The Lords of Life
“The Herd of Independent Minds” –Harold Rosenberg
When is a conformist not the smartest guy in the room? When he’s there alone.
So privacy terrifies conformists even more than originality does. Not surprisingly, then, conformists embrace — they kneel before — the ideal of petabyte computational power used against the private lives of an arithmetic number of “naked” civilians.
That’d be you and me. Call us The Unclubables. We join no clubs.
Unclubables are not the professions we serve. We do this, that, and the other job, to get by. Within the infinity of our own private aspirations, however, we walk alone and always straight ahead, unblinkingly fixed on working our way up to a long-term goal whose consummation is fully understood to be impossible. Herman Melville named us isolatos and said of our ilk, they are “the true American type.”
Now, on the other hand, the conformists’ Holy Grail — this airless end-of-days dystopia — envisions a world when the State achieves absolute power to harmonize all waking human thought and actions: Complete Control.
Is it here yet? Certainly not, and not tomorrow, either, but soon, yes, and for sure. Only unmitigated global disaster can head it off now. It’s what uber-techies with limitless billions of tax dollars on hand like to call — to only the right people, in strictest privacy — “doable.”
Worse, no simply political solution exists to what is essentially a medieval mass hysteria spread on contact through social media — a millennial religion for urbanites in dying over-crowded cities where they are taught to hate God and worship sterility.
Nietzsche foresaw the future rise to power of some new post-Christian profession equal in influence to lawyers, doctors, priests, and politicians. At last, they are among us — anti-god, anti-life, anti-beauty, anti-love — black-clad preceptors of a global culture of dark-and-edgy conformists busy hacking into what Sigmund Freud recognized as the Universal Human Death Wish.
This cold-blooded bathing in filth for its own sake is exactly what Unclubable Americans are organically dumb to and incapable of grasping. They wonder, in all seriousness, as the skies further darken over us, What the hell do these people think they are doing?
What do you suppose the international elite talk about at all those ultra-high summits, smothered in secrecy, where every stripe of political, social, and economic world leader come together? Try to imagine what possible message can be uniting in one attentive audience those exact same sworn enemies whose warring factions are presently tearing our planet to pieces.
The answer happens to be an open secret. The people who run the world today are consulting with those new professionals who will end it on some tomorrow within a foreseeable future. Power and Vision are arranging for the suicide of the human race.
New professionals are frigid and fearless post-humanists who stand for the elect’s secret comprehension of the approaching end of history. Think of them as undertakers, here to manage our gradual “scientific” extinction.
They do this 24/7. What else can they do? You think putting a man on the moon was complicated and took long-term planning? Try removing all the men on Earth. You don’t understand. You’re not “scientific.”
People, you see, aren’t going anywhere. Inter-stellar space travel is “unscientific.” So this is it. And natural resources, in the long run, are “scientifically” unsustainable. Be it sooner, be it later, the human race is kaput, and controlled Massive Die-Off must eventually be instigated worldwide by the new self-anointed Lords of Life.
Won’t be pretty, of course, but imagine how humble and yet proud of themselves those Lords will feel at day’s end. A relative handful of trillionaire superheroes of, say, five different sexes will, at least, have given the rest of us a dignified and orderly demise. Some among them will feel it is almost more than we deserve.
Does an Unclubable like you still doubt the necessity? Of course, you do. But what is your alternative?
The only possible alternative to Death Camp Earth happens to be Pain Planet — whole civilizations guttering out over monstrously savage years of human suffering on a scale beyond comprehension, from family-to-house-to-neighborhood-to-city-to-state-to-nation-to-pole-to-pole, as hysterical populations fight to the death over the last ham sandwich. Or, whatever.
So now surely even Unclubables must understand why, someday, for our own good, the conformists must smother us in our sleep, after first making sure all of us are dreaming together the identical lovely implant-chip dreams of once having been free in a green world whose name only now, looking back from its final dark edge, do we realize was always simply “Love.”
Afloat through moonlight sky in quiet gondolas the color of stars, the Lords will lie awake in the dark, perhaps savoring the dry “scientific” ecstasy of snuffing out God’s choicest creation. Try to understand why, as the world dies, the last Lords of Life must live on as ultra-pampered super-beings. How else can they console themselves for the pitiful hard work they must do to serve Gaea’s best interests?