Downcast Malocchio, Coughing Up Benediction

"What do you want?" "Information..." "Well, you won't get it!" "By hook or by crook, we will."

I started reading the Invisibles again. It's been yeeeears since I've picked it up, despite its importance in my life. The fresh perspective, post-Batdeath, post-Crisis, post-ASS, post-LSD communicates so much more. It's a good, stable reminder of why I got into this crap in the first place. I can read Tom O'Bedlam unafraid of becoming a crazy homeless man. I can read King Mob as a walking erect penis dressed in a novelty condom instead of a role model, while still acknowledging his help in keeping me from leaping off of whatever I deemed fatal enough.

Pretty soon, information will become the next resource we mine. We'll scratch at the freshly-mined furrows of our brains, weeping as some entrepreneur sets nanites to start picking up whatever memories can earn enough to buy that big stupid boat or fucked-up jacket to replace the utter disinterest of the genitals. Some day we'll be staring at the Mechanoid Frontier, where machines self-evolve into maddened ecosystems beyond our control, and we'll have all manner of brave sorts on Robot Safari to get more of that precious information. Geez, I dunno if this'll end up a vibrant dream or a terrifying nightmare. Sometimes you just hope that some of that information will burst the blockade set up to "make it" in the average corporate stooge, and maybe pull the stick out the ass of the snide intellectual.

As much as I exist Right the Fuck Now, often to both my benediction and my detriment, I think about the future an awful lot. Deep down, there's this little Utopian voice yip-yipping away at how cool everything will be once it's all said and done, but then the Dystopian voice chimes up at the grotesque sacrifices that need to be made to make that future. It's sometimes hard to keep track of all of the colliding multiverses within the imagination and their feasibility in response to physical existence and the patterns found therein. How aggressively do we want to drag these things into the realm of physical experience? With development comes some act of violence on something.

So much hinges on our own concepts as a species, but how much control do we ourselves have over the concepts that we find unsound or offensive? How do we address the perspective in our darkest corners who tends to the blackness so that we don't drown in filth and despair? How do we open a discourse to the internal scapegoat we've cast into the wilderness to bear our maledictions, our blame? What wisdom does this wretched creature bring? How do we control our impulses and self-righteousness when it says something that might be right?