#happy consumer

[juicymoony]

i love the marauders fandom cause wdym there’s a fanfiction in a jurassic world au

[joshbloecker]

One Winter’s Glare -12/25/2019

A poorly preserved tome outlining boundaries for two hemispheres of influence; the spirit, about which many things have been claimed, and the consumer -a neurological demographic-, was deemed fit for mildew, or not worth the expense of a dry keep.

              So we act out, the annual frigid scene provides mimes their muse; rushing, buying, covering, nerves quivering, chests sinking in small quakes, trying to catch our breath. Remembering to smile and extend wishes appropriate to a prolonged errand coinciding with a time of year; the same papers leaving the same hands, and now plastic and keystrokes achieve the same level of interaction, freeing more of us to shy from its social portend. Invite the internal insulation, invent a warm calm space where no one worked fifty hours a week (if they were lucky) to make this night happen, and discover a faint promise in a removed glow, should you find the silence.

A homeless man realized cold freezes straight through the diaphragm this Christmas, and a rape victim was killed before she could reach her phone. A strategy assumed to catalyze the spread of consumerism is best explained in terms of how the market creates the consumer:

               Brains grow in lattice-works of filaments, how these arrangements of filaments shift over time comes to define lobes and cortices, and at nineteen our brains can found its own, “self-originated reason”, the differentiation in the frontal lobe creating this reason center starts at age seventeen. (If they paid you enough to not write this, where would you live? If the pay man was wearing red and boots, would it make a difference?) By twenty three the prefrontal cortex, the center of critical analysis, is in place. The market clamors for the awareness of anyone between seventeen and twenty four; the target demographic.

              One year into a world we know for ourselves on our own individual terms, we are abandoned by the interests of the signal, and its warm shine, the encasing caress of a subconscious courtship -constant and for seven straight years-, is torn from within you, from a part of you you never knew was relying on the ghostly comfort, then the disabling, darkening passages open, and the world bores around you. In its manufacture, the products tend to nurture an affinity for carols, keeping secrets, and praying for material. Buildings with colored glass and ornamented steeples increase in popularity, private and public rites are exchanged indoors and outdoors, while globally reports of a specter emerge. Its presence is marked by a diminished sense of belonging.

            The effect isn’t lodged in the direct awareness, and the traditions ring hollow even as they are participated in, -between mind-numbing lists of momentary demands and timelines, interspersed with appeals for nostalgia about when the season wasn’t busy and relatives, who were lucky enough to afford the time off, were still alive-, and no one notices the silent fights to find what is missing resonating along every bone of their skeleton, sinking to their feet.

Internal landscapes have their own climates, and as seasons turn temperatures, the specter -born from the loss of a steadying hand- revels in the undulating content of the year’s cheer, -from inside chasms it builds under smile lines it pushes and pulls, maneuvering a way to de-focus the eyes.