Stray Threads

The raccoon’s come now and then to sniff around the edges of the house and dig for the hidden caches only they can see.

Nature’s beggars, the town’s shopping cart toting bottle collector but this time with a black and tan mask, a striped tail and long nails. More things in common that not but each is much too proud to entreat your assistance. Not when their hands are so deft, their waddle so determined. Pattering about on the fringes it’s a daily pop quiz in getting by, the questions remain the same but the answers keep changing. These are not the newly minted packs that roam the front of your town, yet to be burned and branded by the heat of avarice. Nay, these denizens of the edge had their names scrawled in scars long ago, they’ve walked the gauntlet of hot coals to find their permitted square footage and work tirelessly to maintain it.

You might think they don’t notice you watching them but they knew even before you turned your head. By now they’ve learned enough to avoid your gaze and keep on moving, the reward not worth the risk of another round of baseless retribution. And if you met their eyes you might be taken aback at what you found there. A quiet strength, a hunger to persist that kicks a spur of self-doubt into your side and makes you question the validity of each “woe is me” cry in this, your insulated castle. You wonder how long you could hack it out there before your constitution snapped in two like a rice cracker.

You wonder if that’s the key to appreciating it all more or if you’ve lost touch.

You wonder if you’ve ever really been in touch at all.

Video Games Are Real

Massively Multiplayer Online Games are real life, and I’m not talking LARPing.

MMO’s all run roughly the same system: you level up, form a party, and go raid dungeons for the pursuit of “loot.” The game is essentially the structure, story plays a tertiary role at best and is largely there to cloak this system from derogatory claims of the game being a “grindfest.” Yet despite the repetition there are still millions who log in every day and giddily fork out cash for the “new” iteration. Why? Peel the cover back and you’ll find a mirror beneath, and a face staring back thats devoid of all the messy details of reality. In these fantasy worlds it just seems brighter, simpler, and easier to achieve importance and the idealized versions of ourselves. So since yesterday was April Fool’s it seems apt to mention that this is without a doubt the longest running hoax of all time.

Its one you’ve heard before, not a new refrain by any means but instead of getting tired of it like we might a song blaring endlessly on the radio we just keep coming back for more. Consumerism, the one true God of the Western world.

Here we’ve spun addiction into a virtue, glorified excess and thumbed our noses at frugality. Consumerism is like an alcoholic sorority girl at a Jell-o wrestling tournament. We roll in it, slather our bodies with it, hungrily lap it up until pushed to the point of exhaustion. Sometimes we wake up to the harsh light of day and look aghast at what we’ve done. Shame, horror, disgust. But just as soon we are back again, sliding into that pool and trying to pin the next slippery foe to the floor. All for that fleeting satisfaction of the prize, the next piece of stuff.

Just how your level 20 mage tries to nab that extra 5 gold so he can get that level 20 staff, the level 19 one just doesn’t have the same luster anymore. In my view, obsessing about stuff erodes culture and society in the ways that most matter, the effects of which sometimes aren’t obvious for decades. This isn’t a negotiation. You can’t just fold the old values of personal growth, family, and friendship in with the new and tag each with the same importance. Taking the red pill reformats human consciousness like a hard drive with ever shrinking partitions. There is no purple pill.

For those with enough good fortune to be raised by more “outside the box” parents you have an advantage out of the gate and life is more about emboldening your resistance to the pressures of conformity. Most others are born into this deceptive landscape, as their parents were before them. The phrase “money can’t buy happiness” is often bandied with haughty finger wagging yet how many actually live it? A declaration that is just as empty as how that sorority girl feels when personal reflection comes knocking. Breaking out of this pattern of sentient cows isn’t easy either, each new thing comes with the possibility of bumping up your social status, “Dang look at that guy’s car, wish I had that. Maybe if we hang out I’ll learn how I can get one too.”

Just like an MMO theres a reward structure built into it all that makes you want to complete just one more quest and follow the chain of actions until you get that new item, then the whole process restarts for something bigger and shinier that takes twice as long. Its a treadmill that we leash ourselves to without thinking. You can cut the cord but it takes time and resilience and you’ll have to brave the cluster of advertising fleas urging you to forgo bathing, you wouldn’t know who you are without them right? So just buy something and you’ll feel better. For a little while. The perfect citizen is the perfect consumer so knock off all the protests, requests for oversight, and complaints about being poisoned. Top men are handling it. Top men. But if you think the answer is waiting for a white knight to come galloping in to liberate us you’ll be waiting forever. No, the emancipator is within.

Here are some ways to break free of the treadmill:

  • Avoid locations soaked in advertising – These are places like the mall, Walmart, Target, Best Buy, etc. Try spending your time at someplace like a park or a trail instead and if you have to buy something choose a single store. These huge stores have poured in millions in researching consumer patterns and are organized in just the right way to make you see and pause as much as possible on your route to the thing you needed.
  • Avoid mainstream news/media – Advertising has long been the backbone of newspapers, and the media overall. It generates cash that keeps them going and many of the stations rely on “shock jock” tactics to keep you from changing the channel and keep those ad dollars flowing. Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, NBC all spin narratives to keep pre-ordained stories going even when there isn’t actual news.
  • Read more – Limit internet reading, read books, and avoid magazines. Exercise restraint on online reading and try to keep it to an hour or less a day, your attention span will thank you. Magazines and many blogs are also chock full of ads and structured with catchy short buzzwords that like news coverage, are designed to keep you from clicking or flipping away.
  • Awareness of urges – This taps into the Id part of psychology and impulse control. Personally I have a problem with peanut butter cups so I’ve started keeping a tally of each time I get the desire to eat one. Instead of letting urges control me from moment to moment I can see how frequent they come, and the overall size is unsettling. This gives me greater control and reflection.  Do the same thing with media consumption and entertainment urges and you’ll be shocked at what you notice.

Buried Shadows – Part Four

Turning out into the light I tried to walk with the same determined gait that Robertson had shown in the mail room but it wasn’t easy. I stuck to the right side of the river and again had to resist stopping and staring at all around me. The scale of everything was deflating to the ego and part of me understood why someone would be so willing to kill to preserve it. There were still masses of people in the streets, mostly buying goods at market stalls and meandering in and out of storefronts. It struck me then how strange it was just how old all their clothes looked, and that the women seemed to only be wearing dresses.

I noticed a group of men in dusty overalls carrying a long ladder up to the first passageway I had come from, perhaps installing the upgrades tuxedo man had mentioned. Immersed now among the populace, the intoxicating variety of scents was impossible to ignore and I breathed in deep the aroma of meats, spices, perfumes, smoke, animals, and sweat, all couched in the clean heavy smell of damp earth.

Walking past the enormous bank a voice behind me shouted “Hey, Mr. Robertson!” and I did my best to ignore them, praying they wouldn’t pursue me through the crowd. A woman with a notably vintage haircut smiled at me as I passed, then her eyebrows raised when she saw my clothes. I moved quickly down the street before either one had a chance to consider me further. Even though I could only glance at it as I walked past it was clear the museum was stunning. Huge ivory pillars buffeted its entrance, and perched up top I could just barely see the chiseled edges of the visages of hawks or some other kind of bird of prey. Groups of schoolchildren fidgeted in front of glass cases of various trinkets and weaponry.

The library was also festooned with people, and a slew of them had formed a circle outside. Smoke rose from the center and they were cheering about something but I couldn’t see what. Not far past the library another passageway veered off to the right and a sign was fastened into the wall that stated “Residential District” with an arrow pointing deeper in. Perhaps this held my answer. I shuffled in and as I was about to climb the first step a voice suddenly crackled over a speaker from behind me and ahead.

“Attention comrades, please report to the plaza immediately for a special announcement.”

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Gail

Each time he turned around, she was gone.

It was as if he were surrounded by her at all times, sometimes welcome, sometimes not. A faithful friend, running and playing with him throughout his long walks past the trees, he never felt alone. With childlike glee she would tug at his jacket, batting the ends this way and that.

His patience was great and as long as she didn’t cover his face with it, he rather enjoyed having his hair tousled and twirled by her. He felt embarrassed by this admittance and with self conscious indulgence parted his hair, smoothed it back, and gently patted and felt it to be sure it was in its regular and rightful place. There were times when she had not always been so friendly.

Last winter he had been carefully walking alongside the riverbank when she had suddenly come out of nowhere, and shoved him, hard, from behind.

If it weren’t for the overturned tree, the river would have seized him in its clutches and carried him off. Reasoning that she most likely assumed it to be just another game and hadn’t realized the very real and pressing danger that she had placed him in, he struggled to push the frightening memory to the back of his mind.

As he rounded the last bend before the cottage, a twinge of sadness quickly shot through his body. He did not know when his next opportunity for them to play together would come, and this deepened the grief.

Trudging up the steps, he glanced at the silver disk perched high above in the sky, its clean ripples of pure light washing over the spiny treetops and cascading down their boughs to the mossy forest floor below. As he pulled open the door and stepped inside he piqued his ears to the sound of her whistling to him from the trees, assuring him that all was how it should be.

Pleased, he sighed, smiled, and shut the door behind him.