All hail the QueenBee
whose shrines are at the entrance to all subsectors of the great halogen hive
woven from porcelain and titanium
We drink her libations in aide of the virtues of the iHive:
Chatter: to connect and share all information however trite, fickle, petty or redundant, and to share it ceaselessly.
Scatter: Zip and skip too and fro, idly, absent mindendly. Tease the 2 second attention span with constant stimulus from advertisment and entertainment. Don't think; just walk and you will arrive where you didn't even know you were supposeed to go.
Mercurial Whimsy: Feel a hollow dissatisfaction with all the electric shining things and at the same time desire an endless influx of the next generation of electric shining things.
Do not take my criticism of this iHive life as coming from a negative mind. I am not against it per se; I do not wish to topple it or to oppose it. I simply do not wish to be a part of it. A positive withdrawl. I see what it has to offer. I see the grey laquer behind the dull irises of its iDrones - the constant dissapointment masked by habit - the suffocation in the eyes of the real people when they have arrived to behold the glories of the modern era and find more concrete, more shopping malls, a mere facade plastered on to consumerist ideals. It is apparent they are not nourished by the neon. I am starved.
A Dancing Bee belongs in the uncertain fields of clover,
under the changing moon.
Cool by the contours of the meandering brooke,
in the shadows of the granite hill at noon.
Alone if it must be,
as it almost always is,
A stranger amidst automata
-their blind lives-
-lost in the iHive-
of Metropolis.
But 'alone' is only a term used to describe seperation from the source of life. Alone is everywhere in the busy grid. What is left to live off of when the organism is stripped of all connections to life? Bloody animals on meathooks, oil fried grain pulp, exhaust fumes, asphault; there is no lifeforce there. Only the other prisoners of the maze have any drops of life left, and so ensues the push-and-pull of energies, vampirism, confusion, suffocation, gossip, all in desperate attempt to drain some small morsel of the mango nectar of life from one another in the veritable desert of the city. Rats in Prada picking the flesh off of eachother's tails - so far from the light, these canibals live in the shadows. Maybe we should all go do yoga with the yaks.
The women make me most sad of all. The prettier they are, the more sad I become upon seeing them. All the Coach Gucchi in the world cannot lift their heads and generate a simple smile on their Chanel clodded faces. Iceberg lettuce drowned in gourmet dressing. Stumbling akwardly, as if forced to bind their feet in stillettos, constantly on the defensive against anyone who may expose the fragile and insecure nature of their icicle existence. Embalmed before death in petroleum fibres and laboratory synthesized chemicals, their malnourished faces buried in lithium charged plasma glass rectangles, hiding like voles from the sun.
The iPhone dies if not plugged into the wall.
The Spirit dies if not plugged into the Earth.
"Spirit? What is that anyways?", you ask?
Take that as a warning that your batteries are dangerously depleted.
It is Awesome
I am In Awe
How many it takes to build a city
yet,
How few can build themselves.
-
Dear Hong Kong,
Thank you. I am full of cynical jet-fuel for a dive into the the rainforest.
Best Regards,
-t
