C O O L N E S S
I total break through bad luck coolness ... third time´s a charm !
Caught somewhere in time, in the Golden Age of Coolness, there is a highly sophisticated society run by and for perfectionists, cynics, histrionics, narcissists, and hedonists, where high-tech takes over. The twilight of humanity faded into a new heroic epoch.
To be happy is the law. Everybody gets a chance. Too many choices - the means.
The superb three-dimensional TV walls offer the most virtual reality ever. The individuals can swim electronic oceans of sound, of music and talk coming in on the shores of their unsleeping minds, race in jet cars making some 100 mph or fall parachuteless as long as they are insured. Everything is both all concrete and abstract.
Thinking is strictly prohibited under severe penalty, except in the guarded asylums. Shooting the unhappy is encouraged and rewarded accordingly. Smashing anything is appreciated. Callousness is the very ultimate state of being, the highest and coolest thing in the silver world. Once you get hit so often you become numb to everything. The individuals do not seem to know to love. All feelings are taboo.
The sense of diversity is enormous. The individuals communicate different things and no one understands anyone else and everyone says how swell & how cool! Every once in a while some happy individual breaks down, so the Emergency operator takes out all the mean old stuff and puts in the fresh brand new, and he or she is OK, if it’s not too late already.
Dawn changed his profession, joining the Emergency Department. He had repeatedly tried to become a perfectionist, like his father, but failed, which made his influential father very unhappy. The top Emergency operators did their best, but it was too late. Dawn saw how they shot him dead and felt extremely happy at the big cash reward. Dawn is so damned disturbed, so mad, and he just does not know why. "I might even start thinking, asking questions, answering them. I am going to do something real big. Hell, I do not even know what yet. God, it has gotten so big on me."
Dawn got a guilty conscience, rationalizing: “My father could not keep up anymore and had to be left behind with the unfulfilled dream of his very disappointing son.” Dawn is sorry. He realizes he wore his happiness like a mask and the top Emergency operators stole it and there is no way of getting it back.
Sick of driving too fast, he chooses to loaf through the streets, pensive, attentive, only to know what is just going on. Dawn feels shocked, there is really nothing going on at all. It must, he grows doubtful. He is almost arrested for being a dangerous pedestrian. Because he does away with the law-enforcement patrol, though in self-defense, he is on the run, and wanted. Exhausted, he wants to end his life, never to be caught and recycled.
Dawn is scared to death when a strawberry girl finds him, wanting to even help him. Her name is Hope and she explains what it means, as her family taught her. Step by step, Dawn learns so many things, reading digests on people, their history, philosophy, and literature. Furthermore, Hope teaches him love lessons, but he constantly fails.
Finally, Dawn becomes the dissent leader, trying to gather marginal individuals such as junkies, would-be knowers, wannabe thinkers, fools, individuals about to break down, all who want to overthrow the high-tech government and improve such a messed up society. Dawn is obsessed with the idea of being human, he desperately wishes the individuals to be more like people, human, to cling to each other and love each other, something like what he himself is beginning to experience with Hope, diagnosing it love, one true love, as he once read and did not understand.
But the war has its worst ahead. Uncompromisingly, Dawn is determined to challenge the real bad world, to reduce the evil, the bestial, the lonely, thinking of his father whom he terribly disappointed because of his own imperfection, of many many individuals lurking in the shadowy ruins out there in the world.
Will the naturally-organized dissent die like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out for lack of air in the coolness of a marbled mausoleum as a solemn monument to humanity?
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Jungle bound, happier, more hopeful than ever, I type, one-armed, amidst constant blackouts, with the slowest internet connection on Earth, on my sporadically working 15 year-old computer, only to be heard on Substack, big deal. This may be not a sorry scene, after all.
If you find me worthy of your money, please support your favorite Tarzan on my page ! I cannot get paid on Substack because Stripe is not available in Nicaragua, at the real end of the world. I will appreciate any contribution to my struggle for survival. Thank you for reading, getting this far …
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"Will the naturally-organized dissent die like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out for lack of air in the coolness of a marbled mausoleum as a solemn monument to humanity?"
Burning out and fading away are both likely options, but are only upsetting to the dissident attached quite firmly to the role of "candle", though such may be all that our dissident knows, and he is naturally not too pleased at such a prospect as the guttering out within the Marbled Mausoleum, for which many may share a similar reluctance.
Writing on the current accepted script of this life, as flawed as It may appear at any given moment, seems a healthy enough approach in order for one to maintain a semblance of honor and self respect, if one is holding to writings other than "fiction", or so I will maintain.
In the end, it will have to be said that "All is vanity".
Is a soul's redemption within the grasp of the possession... or the possessor?
Time is not mine to wait around and find out, so I might be wise to do my very best to keep this ethereal cloak in as good of condition as I might, without dwelling overlong on the damage already done, aside from one's possible healing from such, when possible, and to not commit further damage(!), which is always easier to discuss than to accomplish, given the human predilection towards such as we may hunger and thirst for, which is usually not in the soul's best interest, to begin with; at least that is how I see and feel it from my limited perspective.
Blessings and Strength, Libor. I enjoyed reading, but am not in a position to send help in the form of dollars and cents, only encouragement. Cheers!
I hear:
...early Thomas McGuane, Captain Berserko, type only forward, no edit, no censor, tap into the source, channel the creative flow, like a river it will find its course
...and Lawrence Durrell, typing like breathing, tasting the sea-wind, his words flow on
...and Elizabeth Smart, trapped in a loveless unfulfilling triangle of unrequited love and just pouring out pure pain in her one short book At Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
...and Henry Miller pouring out his passion for life and love and the joy of being alive and poor in Paris
...and James Joyce squeezing every thought into one eternal day, but for me too confined, too real, too abstract, too minute; I prefer to taste and smell and see and hear the wide expansive creative rush and flow and glow of all the wonder
...and Libor, madly typing one-armed against the world in the jungle, creating fantastic new worlds, switching my academic left-brain to full-on right brain synaptic bursts of the glory of language
... write on