Sonata in D minor

Oh hello, you decided to stop by. I hope you are not expecting news because that's not what I'm serving today. You know where to get that if that's what you came for. I was out looking this morning, too. And I was disgusted. Maybe "sad" is a better word for it. How many other people were doing the same thing at the same time and "caught themselves" as they were, are, sitting upright, hands placed just so in the two-handed palms-on-plastic piano sonata in D minor? Ever seen what your face look like when you are not the one looking at it? Intense, furrowed brows, racing thoughts, one meshing into another faster than breaking the sound barrier, how much sticks? We make comments which serves as a glue ensuring our return to that one, or the other, all the while a thought balloon hovers, intentionally neglected, it says you should be doing something a little more physical, more serious, more real, in 3-D. Its like a rainstorm lingering on the horizon, you'd better bring in that laundry before the lightening and thunder starts.

I am definitely serious about this. Here we are in a fog of nonsense guaranteeing we will remain fogged. I have ALWAYS known this and yet, like you, I participate in my own ruin. This week has been especially poignant in that what I am saying today, once the thought was acknowledged, there's almost no place one visits on the box where the sadness of the Internet habitue does not show itself. All the while calling for, screeching for, demanding change and wondering why so much sheer tomfoolery proliferates.

Now we know what's going on, don't we. We read Escape from the Zombie Food Court, didn't we? And here we are, still at the counter, placing our order, looking for the cashier and a table to place our bums long enough to choff at the toxic trough. "My parsley windowbox is looking good." I plowed 40 acres before going online at dawn." My woodpile is really big and I even took the photo to show you online." My, my.

Is it any wonder all hell is breaking loose? The babysitter has us looking everywhere for our toys while outside another new law is passed practically every minute. That's right, we're under an Occupation and are too busy having the last word to see it. Inside this Occupation, we're drugged into false beliefs and inactivity aware something sinister comes this way, but not exactly certain we are on the list.

Let me lay it on you, we are. It is no accident the no-fly list has so many names, it is no accident you have too many bills to pay and no money to even prioritize them. Its no accident that drugs kill, as you know by now. There are no accidents. It is no accident you suddenly see yourself as a mere shadow of a former human being having chained yourself in front of a screen.

This is all to the good for the forces of evil. Oh, they LOVE what has happened. The evil has enlarged itself in perfect parallel to our enlarging Internet habits. Evil claims near totality and we ripple down the keys typing our anguish. "No, not Iran!" Type, type, type, backspace, enter, indent ... "No, not Jacko!" Type, type, it was painkillers again, type, type, Anna Nicole, Elvis, type, type, where's the digital, where's the email, where's the login, the password, the blog about ...

There was never a more evil device invented. The net, yes it really was once something, is in the way of the change we are looking for. And, by the way, if you have to look for it, you-will-never-find-it.

Just like I have to quit smoking, I have to quit this box. One is feeding the other, puff, puff, type, type. Days pass, weeks mush together, years, and the storm outside worsens, the laundry never taken inside, thunder and lightening shatter the panes, rain pours in through the shingles, the dawn never breaks, the houses slide down the mountains, the insurance companies deny you and charge a fee for denial, and there we are, Occupado. "I feel very strongly that our nation blah, blah, blah, the world leaders are meeting to blah, blah, blah, ObyWan, in a rare criticism of blah, blah, blah, Rihanna will testify blah, blah, blah, genocide, blah, blah, blah, weapons that burn the skin, blah, blah, blah, in various stress positions hung by the arms behind his back blah, blah, blah."

Hey, let's get real here.
We are doing nothing. At what point did your free time become all the time? This is reminding me of scrimping on the necessities to afford the luxuries. When did doing something to improve your lot and the lots of everyone else become scrimped between commenting and seeing your comment? Between that one site you gotta see today and the one you are reading right now? How has this addressed something helpful, something physical in the real world?

It is a sad story growing sadder, everywhere I look. How lonely, bored and gullible are we? How failed, how clueless, how ineffectual and hopeless do we have to become before you realize what has happened? Below I quote a few lines from a recent email:

"...Everything done online is monitored, and I mean everything. This is not the place to actually "get anything done". This should be incredibly obvious, but as we know, it isn't. The Internet is incredibly dangerous, while actually being near-useless as a change mechanism. Isn't that funny? What a perfect setup.
If we're ever going to make real connections to real people, and where it really counts, it won't happen here. All the promises of the Internet are false. If they were true, "it would have happened already".

It-would-have-happened-already. A-perfect-setup. More truthful words were never spoken. I am in total agreement and always have been. As I said in my last essay, I have some experience how these thing happen and how we must navigate our own way home. You are free to type something in response articulating so many reasons how the community of your Internet has improved your life, how much you've learned, how its a living web of protest and the only true change we've ever been allowed blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, the circus of blood and parking meters rages on unimpeded, growing ever larger, thundering, whirling into cyclones destroying every land mass, body of water, living species blah, blah, blah. We are Dorothys and Totos, the tin men and women, the munchkins, amazed at the poppy fields and wicked witch, breaking into song on the Yellow Brick Road. Oh yes, we know, we know a lot, but we just can't seem to get home. Ask yourself why that is.