Manifesto

I want to post this, because at the time, it clearly meant so much to me.  Looking back … it’s alright.  It’s not bad, but man, it was something.  This was the operating structure of The Filtered Press – or something like that.  Back when businesses had a “Mission Statement”, this was mine.  Just for a point of a reference, Google’s was “Don’t Be Evil”.  So, we are all beginning to see how that turned out.

All that being said, I still agree with most of most of mine, I think.  To be honest, I am not even re-reading it before copy-pasting it here again.  I think it’s important to share as is and hopefully (likely) I will regret it and revisit soon.

Manifesto:

The last of the strawberries have long vanished the vine. The air has gone from balmy to brisk and the slime between eyes and screens has turned crusty. Perhaps wireless waves short-circuited brainwaves. One cannot be sure when the upstairs fog set in, but there is now a haziness that hangs like vapid negligence in our communal electricity.

Technology, as many stick-in-the-mud-skeptics have predicted for years, (while I have hated them for saying it, favoring ingenuity in any form to industrial stagnancy), has replaced, or at least severely distracted, the formation and purpose of self-assured thought.

Commercial products whose basic components were originally formed through genuine curiosity, practical improvement and thirst for innovation have been perverted to seek complacency and comfort, and society is quickly adopting the side effects of this goal.

Green faces of presidents past are the fetter that binds our feet to the concrete and our hands to the assembly line, allowing us to stretch but never fly. Meanwhile politics are a cacophony of spectacle, strategically disguised in celebrity endorsement, back-room sex, and corporate ideology to keep the cycle in motion.

The quest for holistic understanding has left us perpetually unsatisfied. To enlighten fully, one must devoid all concepts of status and importance, giving equal value to every perception and thereby deflating the purpose of any purpose, resulting in the circular logic of hypocritical self doubt.

Confidence cannot be found when an opinion cannot be formed, and an opinion cannot be formed when an idea is relative only to itself. Upon realizing any solution is futile, a goldfish will no longer question his bowl, accepting his relativity to the scope of his glass walls. A goldfish will never feel significant. But in his blissful ignorance, he will cheerfully chase bubbles until he is flushed.

Long has the intellectual been shunned and forcefully but (knowingly) closeted, but today he is all but ridiculed, existing in pockets where bureaucratic red tape blocks light and closes the stratosphere to any far-reaching ambition.

Unrest sits like vomit in the throat. The war has begun and the casualties will necessarily be substantial. The unprepared will expire like gassed roaches, lying on broken backbones, eyes stuck open, eternally void and waiting in vain to be beamed back to the mothership.

Gas masks have been hidden in books for those who seek; the cannons of resistance loaded with purposeful introspection and repressed hope. Armor has been braided from the unassuming yarn of sincerity and love. The blood of our animal is the blood of our life, flowing through the only tool we ever needed. In orchards, apples, unattainable by machine, have become ripe for the picking, with skilled hands eager to turn them to cider.

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