A Crack At Aunt Sally

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Don't blame me, I'm just the messenger . . .

"If you aren't EVERYWHERE . . . you're nowhere. And retrofitting everything in your wake is, for me, an absolute MUST!"


- Corona on relationship building.




Board the bus. Swipe my pass. Nobody else but me. Suits me fine. ESSENTIAL TRAVEL ONLY. I prefer a back seat ride. Every damn pane now has an A4-sized sticker (in glaring unstable-isotope-yellow). Public transport has become, for said lone passenger, a chrysalis entombment. It dawns on me: the steady accretion - the osmosis of it all. A U-boat on wheels, is a bus, a tin can coated in papier-mache . . . agiprop! Even my packet of Wrigley's Sugarfree Gum is telling me, half-wittingly, what to do: the white paper comes with instructions on how to unwrap and chew gum the Orwellian way.


Every bus shelter reminds us that: CONTACT SPREADS THE VIRUS. The underlined (contact) has now become more of an auto-suggestive graphic - working its broad spectrum. It seems Big Gov's semiotics are cashing in: targeting the niche of universal consensus. This demographic of targeted individuals are, of course, the ones who STAY HOME. They're the PC-ers of the world and, unashamedly, invite anxious self-examination. - And the Borg queen, God bless her, keeps the throng 'juiced-in' - interoperable with media-perpetuated narratives. She speaks: even their conscience . . . is . . . computable. Soon - much sooner than you think - there'll be the buzz of overhead drones delivering First-Class mail straight to the recipient's door. Klaus Schwab's 4IR is coming!


The real earthbound Covid lost its analogue bearings, to be honest, in a puff of anticlimax. That's because physical time degenerates anything attempting to manifest itself FRAUDULENTLY. All we're really left with is a strut-about, struggling to reclaim its former glory. To grasp this simple fact, low end beta wave intelligence would have to cut ties with the mother ship. Too late, I fear, for the banjaxed generation - enslaved by the newsfeed of incremental densities. And it's all about over-the-horizon condescension. Let me explain: the subject is under the impression things're improving. Soon the whole neighbourhood is following suit, and so on and so forth. Big Scam, sensing the wind of change, tugs on the reins, exercising prescience with impeccable timing. And I do mean, the very next day, with a new Frankenvirus making the headlines . . . sealed with a loving kiss! Indeed, 'societal dressage' is, after all, the epitome of obedience chomping the bit! It's a three-pronged attack: newspapers, TV, radio - all adding round-the-clock condescension. The cephalic index is, experts say, reflecting . . . anomalies concurrent with "ailing morale and low self-esteem." Hind-brains are, one doctor explains "adding to their own waistlines."


The New Normal has, however, created a dot com boom. There's never been such a high demand for white van drivers. Amazon loves STAY HOME-EEZE. And BUY BUY BUY is the going mantra. F'rinstance: holsters and bandoliers - for hand sanitizer gel - are the new must-have accessory . . . A face-clamped-race have embraced everything but their own independent cognition.


GAP Inc. has seized the moment with its trademark pastel-glad hipsters - with running caption across Hollywood billboards: MODESTY FOR ONE'S PHYSIOGNOMY. "We're committed to curbing the stigma," added a spokesperson for the apparel giant. "The face coverings our models wear have a SPEAK NO CONSPIRACY irony to them. The message is one of UNITY. Synergy. Curb your tongue. Stay humbled. SyncSpeakThink." And social commentator, Kosheen Patel writes ". . . burqa or eyes-only is a new-embracing psychosocial affirmation of self-restraint. Mouths are, in these very histrionic of times, too trigger-happy."


In the meantime, muscles once used for interpersonal connection - smiling - have atrophied. Very "troubling" claims one recent survey. Something worse than retrograde, it states, is revisting ". . . ethological stereotypes." A question of Big Generic at work, with devolution on its mind.


In fact, there's really nowhere you could declare unbranded space in terms of Covid fatigue. And this brings us full circle to the societal-shaping of national poster campaigns. And boy, aren't they hammering home such commercialized sentiment: these self-replicating reminders LOOKING DEEP INTO OUR EYES with affettuoso . . . kicking up a groundswell. PROTECT THE NHS. SAVE LIVES. You can see the Lettrism laying down a kind of printed circuit board. The power of the white typeface. Promulgation is king. Beneath it all, there's the whalesong of pasteurized souls. Of society being 'drawstringed' - and an automated voice placing the future tense on everything. That will be the ball-and-socket interdisciplinary manifestation, I dread, of the body politic.

Submitted: February 21, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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Craig Davison

If this is the new normal, what was the old normal? Yeah, I wrote Social Distancing at the Wedding a while back; Don't kiss the bride, Bump elbows....
No wonder love is dead.

Sun, February 21st, 2021 11:35pm

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