Dave Pollard's environmental philosophy, creative works, business papers and essays.
In search of a better way to live and make a living, and a better understanding of how the world really works.

	Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Conjurer cartoon by charles barsotti; purchase his remarkable work here You say you want it fixed. It is not good enough, you say, it does not work the way it was supposed to, the way it was advertised to work. It does not meet your expectations. All right, then, I will look at it. I will perform a laying of hands on it, and free it to become what it was intended to be. I will mind-meld with it, to enlighten it. I will percolate it with my aura, blinding, pulsing waves of meaning, of intent. But still I know it won't be enough. It doesn't soar, you say. It doesn't end world poverty. It does not make you desirable to others by whom you wish to be desired. It lacks resonance, purpose, that old magic. I bring it into the shop. I apply torque, and ratchet it up tighter. I mesmerize it, enthrall it with my very presence. It offers to do anything I want, so I ask it to grant you a hundred wishes, provided they are each worded in the form of a question. Won't do, you insist. It doesn't sparkle, enchant. It cannot cut through steel, or broken hearts. It shudders when it hears the cries of children. It leaves calcium deposits, puncture wounds, a bitter aftertaste. I take it to the specialist, the guru, the wizard, the doctor of imperfect things, the one who surpasseth understanding. I am in tears now, pleading for improvement, repair, freedom from the pain, the injury, the injustice. The all-knowing one blesses it, decrees it to be of the highest colour, beyond colour even, achieving perfect clarity, integral, transcendent, at one with the force, copacetic. But as soon as you see it, you frown. It still hasn't provided global liquidity, you complain. Poxviruses continue to proliferate, everywhere there are locusts, sexual dysfunctions, fungi, celebrity scientologists, plagues of idealists, reality tv. It's not working, it's worse than useless. Take it away, you demand. So I do. I wrap it in feather down and steal it away, in my arms, through the blizzard, the sandstorm, the anticyclonic gloom. I place it in a pyramid, which I place in turn in a box of styrofoam worms. I return empty-handed, chastened, cleansed. I should have known better, I confess. I throw myself at your mercy. I genuflect, bow, drill holes in my forehead, scrub myself with baryons, admit to past indiscretions, libels, illicit thoughts about checkout girls, minor felonies involving periscopes, bicycle seats. You are inconsolable. It's not that, you say, not that thing that you kept trying to fix. It's you. You are the cause of the epidemics, assasinations, Davos conferences, stuttering, extreme sports, anomie, conspicuous consumption, genital warts, Nascar, pthalates, failure to achieve cold fusion, failure to achieve carbon sequestration, YouTube beheading videos. There is no defence for this. I failed to factor in the causes and effects, do the multivariate analysis. I ask how I should pay for this, what should be my recompense. Accept responsibility, you reply. That is enough. Carry that weight. Push that rock uphill, and don't stop. Wear a sign on your forehead, so everyone will know. I sighed. This was much worse than I had feared. I had expected hanging, electrocution by faulty taser, lethal melamine injection, death by water. I had hoped for excommunication, banishment. Exile. Category: Satire 12:01:48 AM  trackback []  comment []

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