Anybody’s Postmodern Soliloquy

Just Anybody I suppose I am,

and I suppose that’s true,

that is to say, if I am at all—

I’m not sure who—or what—I am, really.

The savvy who know more than me tell me

I am not the me I think I am,

at least not the me I fool myself into believing I am,

but, you know, quite frankly, I haven’t got a clue.

Best to stay provisional, you know, however it turns out.

After all, I’m just quite nicely diced up

and ready to be delivered over—

Thing is, I’ve seen everything, done everything,

at least virtually,

so I’m not sure what else there is I can do,

but I do keep myself extremely, oh, very extremely busy

—schedules, you know—sooner or later I’ll even get to the gym.

Properly media conditioned I suppose I am, I strike

the current poses.

I know, I know, every word I use slips and slides,

seems I can’t get a handle on anything

‘cause nothing truly really genuinely essentially ultimately

means anything anymore, ‘cept we do tend to blather a lot,

as those who know more than me have assured me

that’s all anything amounts to, when you come down to it,

but words—blah-blah-blah.

Really, it’s that simple. I should be satisfied.

Well, I got my career, don’t I?

—Could be on the street. Never know these days.

Got my house, got my latest model car, got a laptop computer,

got my stocks, hey—I even got kids.

Well, they sort’a happened along, they’re out there somewhere

doin’ their thing.

Trust me, though, I’ve got the ticket—it’s money that’s made me.

Come on, when you really get down to it, this gig is all about money,

isn’t it?

It has to come down to something, doesn’t it?

Now, don’t tell me, money isn’t the bottom line.

I sometimes think they go too far with the psychoanalysis thing—

Is it always Mom and Dad back in there, settin’ us up?

Always some repressed little secret in the ol’ closet?

Can’t even talk about.

How can that be? That was years ago. I’m still carrying around

all that stuff?

Really, it’s still all about sex? I thought I’d taken care of that.

Well, as a matter-of-fact, it’s been awhile.

No, no, they now say it’s all about the marketing of sex.

You see, it’s not just about simple pleasure anymore—

Oh?? I should have known. Not that simple. Certainly,

everything today—

Oh, of course, that’s it—it all comes down to image.

It’s the image! The image! The image!

Oh, but so many, so many, so many! my brain just spins,

and all spliced together in a glamorous 60-second commercial

controlled and marketed by—oh, that’s it—it’s the hype.

And who’s got the hype— The Big—

So it’s Power. It’s Power! It’s Power! It’s all about Power!

And who’s got the Power. Which goes back to money, right?

No? Not completely?

Oh, it’s really about who’s dug in the deepest?

Oh, survival is it now. Limited resources. National security.

Like the military. And with a military, you control!

It’s all about control!

Management and control of everybody and anybody!

But of course, to do it right, you have’ta do it in secret.

Of course— And then, market it right—

So there’s the strings to this whole thing!

Or wires, I should say—

Figure, six billion of us wired up.

I would think, if I could think aloud,

—don’t wanna be considered a nutcase now—,

there’s something really suspicious going on here…

Oh, I’m stressing myself, I get so flitty brained

these days—

You know, you flit from partner to partner,

job to job, house to house, freeway to freeway,

purchase to purchase, program to program,

channel to channel, website to website,

and you’re all so nicely diced up and freeze dried just right,

with all these new body parts fitted.

—Oh, what did I just say?

You know, with all this Who am I? anymore

—I mean, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it,

I mean, the System’s bigger than me, right?

It manages—no, come on—controls the global community.

—What a twist on that one. Community? It’s gettin’—

Yep, it’s gettin’ all wired up. Yep, I’m becoming day by day

—hey, check out my medical record—

a cybernetic organism!

I’m becoming what Technos makes me.

I’m becoming cy-y-y-borg—

Gosh, I might be obsolete by the next model.

I am, however I am, totally a replaceable person

in this whole thing.

I am just Anybody, you know.

Androids, they say, will do just fine.

Really, now, is that it? Where all of this is going?

I just take a place in line and have my bar code ready?

And keep my mouth shut?

August 2001