August 8, 2005

Crowds with the object of their adoration incurably absent


I must go back to the place where things were simpler and a more benign perspective gently revealed itself. There was once a place like that, I am sure of it.

Several escaped but most simply perished. Of the ones who escaped three prospered, eight committed suicide (as a result of guilt), four are currently in situations the exact nature of which it is difficult to ascertain, and eighteen remained within the negligible ‘in between’ we might refer to here as ordinary life: neither successful nor failures, neither happy nor desperate. Of the ones that perished the occasional memoir was discovered (three in total), the occasional scrap of paper with a jotted list or phone number. It is impossible to defeat remnants.

I had no one to blame but myself. I went in with no plan and when things took a turn for the worse I simply panicked. There was no way to avoid the considerable fact of the matter: it was a complete and unredeemable fiasco. (Though from an outsider’s perspective I’m perfectly aware it might appear to be an unmitigated success.)

Business strategies of the ontologically perverse.

If you begin with mere premises of course you will travel endlessly in circles. That is why we must begin with facts. And the facts are really not so complex. People will behave one way when they feel secure and a completely different way when they feel they are in danger. Security is a luxury with the potential to produce generosity along with an endless stream of small acts of kindness. That is why we must work around the clock to generate the continuous illusion of being-under-threat. Only through such means can we activate results sufficiently conducive to our end goals. For public relations purposes we will refer to this strategy as ‘the delightful effect.’

If there’s one thing he wasn’t it was a celebrity. This simple fact agitated him to no end. “Why must others be celebrated but only I ignored”, he would write over and over again in the small, spiral bound ‘reporter’ notebooks he bought at Target for a dollar a piece, each time using different words. Even if he were to win the lottery it would be of little use, for the genre of charisma he wished to possess unfortunately cannot be bought. “Fuck it,” he thought, “serial killing is my only hope.”

And we all dropped ecstasy and leapt joyously through the streets; through the streets and through the alleyways and parks. Such joyous leaping cannot be contained in mere words. Images, prayers, exhortations, telepathic emanations: all these strategies and more must be employed if one wishes to properly convey the pure joyousness of our endlessly delirious, wasted leapings. In the morning we watched the sunrise as the buzz gently waned. I glanced at my watch. I was already late for work. I said my goodbyes.


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