Monday – March 20th, 2000
by Bing Futch
The most sublime of experiences are merely a dream away, sometimes even
closer. The blink of an eye, the turn of a head. The pressing of a switch
can activate it, or leave you in the lurch. Sometimes, planets align and the
universe looks a little strange and wonderful all at once. Those are the
moments that tie together the brittle fabric of our destroyed lives as
Victims Of The Race. A de-sensitized, regulated, claustrophobic and happily
pissed-off tribe of Lost Americans looking for the way out. The Neo-Colonies
are forming in the dissent; they’re the rejected Dreamers and Hustlers who
have grown sick of a Government’s fumblings and mumblings. They’re looking
towards other countries where society has been in swing for more than a mere
two-hundred or so odd years. America’s a pup compared to Europe, where
civilizations have literally risen and fallen in the wake of wars, religious
fiascos and ill-tempered monarchies. Sure, in comparison–we’ve got it good
when it comes to living in Northern Ireland or Mozambique. But Paris or
London would be awright, I guess. Maybe Australia? That’s a little like
America, only they’re proud to have descended from outcasts and criminals.
They flaunt it properly and have even made a market out of it that’s been a
boon to tourism. You gotta like that, mate.
There’s a web site for expatriates seeking exile from America, and these
people are serious. But hey, it was a system that was bound to go wrong,
especially when moneyed interests began calling the shots.
Let me explain. In Ye Olden Days, a farmer and his family worked a plot of
land that was generally sold to them by pioneering capitalists. They built a
cabin out of the land’s materials, took seeds and placed them into the Earth,
raised barns and filled them with all manner of barnyard fowl, worked the
soil as God had intended Adam and his kin to do until His return and only
went into town for the few things that they couldn’t produce themselves, if
there was a town at all. They exchanged their goods and services for other
goods and services and no-one borrowed more money or oats or rice than they
needed. As long as you put your heart and your soul into it and worked hard
for others, you would be guaranteed a shed to sleep in, a meal on a table and
a warm and hearty welcome whenever you came around ag’in.
Le sigh.
Banks, they were the culprits. Starting to allow folks to spend more than
they earned, the concept of “selling money” didn’t seem odd to anyone because
everyone at that time certainly could’ve used a little more. Especially the
fat cat Republicans who had investments in those banks. That’s the bedrock
of the fall of any great society and you can’t escape the reach of
Capitalistic Communism without ducking into the harbors of sanity that are
scattered throughout the World. Places that time and the dubious advance of
a people haven’t touched. Where change has been measured only in the lines
of their faces, the people that don’t know anything about CNN or stocks or
Mozart–the seemingly uncultured folks who have a peaceable life that never
until the last minute, should something like this occur, be aware of
anything as terrible as nuclear weaponry. Imagine, to be stoic, calm, placid
even. Standing on the porch of a Buddhist Temple somewhere in Tibet, a 60
year-old man with a cup of tea in his hand. Watching a Tomahawk-16 Zyklon
Warhead flying at him in a looping spiral. A complete and total surprise,
and not much time to worry and wonder about the damn thing. No precedent of
paranoia about what might come flying out of the sky, raining fire and hot
metal. Smile at your death and be at ease with it.
For that sort of luxury.
