Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Not Really A Plumber
It's not approved. How can we tax it? I can't find a slot in the wall of conformity for it. Best not allow it. Take your ration and put it in your ricebowl and like it until we break that too.
There's a line and this ain't the back of it. Do you know who my father is? The secret handshake? I thought not. NQOCOP. Kiss an ass and you can work for nothing in the place built by a Rockefeller until an old man gropes you and then you're in. Don't forget not to recoil in horror.
The glowing rectangles flicker and a parade of the pre-approved march by. You could set yourself afire, or claw at the door for the amusement of the cheap seats, and feel the contempt radiating from inside, if you like. You'll get your few minutes on the rectangle, the lidded gaze will rest heavy on you for a moment, and then you'll be discarded. Grab the meter money, quick, before the lever is pulled to spin the meaningless symbols again and drop the coins in the tray for another.
There is some hidden process. If you don't know it, you might go poking around the outside of the machinery, trying to glean what you need to know with your wits and your hands. You bust your knuckles on the rivets, and occasionally you tug on a loose panel and get a blast of steam in the face. Gardy loo.
Or maybe you turn your back on it. No one can stop you if you don't ask them if you can start. Do not pray to their god of mammon. Drift through the pagan culture -- still vibrant and muscular with its hopes and exertions, not sallow and anemic from its tuffet -- and find the souls who cannot fit, no matter what they try, and concoct a brew from it. We'll make our own things out of our ration of nothing.