The Golden e-Slippers of evermore

This post will start with a sentence that explains to me the state of the Union in its current recession and e-crop rotation future.

"History is the sound of silk slippers going down the stairs, accompanied by the thunder of hob-nailed boots going up the stairs."

We have enjoyed unparalleled freedom for over 200 years, and now rise into unparalleled e-freedom (something that if you have read my past three posts, will understand brings me into deep despair). Having thought on the larger scope of history with the rise and fall of Empires (I mean comon my avatar here is Nero) I have come to a new a much clearer understanding of the source of the e-despair I rant on and on about for posts and posts. We are the most powerful and wealthiest nation in the world but here comes the double kick in the junk. We are generally getting complacent (and have been for decades now) and are now letting the government run our lives, on top of that there is a new e-revolution that generates a false sense of community and empowerment. While the pillars of capitalism are crumbling, we are all being sold at record number e devices that do nothing but build e-walls and e-peace of mind. The silk slippers we have made for ourselves are having their thread count increased to number of the thousands. That is to say that these silk slippers are taking the e-revolution as their laces and becoming the slipperiest shoe in the entire world. Now it seems to me that this e-revolution has been going on for much longer than our life-time (and even the existence of The Senate ;p) but this means that these slippers I am describing with iPod and SmartPhone laces aren't really even shoes anymore. They have become snow skis. I use the word snow to drive home the picture of the existential winter we all live in. I feel the snowflakes fall on my body as I cry out into the infinite depths of the space vacuum of the intarwebs. It seems I am chained at the stake with the intarwebs, in Roman love, as we have become one and die as one. Remember brave Senators, remember the love, and remember the glory of Rome. Oh and remember our blog runs on google servers and will be the last pillar to fall, so I hope to read of Senatoral encounters and battles on the last bastion of this God loved nation. Cheers!

Meta-Despair

We (most middle to upper-class Americans - which just so happens to be the largest demographic of internet users globally 76.2 % of the population) are all meat puppets. We live the lives of Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson. The only difference between the "celebrities" and us is that we don't take in the gaze of the millions through the unblinking lens of the, what has now become Hal-esqe, video-camera lens. We live out Technicolor movies, in which the cupboards have food, the TV has new Seasons and the local theater has new movies, or better yet, the mail delivers new NetFlix within two days. The best illustration of the fact that we all live movies are the plethora of albums on facebook, flikr and photobucket, as everyone shares their travels to all sorts of different places to share with "the folks back home." I can't help but obsess over the expensive sandals and outfits these tourists wear into poverty stricken nations. Now this is a very pessimistic view, but I think that these albums are slide show movies of the Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson lives we lead as we slide toward an inevitable death, except free from the gaze of the millions and instead armed with a Canon camera to capture in hi-def images of our "interesting" lives.

Most of us gaze into our pixel monitors with great comfort and joy as we are hypnotized by the illusion of empowerment and community (see Facebook and Twitter). But the truth is that we all live inauthentic lives void of despair which should be chocking us to death. I enjoy Post-Moderner's view of the modern world being built on the safety of objects and personal possessions and therefore the authentic life is unobtainable, but it seems too "Hollywood" for me (which was the point of my counter post on the true solitary existentialist). I am sincerely afraid that this post might come down to the fact that I cannot take the death of the existential death. Our neo-culture of tabloid doctored actors making "film" after "film" hummz and buzzes with what seems some sort of pseudo-meta-stability. If Hollywood's still running and making new movies for my iPhone, then all is going "according to plan." However, to take a step back and recognize this neo-culture and it impact on a global scale is very terrifying. In the past 5 years we have made extreme jumps in image quality for home entrainment going from HD to even more sophisticated classes to 720p to 1080i and now into the realms of 3D entrainment. And, very importantly, internet piracy of these higher mediums keeps up with the amphetic speed the industry brings, missing nothing and often getting releases on the "intarwebs" before store shelves because of the reliance of offshore manufacturing of the media.

Now I have thought long and hard about this neo-culture's impact on the world at large and it makes my brain kind of implode and it instantly makes me reach for an iPod to fill the void of silence of despair in my head. The image that brings it home hard for me is the roughly 100 page book size boxes that these magical HD hypnotizing item's come in. Boxes with perfect actor profiles, balanced face overlays and varying strength of font, depending on the title of the movie, and all with an impeccable color scheme.

Now comes the theory of madness: These thin book box cases serve as little shelf e-mirror items that stimulate (or should I say over stimulate) the American populous. As I walk into BestBuy or Wal-Mart or any big box store, I am in awe of the maze of little box mirrors we have made for ourselves. We walk in, and very doubtfully, have any idea what direction to head first, and trod on past various sections of consumer items we might need. But the true coup-de-grace is the HD movie section. Hermetically sealed boxes, glossy new with syran wrap, (even sometimes protected by the stores glass security casing) that go on for rows and rows. One could gaze into the covers of these items for hours, and often shoppers do. But ok ok, that is fine for the bovine populous of the United States, but what's happening all around the world as these precious jewel boxes get released on the intarwebs with (and I am not joking) 6 different dialects of Chinese subtitles and every other language imaginable. You see, with a home entrainment system you need all sorts of hardware and wires hooked up to your television to view these HD gems, but off the intarwebs, no such upgrade is needed, maybe a software codec, but with the advancement in open source video players such as VLC, even that has become a way of the past.

While the United States humms on its off shore oil, Wall-Street Stock market, and Hollywood releases, an unnoticed flood of this neo-culture we all live in day to day is being feed to the rest of the world either for free, or very little. To quote a passage from the essay Constant Conflict (now over ten years old), "Hollywood goes where Harvard never penetrated, and the foreigner, unable to touch the reality of America, is touched by America’s irresponsible fantasies of itself; he sees a devilishly enchanting, bluntly sexual, terrifying world from which he is excluded, a world of wealth he can judge only in terms of his own poverty." In the slums of Cambodia, gangsters are watching "illegal" copies of "Public Enemies" (with subtitles) on their television or computer screens. Similarly, while Chinese businessmen are doing billion dollar deals with totally fucking corrupt American Corporations, they are watching episodes of "Baywatch." This flood of American culture around the world is hollow and toxic and unstoppable.

Now this perspective, or rant, can and maybe should be seen as a existential crisis. However, I feel it penetrates deeper than any existential philosopher I have studied could have ever dreamed. It is, for me, bone deep, and late at night for some reason, crippling. I go about my e-crop rotation daily, checking WikiNews, e-mail, Facebook newsfeed, message-boards, twitter and even a blog made with some college friends. But that is only one sliver. I might be gazing passively into an AMC full theatrical length premier of Pearl Harbor (which just so happens to be one of my favorite illustrations of the devilishly enchanting Hollywood mirror) or watching an HBO showing of an Adam Sandler movie. And this doesn't even include the number of ON-DEMAND HD spiraling gaze programs at my finger tips, or pocket devices to busy my finger-tips. After this gets old (either surfing the web or looking into the HD box or pocket device) I might move on to my middle-class gaming console system for e-crop rotation comfort, that is if I have the latest release, or some old "classic" I don't seem to get tired of playing. Maybe I throw on some MP3's I downloaded as I read a book (or e-book) or maybe just put on the old faithful friend the iPod and fade away in a familiar songscape. Better yet I can look up trailers for upcoming movies (LoLz) like the new Harry Potter or some HuLu viewing to catch up on missed episodes of last Season's TrueBlood.

Either way, though I see this e-crop rotation and its usefulness (or do i mean effectiveness) I can only deal with it up to a point, my mind interjects in despair. I can't help but recognize that these actions are what it takes to comply with the images in magazines and the social structure we accommodate. But what really gets me into a meta-despair is that these "things" are not everything, they hide, with great genius, what is really going on behind these e-walls of pretense and false e-peace of mind. It seems to me that the e-barriers between us are forever maintained by our acceptance of the roles other people choose to define. It is a true paradox of existential freedom. I freely choose to embrace this fantastic technological e-freedom, yet when faced with the realities of what it so skillfully hides(the demonic transmission of neo-American culture), I reject this freedom and choose to be in despair: wallowing in a sense of being alone and isolated in the world under a new e-plague. What is most frustrating about this despair, is it's nature to be in bouts, or spells. Late at night with time alone to think with eyes on a TV or PC screen. However, morning come and I can go on a walk in my suburb and wave with genuine joy at passer-bys and even happily wield my bag of dog crap, illustrating my responsible dog ownership. Only in fits of fury with the keyboard and sweet sounds of silence can my despair be brought to words for communication. Maybe, I am revisiting some fucked idea, and post-moderner is right to say that the existential death is dead, and my personal possessions make a cycle of living where thoughts of despair are replaced by upkeep up my suburban sanctuary, but there seems to be (at least for me) more at play.

The True Solitary Existentialist

Existentialism - the fight for a passionate and authentic life in spite of boredom, despair, angst and alienation. And now, in our age - in spite of the technological e-crop rotation that hypnotizes us all. No baggage. When did this journey into my own meaning start? And did I live in such a way that was passionate and sincere; or dare I say authentic? I am not entirely sure... I know when I look at the back of my hands I must be about 40 years old, for the wear and tear on them serve as indicators of marked time. No watch on my writs or in my pocket and certainly no iPhone to keep me "up to date." I prefer to live in time out of mind. Some might call this madness but I find it the most edifying, and as evidence of my edification I will recount my adventures.

Now then, where did all this start. I suppose it started in Mexico, when I had a house where I raised a boy alone, named Adam. No No No. That is all wrong, time out of mind can do this, my boy's name was Jim. Young Jim was seven when he died. I did what had to be done, and I burned the house to the ground. I covered Jim's room in gasoline a light it with a kitchen safe match from a cupboard over the sink. I went outside to urinate and by the time I finished, the whole hose was in blazes and I watched it burn to the ground. No more baggage, I thought, and moved with my small possessions of a Led Zepplin T shirt, Linkin Park hoodie, and Levies jeans with the one key I needed, the one to my car. One might say that this is when the madness started, but I don't really see it that way at all; it's hard to describe exactly how I see it. Now watching my house burn, I couldn't help but contemplate the notion that while it burned it was uninhabitable yet, was in a manner of speaking still a house. I guess I did not notice the house, so much as the remains of the house.
Here I should compose a list of where else I have been if only for my own edification.

In my car with one key and a small number of clothes I traveled from city to city getting library books past the security bars by tossing them up in the air as I walked out the door. I found that reading was spiritually up building, but brought way too much baggage with it. As for living situation I lived inside museums and burned the artwork within as warmth. Living in museums, traveling by car to various historical places of known artists and philosophers, Polluck John Dewey and Diane Arbus. Staying warm by burning the art in which they created. Limiting baggage to the bare minimum. Reading stolen plays like Sophocles "The Clouds" aloud and after reading a page tearing it out and burning it in a fire. Turing ancient drama into smoke while it rises to the highest reaches of the earthly sky. From Mexico, I traveled across the U.S. stopping at various museums to burn works of art and stay warm. I headed towards Alaska, where I would begin to travel across Russia by baring land bridge. Passing through areas like Russia and referencing Dostoevsky, though not speaking or reading a word of Russian. Trapped in an anglo-saxon sliver of existence. Provided much angst and anxiety, but relieved by the traveling by sunlight, as all the road signs were irrelevant, only needing the rising and setting sun to guide the car through Russia onward.

My travel with one key and books that would be destroyed on consumption lead me to a great number of places. Visiting the graves of Achilles and thinking of Helen of troy, living without baggage, basking in the sun on the Uffitzi. Walking through the home of Shakespeare, where his family spent most of their time as he was off writing plays to support their living. Burning logs in fireplaces, like artwork, much like the family of Shakespeare, waiting for the return of the care giver and creator of genius plays, none of which can be truly appreciated without performance or at least recitation. Text as baggage. Upon my travels reading books upon books about the same war, but inventing one's own stories in the imagination of the depths of the minds recesses, fanciful new version for private improvisations. While involving one's self in the fantasies, unable to forget the image of Hannibal crossing the alps, as a dark looming storm of loneliness and inevitable death kept toward oneself while venturing onward to the glory of dedicated travel. Yet none of this troubles me so much, more focused on the visiting of these famous birth places of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and even Old Kant. However, I must admit, that as I read their texts, especially Beyond Good and Evil, every new page read would be immediately thrown out, ripped right off the spine of the book. Death to all baggage, experience is the true knowledge well. A posterior's supremacy over the a priori.

This brings me to the beginning and to the end of my story, where before I left my burning house behind when standing in the street I was almost run over by a car with no driver at the wheel, as it rolled down the hill. Now don't worry there was an obvious explanation for this, as it was the hill I stood at the bottom of, waiting for impact but dodging at the last minute to go on my adventures.

The Free Lance Existentialist

It was December 31, 2084. Alex and his friends had gathered in their usual New Year's spot--Alex's East Hampton beach house. Although the earlier part of the century's insatiable thirst for commercialism had sprouted up shopping malls, Apple stores, and Outback Steakhouses in much of the Hamptons--severely reducing its classic, elite charm--there were still those spots a bit further north towards Montawk where the rich could play separately, and enjoy their mansions on the beach. Such were the pleasures of Alex, Michael and their friends.

Alex and Michael were free lance philosophers. This was a profession that started early on in the 2000s. Initially it was not much more then a gag, or a ploy. People would employ these philosophers the way they would employ psychiatrists and therapists. Clients all had their own unique issues, and for whatever reason, they retained something from the Greek Philosophy 101 class they took freshmen year at their liberal arts university. It wasn't something profound, something that they could use on their own merit to apply to their life's problems, more something that seemed to say to them: "Hey, maybe that Pluto guy had an answer for this. I remember him being pretty 'on the money.'"

So that "something" that these people lacked, was provided by the free lance philosopher. The client would enter their mahogany decorated offices and see volumes upon volumes of ancient texts. They would then describe their problem, and the free lance philosopher would go to his bookshelf and find just the right text for his client's discrepancy. They would read select passages from it, and then explain it, in lay-man's terms of course, so that the client could understand it profundity. They would thus leave the office with their own sense of profundity. Perhaps, if the free lancer was very good, they would exit with a temporary sense of enlightenment as well. Now of course the descriptions of these texts were always swayed this way and that so that there would be some "real life" applications, not merely hypothetical ones. That is after all what the client wanted.

Since the many problems of the world and its population are varied, each free lance philosopher specified in an area of philosophy. If you were having a moral dilemma you would consult the free lance Ethicist. If you lost your faith in God, you would go to see the free lance Meta-physicist. Poets and artists who lost their creative inspiration would see people like Alex's friend Michael, the free lance Aesthete. People who had felt like they lost their identity, had been leading a false life, or felt overcome by immense despair would see Alex, the free lance Existentialist.

Somewhere around the mid 50's, it seemed not just most people but nearly the world over had, what existentialists refer to as a crisis of self. Anything really could have been the cause. The world had been growing steadily smaller since the end of the 20th century. Lines were blurring, the analog life was replaced by the digital. Families spent quality time over video chats and books were read on pockets sized touch pads. Maybe this mind of the Earth finally separated itself wholly from its body and became lost in the cosmos. Whatever the reason, the demand for free lance philosophers sky rocketed. And admits this great increase in want of substance, knowledge, and understanding, the free lance Existentialists rose straight to the top. Their advice was sought after by celebrities, athletes, and world leaders.

Alex loved his job. Yes, he had grown up loving Camus and Sartre and the like, but what he really loved was the high, and sense of entitlement he got by starting of sentences to our president which phrases like "Now if you are to full realize your will to power, nay, this country's natural will to power...", or, "You see Mr. President, the truth the edifies..." Alex loved his job. And he was quite good at it. He was the most request free lance Existentialist in country, working on the world.

So this New Years their was much to celebrate. Philosophy had, after centuries of what felt like harsh neglect, fought back to the top of the world. Alex was at the top of the top. He had an upper east side penthouse, and beautiful wife, beautiful children, and his perfectly decorated (right down to the kitchen curtains) beach house in East Hampton. He, his friend Michael the Aesthete, and the Ethicists, Empiricists, Rationalists, and Meta-physicists were joyously celebrating as the evening got later and the clock faster approached midnight.

Considering himself a cultured man, Alex liked to partake in the Spanish tradition of eating grapes at New Years. One for each gong of the clock. He had visited Spain and a teenager and this had always stuck with him. So this year, like every other year, a large bowl of grapes was brought out around 11:50pm in anticipation of the ceremony. Ten minutes later the first gong came and Alex and his friends started inhaling the grapes. One gong after another proceeded, each time the next closer to the last, moving faster and faster. Intent on eating a grape per gong, and not missing but one, Alex stuffed grape after grape into his mouth.

The final gong came and everyone joyously shouted "Happy New Year!" The music came on and everyone hugged and kissed each other. Alex, collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat. His faced turned a purple similar to the color of the grapes he had just been inhaling. Amidst their jubilation, and caught up in their own intellects, his philosopher companions failed to notice his gasps at breath. Just before losing the consciousness he so highly valued, Alex had what he believed was a quintessential existential moment. Time stood still. His mind became clear, and he thought of his wife and children and the immense love he had for them. Then he looked around at Michael and his friends and thought of the companionship and joy they had brought him throughout life. He then looked around at his East Hampton house. His foyer, his living room. He thought of the six marble bathrooms. He looked over his shoulder at the curtains hanging above the kitchen sink. With that image in his mind, Alex smiled a big, happy smile, and laid his head down.

Philosophy and the iPod

The iPod is part of the family of the modern man. We instantly recognize it where ever we are. But what exactly do we recognize- shape, color, coolness factor. There's a huge difference between the iPod wheel to the iTouch screen. Also, why do we come so accustomed to the damn things. We all belong to the family of Steve's greatest gift. The iPod is a rapidly changing beast - amphetic change almost bi-annually. Comparing the original block with a wheel that collects grime to what we have now - touch sensitive screen - with which we can wear globes to keep the screen spotless and smudge free.


We are still recognizing the ipod- no matter how drastic the change. A guaranteed quality and style that always changes yet remains the same thing that makes us in the family of the ipod-ness hovering over the world. How do you define an iPod? By screen, by wheel, or maybe by white ear phones.
The creation of a definiton seems impossible. Rather than hunt for the perfect definition, we must find what family it belongs to. We need to look for connections and over laps not some eternal defining thing, as the iPod changes every other week. A shuffle has click wheel, a iTouch has a screen, the classic has both, and the new Nano is a new smaller sleek version of the classic. The classic, I think, is the fundamental essential form, from which all other forms of the iPod evovle into different paths. What is the iPodness that makes the iPod. One standing in an Apple store will find that they are inexplicably drawn to the hardware, the surface, the interface and texture. It's kind of like the friend you made in college you can instantly sync with, such is our relationship with the ipod.

Now we can flow through covers as if the records are weightless, LPs sliding like water under your fingertips. But this is an impossibility--- yet cover-flow feels soo right. Might it be related to the way in which humans relate to the world? I do not know. The floating seas of LP's (something of which only people of holy Steve's generation can remember) shows me the future of music familiarity, an effortless slide of the finger tip over hundreds of cover art stopping where ever you like, or where ever the highest star ratting (made by you the user) is.

Within this iPod, familiarity is effortless. You can make you ipod familiar with your PC and seamlessly syn the device. Someone might be able to imagine a future when all our devices become"familiar" with each other - even make the entire world familiar to each other. As long as you have you eye pod you have a familiar song scape on which to rely on. Wherever you are the iPod can make an environment familiar. Put on the white buds and stick to you predefined play-lists. Ready made familiarity makes the world more distant yet ourselves more comfortable. We all turn up our foreign song-scapes and forget the environments around us. And this behavior is everywher ; the iPod is used by American farmers as well as Russian middle managers - sold in airports and even vending machines. Join the family of the ipod, making you familiar to the iPod and the system behind it. Rating songs and genius play lists even makes the iPod more familiar with you the user. scary... Agency in the machine. Can you trust the shuffle button? Should you trust the shuffle button? Enter into the iPods sentient world. The iPod is hard wired to become friendly with you. Connecting you to the Apple store, to "top songs," or "listeners also bought." The more you use the iPod the more you become familiar to the iPod, but really maybe the iPod is becoming more familiar to you. =))

The world always looks brighter from behind a smile.

While the WASPs might be experiencing a triumphant decline, as with anything that rises and falls. However, there are some things that never change. Certain things that, not matter what happens, will always have value in the human eye. Like the human smile. It can be said with a level of truth that spans eons that there is no substitute for a healthy smile.

Failed Facebook Groups

Dude, my group was just about to become an internet phenomenon and now the socialist Supreme Court is trying to rain on my parade.