๐Ÿ’€ Liquid Mental

quote from Melbourne street art, circa 2010

These are complicated times.

These are over-simplified times.

These are times.

These are times tables.

The tables have turned.

Perhaps, the main problem is the glut of media being consumed via the super television we carry around for breakfast. Therefore, there is less opportunity for deep thought or reflection or gazing into space – byproducts humans have subscribed to for thousands of years. These pastimes are almost certainly a strategy to monitor and manage the jet trail of our fleet-footed psyches. An adaptable, amorphous cauldron of old-world ideals…

…bombarded by the artificial new-world.

Humans need a certain amount of s p a c e to digest their own emotional discord. There’s a war raging for our attentions. Brains are not combat weapons. (They are squishy, really.) There is an intelligent jellyfish of neural pathways in your gut, bottling tiny lightning to power your dreams and juggle subconscious patterns into the wax-poetry blood-hologram of a serviceable, manageable human being.

Itโ€™s epic. There is still a lot scientists donโ€™t understand about what goes into the ecosystem of a conscience. It’s sophisticated.

Light the newspaper on fire.

Run amok at high speed.

* Look at us!

Self-care is a smug joke for those rich enough to indulge in mystical cures for an existence that can feel cruel above all else for folks scrounging around the third drawer of opportunities for .Success .Based .Happiness sold to them as religion by the Wizards of Id editing out the grimmer elements of Grimms fairytales.

.ti od ot srehto eripsni nac uoy taht flesruoy erahs dna maerd a eveileb dna hguone drah kroW

For some reason lately, the hard work I notice is that of people mastering walking and scrolling.

โ€˜That looks like hard work,โ€™ I think. I am being polite.

Iโ€™m sure theyโ€™re fine.

I imagine being fifteen again and having to carry a computer around. It would be cumbersome. I doubt it would fit in my backpack along with the walkie-talkie and fax to dial internet. ๐Ÿ’ป

The human attention span is like the villain in Terminator 2. It consists of liquid mental that is self-aware and from a time and space so complex and perfect that our mammalian / reptilian primitiveness can be forgiven for lacking the capacity and discipline to reconcile and respect what god-grade technology we have at our disposal.

Who needs a clairvoyant when your aura is the colour that wakes you in the morning?

The liquid mental melts, pools and reforms into the shape of us. Lately, it has been exposed to starbursts of electro-magnetic carcinogenic compounds which cause it to freeze, distort and fracture. In this sunken state it is shot with bites of information from specially designed media canons. Aura piercing bullets. Sense shrapnel.

Drawn to alarm like insects to a bulb, the attention span shatters.


It is as if an electric witch had distilled the muscle-memories of a thousand life-threatening surges and distilled the slick into a smart-paint pantomime – a sizzling, radioactive shadow to accompany the new human on their segue into behavioural drone in the settled technotropolis – their fears steered and imaginations quelled by a humanoid menagerie of inflated instincts and masticated conversation.

Rather than reform, the isles seem to have factionalised lately. They pool together in smaller groups, perhaps adapting to the volume of information ammunition. In this defence, they can swiftly reform, albeit into smaller versions of their former selves.