Post by Deleted on Jun 24, 2016 15:52:01 GMT -5
[Cut to a wide shot of a country plot fenced in with barbed wire. Fruit trees grow in the far corner with seasonal crops sprouting tomatoes, corn and other root vegetables. A hand tilts the viewfinder towards a patch of dirt with a half-buried brick.]
“From the dawn of the civil beast, we facilitated change. Reapers went out into the field. They harvested only what the people needed. If nature stood in their way, they mowed through whatever blocked their path. Surplus wheat went into storage. Our arms and backs swelled, as joints tore from their sockets. Our ancestors, distraught by these trials, invented machines to lighten their weekly burden. Machines made this process simpler until only few remained to do the work of whole communities. This bred out a laborer’s spirit and created this thinking culture—for those unbound by tractors or tills. Fields came into ownership with the best workers reigning as foremen. Supervisors channel ideas from the owner down. We call this the superstructure. It strives to complete and continue itself. Once inserted into the workforce, you stay there until retirement. Owners might grant ascension, but that’s a rarity. We walk into the valley and pick their fruit. In case you though these were your vegetables—you’re mistaken. I hear America singing; sadly, those lyrics shifted from hammers and foundries into cursing gamers and Facebooking. These distractions keep them happy and the thinkers silenced. Those people return home, bereft of thought or argument of the abhorrent situation they live in. You fall into the same place, Mr. Browne. Another freethinker compressed into packaging.
You want to make this a fight of origins—even though I already explained how linear that is. Home is our birthright. What we make of it builds character, a sense of Providence or salvation. The future from our windowsill. However, what you see derives from the superstructure. Liquidated dreams go onto the shelves by the millions. You can buy them in packs of six, twelve, or a case of thirty. When the price goes too high, we mope in our homes over what we’ll afford. It toughens you up. Isn’t it funny how that idea birthed so many fighters over generations? In lieu of becoming a freelance, your fists earn you a job, Trevor. From there you’ll meet a supervisor who exists in the chain of ownership. They leer over hardworking peons; maybe, they’ll select one for a prime bonus. You take that bonus and buy from the same store. Why not—it’ll go farther with your exclusive discount. Repeat that in an endless loop until your body joins the soil.
I warned you about the dangers of that ever-present wall. From what I hear, you think the harshness of one’s home builds the tougher man. It seems my lessons should be more explicit. In this moment of lucidity, I see our futures in startling progress. I demolished the wall, yet you persists about being one with the streets. How the rubble actual contains a home. Staking a claim on refuse makes you an owner of the landfill. Calling the landfill home is not heroic—it’s downright depressing. I promulgated an uncompromising respect for the importance of creation. Trevor, why did you regress? You went the wrong way, child, deeper into the cesspool you call a home. Don’t forget from whence you came—what a troubled legacy. An heirloom of grief repackaged in your mother’s casserole. If you feed off the superstructure then you’ll die on their terms. What remained of the broken wall was not a home—that was a stark example of what this world looks like in freedom. Developing refuse is a ridiculous notion. Don’t you want a life without the rules of engagement? Are you so blind that you can’t see handler’s hands dropping pellets into your tank? When will you wake up from the dreams they’ve inseminated into you?”
[Cut to a shed door with long padlock. Hands open it with a key. The screen wobbles down a staircase into a wide room lit from orange glows. On the left appears the working furnace of a forage. Hollowed rods line the wall, tools indicative of glassblowing. Viewers turn right to a diorama of Victorian England. Painted figurines frolic in this urban pastoral, all dressed in micro clothing. The viewfinder steadies when Parish comes into view over the miniature city.]
“We talk of England, America and the power to overcome the obstacles of poverty. Like many before and after, Trevor, you’ve latched onto stories. Do recognize this scene? It’s from Dickens, a chance encounter with one Ebenezer Scrooge. You went through primaries—it’s probably a kneejerk reaction. Like all children, you’ll cycle through those Victorian dramas. Tragic tales of people who suffer or lose until the book’s final point. While death or success may loom for the afflicted, those stories never end well. We tell them to children so that can learn the value of happiness. Well, those children neglect to reread such tales into an enlightened age. What they’d discover is how our sense of fortune comes in a plotline. We can rhapsodize of bohemian roots. Perpetuate the stereotypes of success from hardship. Discovering happiness like these little people, Trevor, it takes more than toughness or guts.”
[He picks up a character dressed in a winter frock, showing it close to the lens.]
“Bob Crachit… you poor, poor soul. Determined to work his hardest. Kept his gargoyle of a boss happy—and yet he still had unfulfilled needs. Little Bob made his home despite lacking funds. Their quaint, rather remarkable yuletide sets the scene for change. What happens to Mr. Crachit is the miracle of a rich man’s kindness. We latch onto these stories because they offer a suture for our wounds. It says that we may one day be saved. That Providence shall appear.
Trevor, like it or not, you see Providence in winning. It flashes gold in your beady, smog-filled eyes. You dismiss the fans—as do I—since they aren’t part of the equation. Good call, except they facilitate the lie you’re consuming. A chance at the television title is your golden ticket. Oh I’ve seen through these toughest exteriors, little Charlie. Your game of being the renegade prances around the facts: Your fight has no agency. Lerch dangled dreams of a title over your head. Ring ring, little dog, your meal is ready. Salivate you starving beast.”
***
[Cut to a video via Periscope. Parish reveals himself in a generic WCF hoodie with hood concealing his face. A crowd nearly overpowers is voice. He yells into the phone.]
"Lovely day out here amongst the mob. They crave the word of one deemed their savior. And I'm inclined to agree. Find me if you want. I am prepared to serve in lieu of the Plague's sickness. Do you hear their thunder? It's rather impressive."
“From the dawn of the civil beast, we facilitated change. Reapers went out into the field. They harvested only what the people needed. If nature stood in their way, they mowed through whatever blocked their path. Surplus wheat went into storage. Our arms and backs swelled, as joints tore from their sockets. Our ancestors, distraught by these trials, invented machines to lighten their weekly burden. Machines made this process simpler until only few remained to do the work of whole communities. This bred out a laborer’s spirit and created this thinking culture—for those unbound by tractors or tills. Fields came into ownership with the best workers reigning as foremen. Supervisors channel ideas from the owner down. We call this the superstructure. It strives to complete and continue itself. Once inserted into the workforce, you stay there until retirement. Owners might grant ascension, but that’s a rarity. We walk into the valley and pick their fruit. In case you though these were your vegetables—you’re mistaken. I hear America singing; sadly, those lyrics shifted from hammers and foundries into cursing gamers and Facebooking. These distractions keep them happy and the thinkers silenced. Those people return home, bereft of thought or argument of the abhorrent situation they live in. You fall into the same place, Mr. Browne. Another freethinker compressed into packaging.
You want to make this a fight of origins—even though I already explained how linear that is. Home is our birthright. What we make of it builds character, a sense of Providence or salvation. The future from our windowsill. However, what you see derives from the superstructure. Liquidated dreams go onto the shelves by the millions. You can buy them in packs of six, twelve, or a case of thirty. When the price goes too high, we mope in our homes over what we’ll afford. It toughens you up. Isn’t it funny how that idea birthed so many fighters over generations? In lieu of becoming a freelance, your fists earn you a job, Trevor. From there you’ll meet a supervisor who exists in the chain of ownership. They leer over hardworking peons; maybe, they’ll select one for a prime bonus. You take that bonus and buy from the same store. Why not—it’ll go farther with your exclusive discount. Repeat that in an endless loop until your body joins the soil.
I warned you about the dangers of that ever-present wall. From what I hear, you think the harshness of one’s home builds the tougher man. It seems my lessons should be more explicit. In this moment of lucidity, I see our futures in startling progress. I demolished the wall, yet you persists about being one with the streets. How the rubble actual contains a home. Staking a claim on refuse makes you an owner of the landfill. Calling the landfill home is not heroic—it’s downright depressing. I promulgated an uncompromising respect for the importance of creation. Trevor, why did you regress? You went the wrong way, child, deeper into the cesspool you call a home. Don’t forget from whence you came—what a troubled legacy. An heirloom of grief repackaged in your mother’s casserole. If you feed off the superstructure then you’ll die on their terms. What remained of the broken wall was not a home—that was a stark example of what this world looks like in freedom. Developing refuse is a ridiculous notion. Don’t you want a life without the rules of engagement? Are you so blind that you can’t see handler’s hands dropping pellets into your tank? When will you wake up from the dreams they’ve inseminated into you?”
[Cut to a shed door with long padlock. Hands open it with a key. The screen wobbles down a staircase into a wide room lit from orange glows. On the left appears the working furnace of a forage. Hollowed rods line the wall, tools indicative of glassblowing. Viewers turn right to a diorama of Victorian England. Painted figurines frolic in this urban pastoral, all dressed in micro clothing. The viewfinder steadies when Parish comes into view over the miniature city.]
“We talk of England, America and the power to overcome the obstacles of poverty. Like many before and after, Trevor, you’ve latched onto stories. Do recognize this scene? It’s from Dickens, a chance encounter with one Ebenezer Scrooge. You went through primaries—it’s probably a kneejerk reaction. Like all children, you’ll cycle through those Victorian dramas. Tragic tales of people who suffer or lose until the book’s final point. While death or success may loom for the afflicted, those stories never end well. We tell them to children so that can learn the value of happiness. Well, those children neglect to reread such tales into an enlightened age. What they’d discover is how our sense of fortune comes in a plotline. We can rhapsodize of bohemian roots. Perpetuate the stereotypes of success from hardship. Discovering happiness like these little people, Trevor, it takes more than toughness or guts.”
[He picks up a character dressed in a winter frock, showing it close to the lens.]
“Bob Crachit… you poor, poor soul. Determined to work his hardest. Kept his gargoyle of a boss happy—and yet he still had unfulfilled needs. Little Bob made his home despite lacking funds. Their quaint, rather remarkable yuletide sets the scene for change. What happens to Mr. Crachit is the miracle of a rich man’s kindness. We latch onto these stories because they offer a suture for our wounds. It says that we may one day be saved. That Providence shall appear.
Trevor, like it or not, you see Providence in winning. It flashes gold in your beady, smog-filled eyes. You dismiss the fans—as do I—since they aren’t part of the equation. Good call, except they facilitate the lie you’re consuming. A chance at the television title is your golden ticket. Oh I’ve seen through these toughest exteriors, little Charlie. Your game of being the renegade prances around the facts: Your fight has no agency. Lerch dangled dreams of a title over your head. Ring ring, little dog, your meal is ready. Salivate you starving beast.”
***
[Cut to a video via Periscope. Parish reveals himself in a generic WCF hoodie with hood concealing his face. A crowd nearly overpowers is voice. He yells into the phone.]
"Lovely day out here amongst the mob. They crave the word of one deemed their savior. And I'm inclined to agree. Find me if you want. I am prepared to serve in lieu of the Plague's sickness. Do you hear their thunder? It's rather impressive."
