Was a cold bright dry lit kinda day, following the cool quiet night pulse of this organism. The one wiki-christened the
earth (r.r.o.o. really really old origins) after a long time coming generic, long enough to set to wretching an entire boardroom of advertising executives inbred of just as old old schools perhaps as the earth herself. Ancient is an understatement! The dinosaurs considered them primitive, and would again consider them the same, when dinosaurs were reinvented and resurfaced back from extinction to be novel pets for crazy humans. Miniatures of course. Most critical language in the owners manual:
Don't forget to synch them. Otherwise you risked your warranty getting voided. Say it aint so!
And after all that long infinite-like wait (by capitalist standards),
the earth took only a year and a half to lose its title. Or add to it, if you want to try and frame it. Well, for big bucks she went down, mother earth. You heard of mothers selling their children? Well, remain seated! Coming to a theatre near you (near enough as time went on, until no longer near, for
near became a less compelling footnote in a less compelling institution called Oxford Twice Abridged And Still Underappreciated For Its Secondary Purpose Defined: as submitted to the jury on that day whenever the hell it was, oldentimes, in wherever criminals commit crimes, England, etc. etc. Curmudgeneration. Bloody jack ripper cobblestone way. The same anyplace, motherland, which could previously have been appreciated for its own local boys plugging in and sending diverse, random, rock waves over the rolling waters, past the Queen Marys, all of them, and rolling into the dirty greenbath suds left by herds of dreamy dirty uncared for immigrants reluctantly capping their names off and releasing entire European heritages to sink crestfallen away into the darks of the new york cities infamous harbor of all types sizes races genders, just come and act like you want it, and work yourselves toward the glamorous lives your now american descendants will realize, having gone west and gone gold and gone Hollywood, once the gold was panned, sent, weighed, and sold. Work yourselves to death trying. In between a rock...and another, much larger rock lined with prairies and pines and primed for corn production.
She knew her own personal history well, she did. Her mom hammered it hard into her soft skull, when her skull could still be called soft. She did not mind. What she did mind was waking in the middle of the night out of a dream turned bad! Lately she found herself so. The connection she had not yet made would come to her soon, at a sitting for chocolate carving (like had been done centuries before) the slow primitive way. Slates of government chocolate lined the long tables where the ladies and gentleman met toward good purpose. Wood carving tools made perfect instruments for this kind of pre-civilized affair.
That connection soon yet to be realized, coincided with that base emotion,
fear. Fearful of
earth advocates protesting the new
earth naming campaign they had tried to keep on the hush-hush! Down low. Well, that was back when it was only a facebook 9.0 virtual advocacy hologram. It all seemed so simple back then, like the Wu-Tang appeal.
She became politically-charged and evil-minded. Funny how it happened on the same day. In background enabled synch. Only way to get there, she and her compatriots of the future discussed, would be to come down upon the faction of low down, slow downs, the eco-postmortem-baby-boomer-babys-grandbabies. They had just broke the ties that bound them (for their own good). Encased in clay core cribs until they reached the federally sanctioned exact age at which safety (and therefore survival and preservation of the species) could be odds-favored (though most certainly not bet on). This was the protocol adhered to by the mid-dom.partners and their
Unities (the contemporary name for Unions).
Though gaming got decarbonized long ago, and the shells of formerly active brains overtaken by eighty inch plus non-flat roundscreens were long since collected and disposed of in community college manualarts reinhabitation bins around the country. Though the word gaming was now globablly synonymous with suicidality clauses. Though the xbox creators were now touted in religious circles as certain devils. An old outdated crummy concept, the devil, yet falling back in fashion only through the door of political desperation and mischief.
Evidenced in that resurrection so glorified in theory, yet soaking to the gills in atleast seven of many more now known deadly sins. Certainly couch-potato combat, aka
Droning, when men set themselves to the mercy of their unified walls of technology, where men became unmanned and sent themselves hurtling into inner and outer spaces. The conservatives called it, in their coarse text-to-speech-to-masses translations, finding real estate on the navel. These selfsame conservatives who could have prevented the aforementioned health-hazard recreation, yet instead wound up financing the multi-trillion dollar teabagging party's unscientific experiment turned industry:
Rebonding of man and mans pastime by yet unknown onyx infused monourethane derivatives.
This whole resurgence had been recapitalized and reamortized a thousand replicated times, encrypted in an oversized bitlocker scaled with primordial bytes so to cloak. Macrowaved in a home reactor once manufactured for express rotten purpose of narcotic manufacture and consumption. Uploaded the old fashioned (and therefore unsuspecting)
android market way, if you can remember all the way back to that hideous year before El Nina took a chunk out of the
environmental minimalist movement which, like the hard copy environment of that time, never recovered.
The new nomenclature was no thrilling departure, as one might have guessed in the long-winded leading up to nothing way some conservatives and less than 1% ers do, in between their cuban cigars and anchovy kipper zipper stress-relieving practices. Don't hold your breathe now, here is: G
oogle Earth (sponsorship secured with global permissions circa 2049, an economically entropic time). This was a hearkening back to the name google, which had somehow disappeared at bermuda triangle coordinates after it unmoored from its Sunnyvale tomb and floated like the IPO to giant balloon heights. The same kind the less than 1%ers fired up toward the beginning of the 21st century in their ever so fascinating addictions to ego and stock inflation. Those capitalist and postcapitalist social democratic times were brutal at best. The brain everdeveloping into new labryinths and having always to float a lifeline or boot up Help services. The disability funds were soon to be universalized and re-insured, as they reached astronomical yet uniform standardized atmospheres.
Everything was for sale. Despite all these machinations political, economic, social or otherwise, she grounded herself in her understanding of the world.
Everything was still for sale. Sales and
consumption drives ran like rivulets down the walls to the stops and the ninety degree shifts, to the locks and the twistcap downs and turns. She could be flexible. Yoga was in her repetoire. Lucille Balle had nothing on her. She was a solid
metrotechnohipnocrat of her day. Or that was the word her friend Amber made up for her one day as they dehopscotched along the navipod sidebar that took them tangibly wherever they wanted to go and their favorite: nowhere fast!
Here the yinyang of the DIY / DDIY (
dont do it yourself) netpacing crawls and lifts and lifts and defragments. Not unlike todays fog masses clearing liquids out of the windows. Moving and angling and growing into the space of the maplewood or whatever wood the less than 2%
milkers could line rooms with in and of the single story, suntouched spread she
and many others not to be necessary to name called home. The many plants assured them of a jungle to take refuge from a jungle.
Still ritual takes place in its unceremonial ongoing manner, dry as a bone. Fly a streamer from the mobil station, center of town, center left, over a lap of a wave of a baby hill up to the stiff wooden white painted walls of the American simple standard churchhouse. With standard deluxe whitewashed steeple. They all looked up as they walked there sluggishly or briskly on sundays. Brisk or sluggish, thin or overdrawn, guant or dressed in bleached whites like a swan, they all looked up. The standard steeple Colored the mind at dawn on the lawn before the recently felled trees waiting for the flatbeds long waiting to be hoisted and slid lengthwise down in that new embarrassing branchless formation which now became clear to the hundreds of year old oaks which steadfast made and still make our country and her shadows, north of tennessee, somewhere around the border of Kentucky there? hard to sense exactly where the oaks begin claiming the climate and the undersoil, turning up pavement with a childs sweep of the palm kinda motion out of the roots come one heavy-handed spring storm, all the thunder and lightning you can take, and all the electricity thats been short-circuiting your heart and making you stumble over words, rollin your eyes around to find it, what you lost and will never have back, something carefree, something nurtured and nursed, something they found most precious and valuable... something you could not abide. why? why?
to
not be
dys continued
