 75 pounds of pure belly-fat. Probably not, though, because I've given up on so many other things in my life that I could hardly live with giving up on becoming the best person I can possibly be. (If The Best Person I Can Possibly Be is not a metric of its own, a tiny little box into which I am trying to force my bursting and exuberant soul, then I have no idea what a metric is, anymore.) To my knowledge, though, few Americans self-identify with artificial names and metrics dreamed up by content-hungry newscasters, and this judgmental thunder-and-brimstone that I compose is just wasting space on a perfectly good server farm, somewhere. Oh well; mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
To accept such monikers, or to strive to be seen by others as belonging to one specific class or the other, is to step willingly into the artificial world that advertisers and their corporate slave-masters try so hard to craft for us (in order to get our money); to talk constantly about What We Do For A Living – to start every single fucking conversation with that exact question – is to declare that our lives are primarily boring, devoid of personal development, lacking in spiritual humility, focused mostly on grabbing and taking instead of offering and giving. When trying to remember when was the last time I spoke with someone about my recent efforts to increase my own Liberty or that of another person, my mind draws a blank; when trying to talk to the average Someone about the use of negative space within an artistic composition, or the importance of cadence in prose, they immediately change subjects and want to discuss the upcoming release of the blue-ray diskette of the fourth season of some worthless fucking TV show about super-models-turned-moms who run secret subterranean cabbage farms.
I am beginning to suspect that I am largely alone in my conscious rejection of modern consumerist culture, that my efforts to cultivate a shred of individuality – not by hoarding cash or working 70 hours a week but by reading books on a dozen different topics and trying to reawaken my artistic abilities – that my efforts to make myself a slightly better and more interesting person are being matched by few, if any, of my peers. Please understand that I am not trying to say that I am cooler or more valuable to society for rejecting its more knee-jerk and pitiful aspects, merely that I feel largely alone, a poor sob adrift on a sea of self-banishment that is fed by my own tears, a snake for whom the once-familiar tones have lost their charming edge. My disappointment with society is likely the reason why few people bother to read these blogs, anymore – my bleating has turned sour; my whining, incessant; and my holier-than-thou attitude has become so stale that even I am bored with it. Perhaps I too should just give in, work a nine-to-five, worry above all else about my choice of cable-TV provider, and gain 75 pounds of pure belly-fat. Probably not, though, because I've given up on so many other things in my life that I could hardly live with giving up on becoming the best person I can possibly be. (If The Best Person I Can Possibly Be is not a metric of its own, a tiny little box into which I am trying to force my bursting and exuberant soul, then I have no idea what a metric is, anymore.) To my knowledge, though, few Americans self-identify with artificial names and metrics dreamed up by content-hungry newscasters, and this judgmental thunder-and-brimstone that I compose is just wasting space on a perfectly good server farm, somewhere. Oh well; mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
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