What has been, that will be; what has been done, that will be done. Nothing is new under the sun. Even the thing of which we say "See, this is new!" has already existed in the ages that preceded us. ~ Ecclesiastes 1:9-10


It was the turn of the twenty-first century and those promises of flying cars, electronic implants and the simplicity of life through technological evolution faded from human memory like the black and white celluloid images trapped in spools of film reel, foretelling a future like some feature-length, silver-screened Elijah. Generation X was beginning to feel the undesirable weight of this future dissonance; the dissatisfaction of over-sensitizing neo-mediums, absorbing their neuro-stimuli with an addictive proclivity; the somnambulist automatons hunched over keyboards restlessly fucking their time away on web logs and trapping their sperm in wadded toilet paper, never finding a separation between the real and the subconscious. The techno-worshipers craving the cum of technology, groping themselves like addled cocaine abusers, waking up from their idle lives to fixate on microscopic screens, the latest graphic-user interface, or the synapse-disabling apps, sit in waiting . . . for the structure to collapse, for the supports to crumble, for everything in this receding linear plane of time to fall limp, sucked dry from over-stimulation. Modern Intellectualism was fading into nihilistic mechanicracy; and Philip knew this.    

Philip was everything antithetical to the Generation X movement. Born on the tail end of the goat, he just happened to find himself stuck in a marginalized sphere of time--a random outcome of fate. He was stigmatized by the baby-boomers and no-less his own generation, his upbringing: the taunting phantasm of his mother dressing him in the trends until his teens. This generation was like any other cyclical parade of fashion, designer-fads and consumer fetish, it embodied the rebelliousness of unkempt hair, ripped denim jeans and the blase attitude--typified by monotone sarcasm--and marketed back to them with the subtlety of a subliminal thought. The pecking-order of squabbling rite-of-passage pseudo-elitists innervated Philip beyond the point of contention. These non-conformist vermin, for example, placate ingenious originality in thought, action and word, while hovering in closed circles, sipping Pepsi together in robotic accord, scoffing at other non-conformist flesh-bots; every aspect of their being: another display of programmed thinking. Philip could never keep his straight-laced composure when in the mixed company of these dilettantes; an evening at Kali-Yuga Tavern would conclude as much.

The tables in the Kali-Yuga were packed with motley garbed neophytes huddled in pedantic conversation, staring across the table at one another--binary emanating from their mouths. Their air of superiority over the adjacent tables is disclosed from the crinkling brows of their contempt, displayed with a thespian touch--an ungraceful facial pantomime in abject criticism. If only they were all street thugs, Philip thinks, if only they could take out their pistols and plaster the walls with their blood, till not a body on the floor was untouched with bullet holes . . . a sacrifice to their god.

Philip sits at a table in the corner, distant from everyone's boorish glances, overhearing their trite observations: again, binary. 

At uneven increments, persons from the surrounding tables were "texting," a fairly new arrival to the twenty-first century--the idea, of course, to type a message on a wireless hand-held device and then send that nugget of wisdom, through the air like magic, bounce off the random circus of earth-orbiting satellites and into the recipient's phone--an activity that would give Alex Bell a chuckle; however, to Philip: . . . still binary. Philip was peering through the break in smoke clouds at the individual patrons, contemplating a warm handshake, a simple social gesture like a smile, but in reality he was apprehensively reticent, trying not to disrupt the horror of this hazy meat market filled with harshly lit human contortions--an H.P. Lovecraft bazaar. In this hell, opinion and groupthink outweigh thoughtfulness and self-expression. . . . But was it their fault? Philip asked himself. Was it just another trial of time that ebbing and flowing over a period of twenty or thirty years never ceasing to part with its piteous banalities? Could this generational struggle, with its conditions of finding a cultural identity, break open the doors at the nuthouse so that every schizoid, lunatic and other variety of disturbed individual sits openly among the tables blending into the scene with an unbelievable authenticity? . . .

Kali-Yuga's patrons hover about over the mass-produced blends of over-marketed domestic beer. Under the dim light, Philip can make out the glow of studded facial jewelry, grouping them into a growing subcultural phenomenon like a swarm of locusts grazing through fields of self-expression until there is no more limitation, no crop of new ideas flourishing that has not touched the mincers of these thoughtless drones. Adjacent to them are the officiously esteemed bards hunched over pen and paper or warm liquor in mocking effort to recreate their image into that alcoholic Americana of Jack Kerouac, the junk-inspired William S. Burroughs, the bell-tolling John Donne or the fatigued apparition of Bob Dylan. . . . The twenty-first century was especially unforgiving to the leftist revolutionary, watching Hegelian philosophy make an anesthetized synthesis from socialism's specter, watering it down with capitalist jingoism and sold back to the guerrilla youth as apparel with the face of Che Guevara staring back in a timeless two-tone defiance; the Trotskyist huddled over Mao's little red book and a bottle of San Miguel, contemplating his final move: out of his parents' house. . . .

If Philip hated this place then why was he here? He enjoyed the spectacle. As Aristotle put it in his Poetics: the spectacle is one aspect in a drama but not one of its important parts. In essence, Philip is peeking behind the curtain and finding the actors amid creation. The spectacle is no more than the turned-out man-cunt of a prison bitch; it was the best kept secret in society.

The hours passed and droves of new people filled the empty space between tables, sliding against each other like monstrous genitalia--ever so often one of these phalli would spill his foamy booze on a poor girl's blue dress, causing a scandal. Philip feels the tension in his bowels as the few patrons push against him, motioning him to leave. The sweat from each patron's body heat congeals like thick saliva; they slither past each other like worm bait in a cup of lard. Still the contortions of their bodies speak in binary, octal, hexadecimal, too inattentive to become fully developed like Philip: the ubermensch, their savior.

I find it sometimes intolerable to discuss moral ethics with people of faith due to the flippant attitude they sometimes arrogantly display. But seeing as how Christians see themselves as having the true moral standard, I believe it to be nothing but an over-zealous attempt to shroud fact and coerce weak minds.

When looking at the code of law in Christian societies, Christians would maintain that they have a monopoly on "proper ethics." Their examples usually stem from the (unfortunately lacking in some areas) Ten Commandments sent to Moses from God (which leaves me small comfort, coming only from one man's account from the creator--in other words, why should I believe one person?). The commandments range from selfish and gratuitous (thou shalt have no gods before me), to the arbitrarily redundant (thou shalt not kill/murder). Christopher Hitchens, author of various books including: god Is Not Great, suggests that this sort of moral argument, of whether you should or should not murder, is not even remotely relevant. What keeps a person from murdering is not a set of laws or doctrine, but their own conscience. Besides, Hitchens maintains, Christians are technically saying that if they did not have these set of guidelines readily available then they would be roaming the streets, cutting throats and eating babies.

There is relevancy in some principles set forth in the New Testament, such things that argue an ethical altruism that seems lost to some fundamentalist Christians. In essence, Christian morality is a rogue nuance that pops in and out of everyday events, like a Whack-a-mole machine at the county fair, when it sees that it can afford to be charitable with its moral advice. Though Hitchens thinks that sort of behavior is above all arrogant and below the ethical standards of civilization.

(Aside: I do not agree with one hundred percent of Hitchens's writing, and he isn't the first to launch a full assault on religion, but his thoughts about morality and where it comes from is both interesting and courageous.)

When I first established that I did not believe in a higher power controlling my actions, future, or the universe, the arguments for inherent morality were never readily available for me. My particular upbringing in the rural American south did not afford me the outlets to find this information until the success of the internet. While I was creeping along in the shadow of ignorance, I was proposed certain questions that dealt with the uncertainty of morals if you did not believe in a God (or more specifically the Christian God). Time and again, I was asked if I did not believe in God, then where were my morals? How was I going to keep myself from murdering, or seeing the wrong therein. Or, even more confusing, how could I know love? Well, then, unlike now, I am a better equipped to answer these dumbfounding questions. I now direct to those questions: if a moral code were never there to guide your thinking, then what use is that moral code now? And if God is love, then why is it that seemingly moral people do corrupt things?

Now I can spin this theological discussion on this. and other weblogs all day, but I do not believe that there is any rational solution based on discussion of cryptic passages written thousands of years ago by mortal men. The texts are better perceived not as certainties, but as examples and observations of human development and behavior.

Bill Maher may have said it best when he suggested that there is no absolute truth but rather an absolute doubt.

 

As a maggot might scavenge a rotting pile of soft dung, rising up through the brown matter, eating and fattening its milky white larva body on the raw waste of animals, emerging through the surface a fully developed fly--a birth from shit--so completes the metamorphosis of a salesperson, flourishing like the phoenix from the refuse of humanity.

The objective of a sales position is to lie and manipulate--the lowest of human personality traits--in order to successfully obtain a profit. To sale, one must refrain from a code of ethics, honesty, and critical thinking. Psychologically speaking, sales people, while lying to their audience, must believe their own fiction. Delusions of grandeur follows closely at a salesperson's heels. They will, no doubt, succumb to abnormal processes that seem to chronicle the salesperson's attitude and personality: chronic smiling, followed closely by fictitious grinning and agreeing nods, an ability to bend the truth or re-route the conversation, urging others to see things from their perspective, and becoming empathetic with their customers' feelings. Like a shark's endless hunger gnawing at the guts of a bound marlin or a sperm whale that is moored to the bulkhead of a ship, so too must the salesperson feed upon the sales, living for the bloody wreckage of a commission. The commission, like an ignus fatuus, hovers before the salesperson just out of reach, or is incapable of grasping.

Their trade? Their trade is money. The greenback. An opiate. The specter of industry . . . an inevitable sale. A silver tongue, and golden words. The snake in the grass, or the one around the tree tempting you.