for bad moods
Sights around Jamison Square
I don’t recall the actual play, but it was a good one, sweet, and with a complicated plot.
The main actor, though, a child, had to have an overall grasp of the “big picture,” and that was next to impossible. A very few had that capability.
He was convincing, and seemed to do a good job. Although he was the best in his field, even his ability was limited. He knew only a little more than the rest and he went home at night confused and talking to himself.
And last night? Or I should say the morning of Jun 27? I had a classic science fiction dream.
I was going on a vacation to some alien planet. I arrived and took an underground shuttle. Rather than flying up, we went down into the earth to get to our destination. We looked out of the windows during the tour and saw a poor country with poor people.
Then, when we reached our destination, a large room, I noticed that we were being separated out from our original groups and I went down a shoot by way of some rope into another receiving room. I didn’t know anybody.
“Where’s my child?” a fellow traveler asked.
“We took him away, with your permission,” said I don’t know who.
The child had been acting up, it seemed, and the parent had allowed “one of our hosts” to subdue it, I think. The parent was led to the child who was being held in some kind of clear plastic cylinder in a transparent wall — it’s head being held too tightly by a rigid plastic collar. Loosen the collar up a bit, and the child would be forced to hold its head in mid air – easier to take it on the chin, metaphorically speaking.
The child was removed and given back to the parent — I was watching this as I was shepherded into another holding room.
Here there were deviant children. Some were holding mock funerals. Others were playing hardball. Clearly these children were the misfits, the ones who stand against their culture and never have a true place in it — the tough ones who become the thugs and the sad, twisted ones.
A man walked up to me. “This is the kind of society where they will place us in some kind of servitude depending on our skills,” he said, as we were being herded into yet another room.
A woman with a uniform was talking to a young man. “You are a mechanic? OK, You go this way,” she said to him. And then she turned to me. “You. What will I do with you? Termination I think.”
“But I’m only 50,” I lied.
“We terminate at 48,” she said.
“The option is a slave / servant, and I don’t want that for you,” she said.
“Shall I choose a termination for you?”
“OK,” I said, but at the same time, my sleeping self heard a little voice, hardly audible since my brain was almost completely closed down, “this is not you. You are a fighter.”
But, no fight was left, only a tired acceptance.
It was then that I decided to wake up. I didn’t want to review possible terminations with the woman in the uniform, nor did I want to go through the actual termination experience.
Awake though, I was struck by how similar our culture, and way of life, is to this dream.
A lifetime of fighting for survival, or servitude to that end. Fighting for ourselves and hoping we have something left over, some legacy to give our children, so that their fight for survival will be a little easier.
And when you are used up? The choice of servitude to others still working, or termination. Otherwise, we old people use up diminishing resources that could be put to better use by those still producing.
You live. You sicken. You die.
Translation: You work like hell, you are tortured, and then you are terminated.
And what is the point of any of it? What is quality of life?
From what I see, it’s a little loving kindness here and there and a bit of humor. And maybe a night on the town.
For me, work brings me satisfaction, but what after the day is done?