Unlike Watergate phone calls or the useless paper bills of Black Tuesday, the defining desperation of the new millennium isn’t one cataclysmic event. It isn’t 9-11, or (la one and only) Katrina. It isn’t even the stolen elections, or the YouTube broadcast of the murder of Saddam.
It’s the belligerent need to be SEEN. There is a desperation that the world will slip by without seeing you. That the revolution will happen without your face on its Facebook profile, that one’s fury to be known and be noticed, to matter in the midst of electronic matter, ultimately won’t. That the world, and the news outlets of the world, will go on without you – without your consent, without your money and without your emails.
It’s a semblance of shape in the midst of shadows, this stocky little self-importance. It’s worshipping at a temple that is edit-able. It’s a series of sign systems that sign them up for Eternity (just in case there is one.)
This is a generation of children who grew up on systems labeled as Don’t Work. WWII left everyone in shock, the Pinkie Bastards ruined what was left, and cocaine and Reagan took over from there.
Us, afterwards, have low-level bank accounts and a system of morals made up of leftovers.
Our time is spent raiding philosophical refrigerators, desperate to find something good to eat…