where is our responsibility in genetically mutating animals to the point of not just playing god, but actually being god? i've said this before, but sometimes, when the light is right, you look into the eyes of an overbred animal and see black holes of nothing. no soul. i saw this very idea just now on the worthless natgeotv as they showcased the greyhound dog. dead inside. one note, physical only. so is this leading us to an understanding of creation beyond our current affairs and cued into extreme soul makeovers, mass zombie like armies and stepford children?
what role do we play? how are we to maintain an balance with nature and continue to manipulate genetic coding for fun? or are we the root, good, bad and everything in between? so many questions. seems to me my body electric is somehow a monitor of sorts, showcasing the universe as i intend to capacitate. but what if i'm a dumb fuck, bred over and over for usually one or two good, work related, reasons? i know many of these people, hell bent on living one good line and shitting the rest.
strive for it? not typically, but the lifestyles of the illiterate and oblivious possess a certain charm...from a distance.
so now what? think if you are god and god is me and we and all that crap then who's minding the store? what i guess i want to ask is that when you meet a single minded misanthrope, do you get the feeling that the same kind of overbreeding and obfuscating has taken place, some sets of kin before you? i do. and it's fucking weird. makes sense though. the more narrow, the more inclined to serve. which i shant quickly detest. i adore good customer service. it's a pleasurable part of consumerism. i mean serve as in SERVE. you know, where you do nothing but fucking serve? i know some folks like this and they too remind in certain ways, when the light is just right, of those poor greyhounds, destined for a life of nothing; no discovery, no inspiration, no proper hand to hold.
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i first noticed this phenomenon when watching some kind of strange video about fur coat farmers. this particular farm specialized in nutria production and of course destruction. the beaver's cousin looked at first sad to me, then i got a better, closer look. nothing was there. i nearly dizzied myself from the height above the abyss. so i read a thing or three and came to know these animals, like so many others, have been purely bred for purely esoteric reasons. no longer needed in the ways of the past, we still continue. then i came across a notion that some scientist somewhere has surely summoned herself to the pot of gold beneath the warm, dead skin that thankfully no longer packs the same appeal. check into the breeding business for tips on how to drive most of mankind into the same pit. not for our furs though. and maybe there's more importance to that statement than i might be suggesting. maybe the black lenses really spell out the loss of natural beauty and nothing more. beauty that comes from the earth and never takes itself too seriously. maybe they're missing this spark that all of us seem to have...or at least want willingly to wish for? whatever it is we love about ourselves is robbed from us, leaving deathly hollow behind the headless horseman.
either way, it felt just plain old sad. and when i feel plain old sad it can't be any kind of good. not that life is, but sublimating with our domesticated dogmatic indoctrinaires and supporting such foul practice is no different than assuming always that liars are decent people. just because it can be done does not mean it should be done. the bible has proven this little proverb time and time again.
so i watch in horror, finish the show and start thinking about the connection, the leap, from animal to human. how easy it would be to see that removing certain traits and replacing them with others has it benefits to the masters we serve. especially to those who own (note: all masters own). so the owners make and make and make. never stopping with the making. centuries pass and we find the hollow looking glass stained from behind in obsidian eyes staring into ours with nothing but the motions in motion. are we to become? are we to overcome? like i said, so many questions.
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Dick Carteri worked with a gal who came in to the computer station just before me. typically, we shared the same computer. we worked at jcwhitney, an auto aftermarket catalog specialist. our jobs were to take orders over the phone and punch them into archaic computers. well, the keyboard was found to be covered in a pungent, red liquid and until i caught her working along side me, on a different shift, pouring hot sauce into her bag of chili cheese fritos, i had no idea what the shit was. it made me kinda nauseous for a bit, then i liked the idea of this woman not giving a shit about the office equipment of this fantastic old chicago company. i was offered a promotion but refused. i had more leisure things to do in those salad days. memories.13 minutes ago · ·