It dawned on me the other night while finding someone else watching teley-vision when they should have been asleep how the big game of pacification works. An entree into psychology. That dirty little game of fawned rationality while they call 911 for help to put one away if they are acting, ‘irrationally. A whole system of governing that has been tested tried and true to put you away in the stone version of the panopticon if you’re a bad boy or girl. It used to be the rubber room with a tiny viewport that a very occasional eyeball would saunter over. Now of course, it’s a tiny windowless room with the light on 24/7 and a camera to keep you under surveillance. There are all sorts of prisons of course. The grid patter of urban city streets is by definition a controlled space. High rises are vertical approximations of the same. Your own inner boxy interior space especially where it is dominated by your biggest baddest eternal buddy droning on variations of the same old nonsense and calling it either art or useful public serviceable information. The Internet is of course the biggest form o mental incarceration training you like a lab rat to run the ever variable algorithmic maze and reliably end up at the same old stuffy conclusions that the world of these conundrums is all that your likely to ever know or think that you will understand. Well understand this! A chick raised from cradles to grave on a conveyor belt has more authenticity about its current existence than you or I. After all, you are what you eat as the saying goes. And the big collective we are too busy eating our own collective guts to know or care at this point. The big ‘WE’ have bargained the rest of us poor slobs off with a cheap chipboard nightmare that there is no longer a possibility of tomorrow just endlessly more of today. Want to get into acting? Then learn the same old tired plot and recite another cut and paste assemble of the exact same lines.
Who invented this? Well, he was literally a cousin of Sigmund Freud. That paranoid old cigar smoking fucker that came up with the perfect way to get around anyone else that he saw as, “the other.” Blame it on your father and try to have perpetual mental coitus with mom. That way you’ll never grow up and be a viable threat as a man. If you haven’t figured it out already boys, your not allowed to walk around with any ‘huervos’ swinging behind that big limp totem you loosely refer to as your ego. Sure go out and get that fully functional AR-15 but keep it in your closet lest you trip over your own shoe laces and use it. Keep threatening the neighbors from the safe distance of your living room. It’s all factored into the larger game of making you a big loudmouth pussycat. Then there are all you overly self-involved mommies out their perpetually engaged in the useless pursuit of the commercially treatable syndrome of your own perfection. Too fat, too skinny, not good enough, too brainy, too dumb, not savvy enough, the mental long playing record going on and on. Your only recreation being henpecking any male in view with fembot PC rationalities and eyeing the cake counter. So this is what Aldus Huxley imagined on his night out with the other eggheads? Well, just remember if you get a foolish notion that you want to indulge in a little too nuch extemporaneous public selfishness. You better cool down big time quick or ‘eye’ get’s to kill you.