The Unknown Citizen
W. H. Auden
--------------------
(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
*grin* The monstre gets bored waiting for ANOTHER GODDAMN KERNEL TO DOWNLOAD BECAUSE THE FUCKERS WHO WON'T LET ME GO GET MY OWN KEEP DOWNLOADING A FAULTY ONE, and decides to listen to a few beat poets recite their wares...
Somehow I end up here.
So here's the rub. The inherent hypocrisy in the human-as-a-social-animal-paradigm.
We build rules to save each other from hurting each other and instead we stifle each other.
And to make it all better we sleep with each other, and to make it all worse we put pressure on each other to be attractive enough in the common aesthetic to, well, be fuckable.
So every single advantage (from where I'm standing at least) has a greater and crueler disadvantage.
Or so it seems from here, at least.
Somebody explain to me again why I'm trapped in this concrete jungle where the only way to survive is to abandon all self, or to abandon all hope of the comfort that we came here for in the first place.
Society is supposed to be a convenience. A luxury. It's NOT supposed to be a set of unshakeable rules that point their four fat fingers at me and label me whatever it is that they think I've done wrong today.
Of course, You can't really leave, either.
Say that I do. Say that I follow my secret, dissatisfied dream, and grab a laptop, a satellite uplink, and a book of what-I-can-eat-and-what-I-can't, and completely remove myself from all these pressures.
Say, I abandon these vapid suits to their fancy cars and petty jealousies, and achieve my own enlightenments.
Say I trade in the luxuries of sewage systems and twinkies, for peace of mind.
(Now let love go, for a moment. Love is not at issue here. Love does not require a bustling economy and transport system and ten-million smokestacks.)
But what else would I be missing?
Hmmm.
Television. RIIIIIIIGHT. Suivant, next.
A paycheck. Hah!
Beer. (damn.)
High-heeled shoes. HAH!
Hot dogs. (damn again)
Books. (oh.)
3am, watching the latex spill from the bars. (hmm.)
4am, onion rings at La Belle Province.
Running into you on the late-night bus, deliriously happy that you've saved me from the man with the stinky breath and roaming hands.
Oh.
I guess it's not just fear that keeps me here.
I guess it's obvious what's to be done. Same as before. Your rules do not apply to me, no I will not sit in your leather-clad car and discuss the stock market with you, no I will not plot and plan how to cheat the other bastards from their money with you.
But I will share these glorious towering streetcorners with you, and the Fantasia film festival with you, and maybe.. The occasional restaurant with you.
But where do the rules begin and end.
When am I a threat to you, and more of a nuisance than you are to me?
What makes me bad, and you right? That one's easy, it's money...
Point being, I think I've decided to stay.
I'm also not going to play the game, though.
But then what right do I have to expect the bastard with the car to not splash me on his way to work?
What right do I have to expect that loudmouth kid to not mnock me down the stairs in the subway? Waitamminit, what's the difference between loumouth me and loudmouth businessfuckingmarketingman and loumouth pimpleboy?
We don't have any rights, do we?
There is no line...
There is only money, and I don't want to play that game.
Call me a sociopath. By definition, you're right. I'm not part of this society, I'm disjointed. My hands do not fit your manacles and my feet may stray from the path. And chances are if you find me in the desert with unshaved legs, or find me in a cocktail bar with silk sotckings on, you'll label me as such either way.And if you don't, then I love you.
I know that's too simple, but I'm too tired today. :)