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Technician of the New World Order
By Mark Rockeymoore*
I am a technician of the new world order. My face is legion. I am
soul-lost. My heart beats with the cold, mechanical precision of a
computer chip. I am digitized. I see in stereo-vision and hear in
surround-sound. Currency is the lubrication for my joints and multi-media
driven information overload comprises the detritus of my mind. I have no
original thoughts. I am vapid and void of creativity. My life has no
redeeming social value or portentous, cosmic meaning. Rather, I am an
automaton. A scion of the future. A creature of the new millennium.
I dream of violet and azure seas, capped by frothy, pirouetting
waves. The mirrored reflection of midnight skies - awash with the
sparkling flames of the great, white, milky way - confound my vision,
splashed across the dark formlessness of the watery void. I dream of
sands, brilliantly white, and coconut-laden palm trees that rustle
gently in the salt-tinged breeze. My dreams mock my reality. My days are
spent in endless repetition. The fruit of my labor is redundant. My
skills and expertise are negotiable. Daily, I recreate myself as a
simulacrum of myself. My true state of being is unknown. Illusion is my
reality and reality my dream.
There exist in this world others like me. Our work is endlessly
opposed to that of the archetypal Other, the eternal. The dark, muddy
formlessness of primal creation drives our hatred, our lust, our fear. We
are charged with the implementation of the future by the extrapolation of
the present and the obfuscation of the past. Now is my only reality.
We toil within small, gray cubicles; teh maze-like cells of a vast,
tetragonal matrix. Each engaged in the same task, each working towards the
same goal.
Our goal is the total annihilation of independent thought and
action. Our way is the way of the future. The way of linear,
time-driven progression. Only through technology shall my personality be
saved. Only through technology shall I reach the utopia of my own
creation. Only through technology shall I behold the face of my God.
Blackness is everywhere that I look. Engulfing me, overwhelming
me. Oozing with psychic potentiality, within and without. The ebony
shades of darkness - drifting, haunting - of sleep. Of dreamless slumber
that threatens to consume the whiteness of my consciousness, of
illumination. Only by courting sleeplessness shall I persevere. Only by
denying my essential being shall I achieve true knowledge of self. Only
by denying my past will I know my future. Only by embracing the material
shall I approximate the spiritual. Only by becoming the white will I
sublimate the black.
I am a technician of the new world order. My fear approximates
totality. Clammy sweat nourishes my body and the viscera-encrusted talons
of gibbonous madness tear at the essence of my being. I am afraid of
the creature I believe myself to be. I am afraid of the creature my
dreams tell me that I am. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell
me that I can be.
Within my mind lurk phantasmagoric vistas of panoramic delight,
wonders to engage the senses and engorge the carnal appetite. The
pleasures of the flesh beckon me. Tender tragedy. Painful ecstasy
proffered with heartless abandon. Tempting, physical delights exemplified
by the myriad full, creamy thighs and deep, moist caverns of lust filled
by colonnades of primal passion. Open pores, sweat blinded movement
pinioned by sighs and the sound of wet flesh slapping, sliding, fingers
groping, grasping, caressing, holding.
My need is all that is real. Infinite eyes, receding into
whiteness, lust-filled, heavy-lidded, somnolent and hypnotic. They bat
provocatively, possessing feather-like lashes stolen from the carcass of a
maggot-eaten bird of paradise that tickle me shamelessly. I suckle
upon the earth's nipple, vast and bloated grotesquely with the blood of
the unborn, the milk of malignant narcissistic existence. The flesh is
everlasting, saturated with satiation and perverted compulsiveness.
Nothing outside of myself is real. All else is illusion. Only my need is
undeniable.
The world we create by our very existence reinforces the unreality
of true being. The paradox is inescapable. For if my life has no
meaning, then the meaning of all life is in question. The cell within
which my reality is bounded is representative of the collective grid
within which we, the technicians of the new world order, lie fallow,
awaiting the fertilization of a spiritual seed. The futility of
independent or creative thought follows naturally from this original
conception.
My life is without intrinsic purpose or ultimate goal. Therefore,
identifying exterior purpose has become my goal. With that realization,
my purpose is clear. To obscure the purposefulness of life from those who
would seek and embrace it. To reinforce the reality of my perceived
surroundings in empathetic resonation with the beat of my own soul-lost
heart.
I am a technician of the new world order. My mask is that of a
clone. My soul is unknown. My heart beats to the vibration of the
world's soul, for it knows no beat of its own. I see the world through
dark and accusing eyes because my own are colorless as bone. The dreams
and aspirations of the Other are the lubrication for my joints and their
lives, the stimulation of my mind. I have no being other than that
created to nourish my inner purposelessness. Rather, the light of my
whiteness is sustained by blackness. I am a technician of the new
world order.
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Mark Rockeymoore
Copyright 1999
*(Mark Rockeymoore is a geographer and sci-fi novelist.
His email address is mrockeym@iupui.edu).
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