The Rising Tide (opinion)

A select few of my friends who I know offline share common beliefs with me. Locational issues prevent me from connecting with them in person, so the majority of my socialization is done online, and mainly through facebook.

One friend of mine posted a status that neatly condensed the highs and lows of what I feel is happening in America, and across the world. Some of my views might be polarizing or inflammatory if taken as such, but he's right in his main point that society as a whole, right now, seems to be on a frightening decline. The slow death of net neutrality, the increasing self-absorption and narcissism complex of everyday Americans, and a host of other problems. Stopping to think about just how completely fucked we seem to be gets depressing quickly. But it's people like the aforementioned friends that give me a small amount of hope.

Another topic touched on is the apparent inherent tendency of people to rally against any viewpoint whatsoever, that they either disagree with or believe others will disagree with. Both sides of the issue need to be taken into account. I myself am guilty of hypocrisy and jumping to conclusions, but we need to realize that it is a simple, inherent part of being human and to transcend our self delusion.

And it's not all self-inflicted. The culture that has sprung up from the twisted mockery of hope that the American Dream has become has significantly contributed to the decline of society. And no, it's not the "how-mo-seckshuls corrupting god fearing citizens" or "paranoid right wing gun nuts" or even "miley cyrus is OUT OF CONTROL"; it's the fact that these are presented as valid issues to argue and take sides about, while the real movers and shakers of the world, the ones with all the money, who own the means of production and are swiftly acquiring the channels of free communication, manufacture these conflicts in an attempt to keep each thinking human being from realizing it.

I realize that this is beginning to sound like a diatribe, and anyone in the aforementioned groups can write it off by labeling me as the other side. But the truth of the matter is that's exactly what the manufacturers of conflict want you to do, so that you don't think about it. The almost automatic decision to write something off you don't agree with, which is exactly what the specific friend was referring to. These are real thoughts, and real opinions, considered and articulated. Not sound bites. Not meaningless rhetoric. It's the horrible truth.

We appear to be on a bad path, one leading to a rapidly dystopian future. We already live in a dystopia; it's just not obvious to the majority of people yet. The people we believe represent us in government only represent the interests of whoever bankrolls them, and that's the way they want it to stay, while we watch American Idol and argue about talk shows, celebrities, and ultimately meaningless conflicts created for the express purpose of distraction.

As of right now, honor is dying. Integrity is dying. Compassion is dying. Intelligence is dying.

And crap is king.

Karma Police (Yes, inspired by Radiohead)

"Got one. Jay Fallsman. Age 37."

A keyboard clicked in front of a large bank of monitors. The larger screen situated in the middle brought up a camera feed, taken from the branches of a tree, or a lightpost, or a parked semi. Anywhere that escaped the normal notice of people. The subject the feed was centered on a crimson jaguar, brand new. Inside was a man dressed in a business suit, one ear glued to a cellphone as he backed out of his driveway, gesturing wildly. He blew out onto the street, narrowly missing a bicycling child, and denting the side door of a car parked on the opposite curb. The car's owner turned from his mailbox and yelled at the rapidly retreating Mr. Fallsman, who in turn raised a middle finger without even looking.

"Fuckin' businessmen. High powered Madoffs-in-training, eh?" The speaker nudged the man sitting next to his booth, who turned and gave him a warning look.
"You know you aren't supposed to be personal about it, Jack. You're gonna get another citation."

Jack sighed and turned back to his monitors, tapping a few more keys on his panel. "Alright, alright Craig, I know you're right. Besides, not like the boss doesn't hand out citations like candy."  Picking up a coffee cup, he took a sip, and switched over to another feed. Another street along the oblivious Jay Fallsman's route to his office.

A contractor van turned the corner sharply and a rusted screw bounced off the fender, landing bolt upright. Minutes passed. A few more cars came down the road, but Jack tapped a key or two and they missed it by inches. Finally, the shiny red jaguar roared down the street, and the screw embedded itself deep into a tire with a loud pop. Fallsman's eyes went wide as he jerked the wheel to the side, his car squealing in protest until he banged against the sidewalk and into a telephone pole. As he got out and inspected the flat, he grumbled into his cell. "Yeah. Yeah. I blew a tire. Shit, man, this was the last meeting in the portfolio, and now I'm gonna be late." A pause. "I'll see you at the office."

As he went back into his trunk and began to fiddle with the jack, he neglected to notice his front bumper now had a dent in it.

Jack leaned back in his chair and logged the entire scene. He finished typing up his report, and placed it in the "Out" tray on his desk. Tabbing over to the monitor bank's "search mode", he leaned back and watched the rapidly changing feeds, smirking to himself. "That's what you get when you mess with the karma police..."

Music Lit # 1 : Control Room Before You

So this is the first in a series of musical writing I'll be doing, where I'll match points in a song to scenes in a passage I'll write. the time in parentheses corresponds to the elapsed time in the song, so (2:52) would mean that this scene syncs up with two minutes and fifty two second into the track. This first one is from my favorite artist, Gramatik, and is a very electronic/funky guitar fusion track. So, click the link and listen along as you try to imagine the setting...

(0:00) We open on a clear blue sky, a few puffy white clouds floating above, as the camera swings down and pans across a flat dry cactus desert, narrowing on a dust cloud trailing behind what looks like a stage coach.

(0:40) We focus on the back of the stagecoach, which seems larger than normal, the driver sitting up front and cracking his whip in time, wrapped up in all sorts of patchy shabby clothing and a worn bandana. As we follow the stage coach, we begin spot the high wooden timbers of a fort drawing closer. The stage slows down, and pulls up to the heavy gate as the music picks up.

(1:02) The gates fly open and admit the slowly rolling stagecoach into a sprawling old western town, complete with saloon and sheriff and barrels and tumbleweeds. The people are actually shabby, fifties style clunky robots, performing menial tasks and actions along the road as the coach rumbles past.

(1:15) The camera enters the saloon, where similarly dressed cowboy robots lift mugs of oil in time to the counter syncopation of the track (one, two, one, two). Others pick up and drop coins on tables, show hands of poker, play the piano, raise their hats at robotic barmaids.

(1:30) We snap cut outside to another robotic cowboy playing a boxy guitar stiffly and methodically, like an animatronic doll from an old wild west showcase (think Wild Bill's Revue, etc.) The camera pans out as he plays his riff, but the circuitry under his outfit begins to pulse and glow to the beat, his edges looking less ragged and boxy, the guitar slowly beginning to gain fluidity.

(1:54) The barrels lining the edges out the road begin to shake, their lids starting to rise and pop back down, flashing lights visible for the few seconds that they are up. The townsrobots begin to move more smoothly, and the dust of the roads blows away in small patches to reveal dull metal underneath. The entire town seems to be starting to move to the beat, the buildings twitching in time along with the rest of the inhabitants.

(2:19) The robot with the guitar stands up on his bench, which unfolds into a chrome metal table, his guitar growing fluid metal appendages, his very form beginning to streamline as he plays. No boxy approximations of digits, his fingers are mimicing the grace and dexterity of human fingers, like an android. The change sweeps up his arms as his circuits reconfigure, and the barrels surrounding him start to unfold as their hidden occupants raise their heads. A plethora of futuristic looking robots, with neon purple and teal accents unfold from the barrels, a sweeping change from the dust of the streets to gleaming metal and circuitry begins to spread across the town. The old wooden building facades begin to fall off, showing the bleeping and blinking lights underneath them, the cool metal jarring with the old style architecture as the technological takeover spreads.

(2:50) The change continues, steady and fluidly, as we pan to the interiors of buildings, growing more modern, advancing steadily through the coming decades of smooth chrome and sleek shine, the outfits changing on all the patrons as well as they begin to methodically dismantle the old from the new, now in control of their own setting. The sheriff stands up and unlocks the now holographic bars of the jail cell and releases the prisoners, who looks like robotic punks. They all proceed to dismantle the musty dusty office into something shiny and bright, then proceed outside with the rest of the citizens.

(3:34) We move back again to the first robot, continuing to play; he steps down from the stage and his guitar plays itself as he joins the throng in ripping up the dust and dirt of the road, revealing complex circuitry and patterns, fractal shapes bleeding through the dust not yet cleaned up, light pulsing from the exposed underlying machinery as the entire town shines with energy. The work continues as the wooden timbers of the border begin to stretch up higher and cover the town.

(4:00) The walls rise higher and higher, the entirety of the townspeople now almost human looking, the futuristic metallic androids of Dick and Gibson. They continue their construction as the synchronicity slows down and each develops their own pattern, the new utopia slowly covered with a shiny weaving metal dome made of fibrous metal as it begins to sink into the ground. Finally, the dust blows over where the town used to be, tumbleweeds and dust blowing everywhere as the changed androids retreat below the ground. The camera slow pans to one leftover barrel, tipped over on its side, as a small robotic scorpion crawls out of it and heads into the desert...

(Header Image sourced from Iron West, by Doug TenNapel)

Frank in Stain

The theory wrote
A price is paid
He stares upon
The silent maid

Her heart is cold
The life was slayed
He flips the switch
A hope delayed

The power jolts
Her body, swayed
The genius runs
His love, is saved?

Returned to light!
Then her light fades...
His pain grows more
His love, the grave

Out of the Blue

So I made this blog all the way back in 2011. Well, no, that's not entirely true. I laid the foundations for it back then, but didn't write a single post. I've always had a lot to say, but never managed to conceptualize it in a way that I could pack it a lunchbox and send it sailing out into the great dark internet, like some sort of mentor figure sending a hero on his quest for honor. Four lines in, and I'm already rambling. I don't know who'll read this. No one might. All in all though, I think just writing it down and logging it might be more substantial than just letting my thoughts sublimate into brain noise.

Part of the reason I was initially reluctant to post was that feeling, that dark shadow that hunches over in everyone's brain, telling them 'Why? What makes you special? Why do your words deserve to be listened to?' It's inside everyone. The triumph of humanity is that we don't always listen to that voice, and the outcome may be better or worse. But the outcome will always be different than if we'd never tried at all. It took me a long time to realize that, and three years later, I think I'm ready to strike out, sword-pen in my hand and wits in my head.

This blog will contain a variety of posts. Some might be incredibly pretentious musings on human nature or the vast capacity of the mind to perceive, and other such philosophical drivel. Others might be pertaining to certain musical tracks and thoughts they evoke (I like to visualize music videos to some songs that I feel fit the music, or a scene that the tune evokes). There may be short literature pieces, or poems, or examinations on facets of the city-state I live and work in, which could be a whole blog by itself, and is most likely covered in depth in other, more established blogs. But most of all, I'll be trying to process the prismatic tornado of my brain and personality into some sort of concrete parcel, much easier unpacked and examined than the current wisps of wait-no-i-forgot-damn-hey-what-about-this system I currently have.

Reject the Mundane
Embrace the Unknown

SP