Somewhere in the deepest level of Hell there is an infernal machine churning out positive affirmations, uplifting sentences, wise sayings and motivational outpourings. Serried ranks of demons then attach them to various images rendered at 72 dots per inch, including, but not limited to – Native Americans [either very old or young and hot], places of natural beauty, laughing children, lovers in the rain, Buddhist monks, psychedelic art, rainforests, empty roads, candles in darkness…on and on and on the list ripples out into infinity.
Thus Satan seeks to dissipate the sum of human wisdom. Complexity is reduced to sugary bite-size morsels, which appear tasty but never satisfy any real hunger. The digital smorgasbord is ever changing and ever the same as we nibble and regurgitate empty exclamations across the brightly coloured pixelated wastelands, enlightenment in 20 words or less, ephemeral momentary feel-good falsehoods which offer nothing beyond the initial mental rush and the self-congratulatory recognition of our reflections flickering on the surface of a shallow pool, mind numbing mantras drained of any real meaning. Scroll on, brothers and sisters, scroll on. At least you get a dopamine hit as you grin inanely at the distorted patterns in your personal Hall Of Mirrors….
Don’t forget to click on the URL – visit the website for more trite mini-bites from the snake oil self-help gurus, quantum masters of the Art Of The Spiritual Deal, whose hourly rates exclude the financially restricted [an unfortunate situation the poor have created for themselves through accumulated karma, or by not practising positive thought enough to manifest themselves a slice of the spiritual pie in the sky – some people just can’t be helped….]. Intense in delivery, self-consciously humble, carefully avoiding any real dialogue in favour of vapid profundities which crumble upon inspection, their target market not those who question. Workshops to follow, complete with pay-per-view video streams, secret techniques to manifest your dreams, guided drug experiences to get you closer to your true nature, or commune with your soul, or meet the Ascended Masters, or the tribal elders, the Hindu deities, the alien watchers, the vegetal overmind.
The fortunate children of decaying empires seek the usual posthumous guarantee of everlasting bliss, sticky tar shadows ignored to stare into the light. Guided by those more steeped in ritualised behaviour, muttering mantras or earnestly chanting in Sanskrit to a culturally appropriated projection of their own desire, as if some dead tongue will more likely attract the benevolent attentions of the higher realms. If that doesn’t work, perhaps Latin might. For the fortunate, all Gods are there to be chosen between, measuring and evaluating to procure the most personally beneficial outcome. Those less fortunate generally stick to their local pantheon.
We are adoring Allah, beseeching Baby Jesus, bleating to Buddha, soliciting Shiva, prostrating to Pan, moaning at Mithra – hang on a second, ladies, I’m sure I’ve got one here for you somewhere…er…venerating Venus…go on, pick a Deity – any name will do – reciting for rewards, grovelling for gifts, because we deserve it – we are the good guys, the white hats, the chosen ones, the devout, the sannyasin, beloved of the angels.
Aum Mani Fest Me Something Nicer than this. The Gods for the most part remain silent. Or perhaps just too busy elsewhere. After all time is ticking, it’s a big universe and in all likelihood, circling around some of the ten thousand billion stars out there, there are several million other planets supporting intelligent [careful with that word] life that are equally persistent in their supplications to the Divine, strangely shaped much like themselves or their local flora and fauna. But despite all evidence to the contrary never doubt that your God is the right one, your Special Book is the repository of truth, your belief more valid than those obviously deluded others. There be dragons…
We polish our halos with the sweet wax of ego, getting ready to stake out our place at the Big Man’s gathering of the great and good. Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your place in the heavenly realm! It’s the old hierarchical layout and you instinctively know your position – on your knees.
Somewhere out on the periphery there is the sound of happy laughter and the leaden flap of leathery wings, barely audible over the saccharine drone of harps…
Steve Carter
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