This is not America. This is the Land of Borg. A place spawned by TV.
TV, the PC, smart phones, etc. Mothers giving birth to machines. Look around. I saw three of them just yesterday–one walking down the street, another sitting on a bench in a park, a third in his car at the bank drive-up window, all of them with a piece of technology growing out of an ear, clinging like a leech; perhaps receiving messages from outer space, perhaps playing music, perhaps taking pictures of the inner brain where neurological synapses are already being phased out by micro chips.
I have a walking stick made of purple-heart Amazon wood with a silver tip and an elk-antler handle. I’m going to grow my silver beard back and my hair down to my shoulders, and barefoot and dressed in burlap I’m going to strike out with my shaman stick at the Borg growing out of us.
The time is ripe for an old-fashioned prophet. He needs to appear before our direct link to God is cut off by inventions.
Think small. Think infinitesimal. Think virus. Think biological implants, deep in the labyrinth of Borg. A spray of California poppies in their hard drive. Daisies in their circuitry. Crab grass in their memory bank. Lima beans in their digital warehouse. Ants zinging crazed through the dark bloodless maze of their gigabytes.
Do not go gently into that dark night. Rage against the dying of the light.
A 45-minute nap and he comes up off the couch like Prometheus, slams down a triple-mocha, and goes on the attack.
Think singular. Sever connections. Renounce 12-step study groups. Focus.
Go for the crucifixion and resurrect in three days to spread the message. Get it right this time.
A scribe in a hut on a mountain, drinking saki and eating brown rice, taking dictation from voices floating down from the moon.
By sunrise he is asleep on his straw mat, a dreamless sleep, an emptiness waiting to be filled.
It will not go well for the Borg once his blue eyes open.