HG Wells’ temporal conceit, The Time Machine, peeled back the millennia to materialize in Plato’s subterranean metaphor, giving The Cave a complete makeover so that it would be up to speed for the modern age.
First thing the Time Traveler did was extinguish the pollutant-spewing fire that supplied the light for the object’s shadows, plunging the cave’s shackled inhabitants back into the primordial void of darkness. Luckily, the Time Traveler had plenty of charge left in his Galaxy. Clearing the way with his trusty flash light app, he handed out similar electronic devices to the then totally-in-the-dark prisoners who had theretofore puzzled together flickering fire-borne shadows on the wall to form their perceptions of reality.
“The world is at your fingertips,” proclaimed the benevolent Time Traveler as he instructed them in the use of these magical phones. “The truth will set you free!”
Lost in the giddiness of their transformative liberation was the fine print of this new technology’s boilerplate disclaimer, legalese that went on for days that, in a nutshell, said, The information (from sender and receiver) flows both ways.
Unbound from their physical shackles they were there and then set free. For as long as they consented to carry their own personal tracking devices, their personal positions were always known. The benevolent Time Traveler told them that by climbing the steps of the cave they would eventually find their way to the entrance and experience the world as it really was.
Up, up they did ascend.
After a few switchbacks they were guided by the origin of all fires, the burgeoning sun, filtering down from the distant entrance, giving them light by which to see. Up, up they ascended, though still so entranced by their phones and the stimulating simulacra therein, they continued up the steps with their focus still centered on the screens they held before them, their own little oblongs of pixilated reality.
Born again from the ovipositor of mother Gaia, these beings passed from darkness, squinting and shading their eyes with their phones, into the painful light of day. With much moaning and gnashing of teeth, they suffered the interminable moments it took for their eyes to adjust to their new surrounds. But even then twas something more nettlesome still to discover the glaring daylight was blinding them to the text and images on the readouts of those all-consuming, tiny screens. If they could not see what was right before them, how would they be able to record the beauty of the world apparent all around them?
A few lowered their phones to take an unfiltered look around. The world was unthinkably large: filled with mountains and trees and lakes and rivers and unfathomable seas bordering the possibility of unfathomed desolation, all encompassed by an overarcing dome of marginally blue and sheepish cloud-filled sky. The world was their oyster and Venus Fly Trap, holding out the promise of false positives, happy accidents and peradventure.
And that’s a wrap. Or is it a rap? A bad rap? A bad reputation? Anyhow. That’s where I left off two weeks ago. I couldn’t congeal the mixed metaphors any longer as the news cycle span out of control and I imagined this extended mash up of mine was just meandering off the rails, so non-specific and uninteresting that my modified attention span also rejected a continuance of the proceedings. So, in an attempt to bring it all back to some kind of relevance that will appeal to a fractured and disaffected audience…which is the only kind my style can hope to accrue…
I like the idea of MORLOCHS IN TRAINING. The recent El Paso and Dayton shootings exemplify the concept as these two young men came up out of their subterranean existences (ie stereotypical basement dwelling neckbeards susceptible to all the corporate globalist shadows on the wall) to harvest some ELOI, the naive surface dwellers and Morloch cattle in HG Wells’ novel. These self fulfilling prophets of doom ultimately become the self-immolated fuel that feeds the globalist’s fire, creating more propagandist shadows on the cave wall that will influence more pawns to sacrifice themselves for ephemera, the great and secret show, that will, Moloch willing, be an eternal flame. Or, allowing for the modern update to the same old story, The words of the profits are written on the Fox, CNN, MSNBC, ABC et al studio walls.
Ah yes, the cave just keeps getting deeper. Did I say Moloch? Err, yeah, I meant Morloch, clearly. Old HG wasn’t hinting at the existence of the existence of a baby-sacrificing cult with a 6,000 year old provenance. Right? That would be dabbling at the outer limits of the dreaded ‘conspiracy theory’ bugaboo … maybe the mother of all CT’s.
Remember when it was a conspiracy theory to say that cell phones and all these electronic devices were being used by the FBI, CIA, NSA et al to keep tabs on the citizenry? Yeah. I was naïve enough back then to believe them too, that such a gloriously named package of legislation as THE PATRIOT ACT could be the trojan horse that would usher in the end of personal freedom with the over arching intrusion of the all-encompassing surveillance state.
The methodology of conceit is there for all to see. Pop a name on it that nobody can argue against whether the name has anything … for anyone, who is paying attention at least, to see. And there’s the rub. They, whoever these psychopaths are, know that they can run out the clock on the citizenry’s Internut-stunted attention spans to the point where even after the chicanery and deceit is exposed in the light of day not enough people will still have the emotional stamina to care, much less do anything about it. The song remains the same: after the carnage THEY urge you to be vigilant and connect the dots. Once the outrage and mourning has runs its course, THEY will connect the dots for you or you will be figuratively, if not literally, shot. Get fucked.