Truman Show

You know, many people of the West are, in most respects, cultural orphans.

The cultural orphanage was erected around the 1900s, and from the fallout here we are.

This could just be me being an economic gollum, most definitely, but as great as all of these modern cultural outlets and exports are, and Netflix probably consuming billions of human hours per quarter, it still gnaws.

When the credits roll off so the screen darkens. Lost in the glossy mirror there you are: suspended in the city noise. If you hurry enough to the next series and then get tired enough you can put it off until next week.

Put off this post-1900s aimlessness by the haze, some amnesiac’s delight: a culture purely driven through of-the-moment and their screenplays, little living, always fiction, slowly sequestered, advertising with plastics, one’s own satchel of story all but empty and home-grown festivals scattered and even doing some trading cards about the 1920s or the cosplay of the 1960s, here’s a font for complement, to set the stage! Our “culture”, but the boardmasters are the major corporations, government directives.

Severed from history, essentially. Lived History, not fiction. Something tangible, not elastic. Something woven into your life, not something sat and washed over. Defined and nurtured by you and your neighbors. And ironically Lived History is the fountainhead of a good chunk of media, but so inevitably goes off the walls into another realm. Almost a pillaging; losing the essence.

A Drone as I may be, I don’t want “decades”. I’m tired of these causes, this stasis. Don’t want another flavor of the month. Away with these false reels of the forgotten worlds cradling our dying order. Let’s not cycle through these things and exchange pleasantries while the amorphous and forgetful days march ahead. Today’s cultural artifacts will be dust in two years time, or even just six months.

Truth is, if you forget where you came from, you will walk in circles. To nowhere. Stagnation to come. A dome to get locked in; floating in the virtual.

I just want to push “play”. That’s all. Let’s push “play”.

Let’s push “play” on our Thousands Year Story, no longer fettered away. We’ll set the tune, reacquaint ourselves with the natural world, however gruesome.

Let’s stitch in the next chapters, far away from such dead insect meandering. Etch in blood the next act, break new ground for a marker.

We will turn the pages of History once more. Dusting off the ruins of stock exchanges and advertisements, perhaps we make new ones, perhaps not, but we’ll see between the lines how people lived. And take those fragments, take what resonates. Study closely, no repeats! Then we’ll build on top and infuse the mythos to come.

We begin; we’ll write the next thousand years.