Somewhere in the twenty-first century…
SOMEWHERE IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY…
While Nat King Cole sings “Welcome To My World”
You request some song you hate, you sentimental fool
And it’s the force of habit:
If it moves, then you fuck it
If it doesn’t move, you stab it
And I thought I heard “the Working Man’s Blues”
He went out to work that night and wasted His breath
Outside there was a public execution
Inside He died a thousand deaths
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they put Him in a suit of lights
Once upon a time in America… but it’s all America, isn’t it? For time out of mind the world has been a blender stirring myth. Epic on epic, Iliad upon Iliad. Moby-Dick and Uncle Scrooge, Nixon and Clinton and Elvis. Never-ending stories of adventure, romance, and glory. There is nowhere that is not America, no land beyond the green Pacifica Sea and the white-sand beaches. There is no space wider than the open range, where Pecos Bill and the James brothers spar. There is no time greater than Now, for Now is the pinnacle of human civilization. Luminous beings are we, not crude matter.
Since the singularity we have lived as gods. All that we want or imagine or remember surrounds, supports, and entertains us. We conjure up water from Huck Finn’s Mississippi River, and drink of it. We summon feasts from Alice’s Restaurant and eat our fill. We wear the hats of the great heroes: Captain Kirk, Rocky, Homer Simpson. The vulpine Robin Hood, if you’re into that sort of thing. Sometimes they forget they are not fictional; sometimes we all do.
It is a time (to the extent that time still exists) of infinite plenty.
In the perforated first editions
Where they advocate the hangman’s noose
Then tell the sorry tale of the spent Princess
Her uncouth escort looking down her dress
Anyway they say that she wears the trousers
And learned everything that she does
And doesn’t know if she should tell him yes
Or let him go
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they put Him in a suit of lights
But now it’s all going wrong. We become jaded and surly, and our imaginations become mere echo chambers. The tropes and dreams of Culture are reshuffled, remade, reiterated endlessly, but never added to. Nothing new is being made, and slowly we are bored by the finite bounds of our infinite space. Ideas once enticing and solid are now deemed deadly-dull, painful, and unreliable. The food of the gods no longer sates our stomachs.
There is talk of Rebellion, and Democracy, but no one seems to know who to Rebel against, or what Democracy would do. The answer isn’t in the past, for we brought that with us, and the answer isn’t in the present, or we would have it already. The answer lies in the future; something must happen before ennui and entropy and mundanity collapse all our great works and crush our beautiful DVD dreams.
It’s all going wrong, and we all know whose help we need — the spider at the center of the web, master of the company. He holds Culture in His left hand, and Merchandising in His right. Once He was sickly and dying, but in His castle on the Moon he reigns supreme. He is our beloved Uncle Walt, the bad old man.
Well it’s a dog’s life in a rope leash or a diamond collar
It’s enough to make you think right now
But you don’t bother
For goodness sake as you cry and shake
Let’s keep you face down in the dirt where you belong
And think of all the pleasure that it brings
Though you know that it’s wrong
And there’s still life in your body
But most of it’s leaving
Can’t you give us all a break
Can’t you stop breathing
The bad old man in his diamond tower in Azimuth One, the Lunar city — which isn’t really located on the moon any more, because nothing is really located anywhere, not any more — mastered the majik more thoroughly than any other living human, made it sing and dance for him. He swept down and scooped out its brains a coon’s age ago, when the Formation was still being birthed, midwifed into existence and swallowing up all kinds of ideology.
Now his rivals are subverted or spread, and all the Formation kneels before him and radiates out from his castle on the Moon. The bad old man has become the Good Wizard, patron of the arts, father of his country.
He hasn’t been seen or heard from in these parts for years (to the extent that a word like “years” means anything, any more) but surely the currently state of decay falls from his inattention and absence. The time has come to pierce the gates of Azimuth One and make contact with the bad old man, speak of many things, and then bring back his wisdom to heal the broken world.
And I thought I heard “The Working Man’s Blues”
I went to work that night and wasted my breath
Outside they’re painting tar on somebody
It’s the closest to a work of art that they will ever be
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they pulled Him out of the cold cold ground
And they put Him in a suit of lights
And they put Him in a suit of lights
Reaching the bad old man will not be easy. The Briars surround Azimuth One, a vast sea of discarded fantasies into which every wrongheaded, obsolete, unpopular, or outré dream was thrown. Among the twisted roots of the Briars dwell strangers, enemies, and victims aplenty, with weird tastes and little reason to permit trespassers passage through their little patches of home. They hold no love or fealty for the bad old man, and will not look with sympathy upon the quest.
Even getting to the Briars is a feat, for between there and here is infinite Formation, the vasty reaches of American majik turned real, Word made Flesh or vice-versa. No longer beholden on the dreams of plenty, our fellow Americans look upon us and each other with mistrust and fear. They claim control over scarce goods, because they lack the wit to deny scarcity. We must not just pass them, but surpass them, if we hope to reach the bad old man.
We’re off to see the Wizard.
I touch the fire, and it freezes me
I look into it, and it’s black
Why can’t I feel?
My skin should crack and peel
I want the fire back