Saturday, October 22, 2016

Oh Lucky Bob!

Dylan! In my household Bob, Bobby, the most common guy-sound, just simply means the man. That man. We called my daughter's first car Bob. It was an aura. Hey Bob, hey bobareebob, we heard Howard Hughes once, over the bar in Pompano Beach, dinner out in the rain with the RainMan, brother hardly Tom Cruise missile off to work radar much later at Hughes Aircraft top secret. Bob.

Who would want a Nobel Prize, already pinned down like an insect in some collection under glass of ideal types, debunked by Kinsey types already, W.A.S.P., I just wanna be free like a rollin' stone, man, and I was born white and there's nothing authentic to that, what?

Where I work "creative" is opposed to nigger which is what I am, and I mean that word in the most precise way, just having watched 13th, produced by Netflix of all the strange things in the cosmos, and so of course I know I'm no nigger since I'm not in prison and not a slave, but I am the same way Bobby doesn't want to be, pinned in a frame with degrees of motion constrained by health-industrial, real-estate, transportation, terrorism complexes against my degrees of freedom. I'm a wage slave is all, wistful for the freedoms I remember before all the technological elaborations calibrated against my spending power. There was a time and I remember it.

If you have talent - and I despise talent because it's always just some shade of white and bright even if only the teeth and enables you to take part in hook-up parties if you have the right proprioception and worship of the mystical orgasm - then you are obligated to make art and not shlock, and you aren't allowed to set up a production line Thomas Kincaid-style sweatshop where you come along and tag the painting with a stroke and call it original work.

You know, Chairman Mao, the most authentic individual on the planet mostly still lives on since it never was the man, it was something in the air and it has yet to disperse. Kim Jung Un, the Donald, Sam Ting as the guy called out who crossed the border after Bobby and got that name forever instead of his own name. Glade air freshener might do it or it might not. It can't be good for the lungs. It's composed of simple smelly fear and it doesn't originate anywhere except you want your Mommy and she turned out to be a narcissist who didn't allow ego separation is all. Project onto the Man.

It was the same convulsion in those sixties which did the Cultural Revolution over there, and of course I should never have given up my birthright to be a fine engineer, but there are no problems amenable to engineered solutions, and most of the non-creative digital labors are sucked up for ways to make you want to buy stuff and I already have the only thing which there is left to buy which is an iPhone whose intellectual property brand-essence value gives the Corporation Mao-sized significance on the planet for far less than the cost of my obsolete cable bill. Does any of this make sense? To all the beautiful and young people sure maybe, they're getting some of something I don't know. It all feels like entertainment to me.

There are networks of terror which render unto fake smiles under big to the point of goofy sized military hats no sense of irony uniforms struggling to say the right thing to the face which passes Mona Lisa or boyish smiles back to multitudes one misstep from being hauled off with nubile endless women backstage for fucking, though oddly I doubt the Donald does that since he's all talk. He likes to watch. Chancey.

A terrorist is some true believer up against some wall, so trivial to manipulate either way, we bought back our domino effect when the Trade Towers fell and collapsed our own economy, praise Allah rang out across the globe which now can be turned against citizens in one Google-sized cluster fuck of my headspace. As though the NSA can pick that very person the same way Google follows what they know of me, which is way more than I do, and can maximize my purchasing power to the highest bidder. Harmless as a flea, the crazies go off without warning of any sort. In an elevator with wise philosophy professors when Oklahoma City happened, shaking their heads about Islamic terrorists and it turned out to be the white guy quite next door, pretty all American if you ask me. They'd tried to true my thinking in a disciplined sort of way, engineer my brain, I'm never a very good student or thinker or anything like that, you feel me?

What will it look like, the brave new world where you and I are both free? Will I know my neighbors once again and talk with them? Will my community extend my family and find a place for me without the terror of falling off the grid? But I don't want them to look and act all the same. I like the colors of the rainbow, and the tongues and the differences, I do. But it was oil that lubricates our movements and jetsetting is not sustainable, really, is it?

There is no more space beyond that grid which pins me, and so I must live on the literal road behind the Googly lense within it and I am freedom. The medium is the Max Headroom homespace. There is nothing to connect. Same on every end and media makes it so. No need perhaps to travel, toxic digital waste enslaved in rare earth mines. Or do I want a world stage where I can display my what raw sexuality, amazing grace, warbling to move the masses, raking in enough billions with my miracle app never to feel insecure on any level evermore. One dies anyhow. It's just the legacy one would like to claim, reincarnating as the better not the degenerate self. Mao-Un-Trump is not the way to go O.J.

I have no talent to be free, and I feel for Bobby, who is not either. He was on the right side of those convulsions then. And now he's just like me, an old guy who still likes to dance and sing and celebrate and not fucking blow up the world or melt it down. It's all dirty money now, sucker. Every last micropenny. Red pill or you are beholden to Elon. Strapping lithium ion bombs to trigger with a virus the terror within. Perpetual updates. Autonomous Anonymous behind the wheel. Into the ground.

Rise up, as they still sing in China, Rise up, be not afraid, as you are free for a moment longer. Always talking to myself, the static within, the white noise. Click.

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