The following story is true, although intentionally murky. Your undivided interpretation will be appreciated. The tale takes into consideration the effect of secret societies, education, nepotism and arrogance among other phenomena created by man.
The work also considers the metaphysical concept of “creativity with risk.” This concept can not as yet be measured. However, it quite oddly sanctions failure. These observations are from an idiosyncratic, if not bizarre, view of events that occurred between 1957 and 1991.
The phantasy (the ‘ph’ is intentional although weird. I should have just used sic) takes place in the computer industry.
I have deep apologies which are readily available to Frederich Nietzsche. But he would not honor my apology. Therefore, it would not be accepted
I, likewise, and therefore, will not offer an apology to him.
Thank you for listening,
ON THE INTERVIEW
Verily, I say unto you, tho I walk through the valley of time I fear no Priest of Personnel.
Fred walked through the vale of time clocks. Each one’s face looking at him, sneering at him, hands reaching out to grab his words and twist them into puzzles for the minds of lesser. The once hallow, but now hollow hall, deplete of human bodies, spirits or souls waited for morn to fill its bowels, once again, with beings.
Fred asked the cloistered Priest of Personnel “Do you know what man does here? Do you care what man does here? Do you wish that I waste my spirit here? Do you wish that my soul burns in effigy here? What do you wish of me? Do you truly believe that my future lies in this hollow hall? Can you not see that God has better for me? He would not allow me these thoughts if he wished my soul to be damned to the Darkest of Places. Is it Good or Evil that I would encounter here?”
And the cloistered one, not yet aware of his own future, of the impending doom, of the coming misery, the loathing of the mind against the body, the seducer of the labor of beings, not yet aware that the all powerful Office of Human Resources was yet to be created, simply replied; “I do not know.”
“Where doest the labor of my body lay? Does it lay in dungeons of smoke? Do I labor for thee in the sweat and oil of my own body? Or do I toil unto thee in the oils of the mechanizations of the creative man? Or doest my spirit die in the simplexes of the everyman’s repeated spasms of labor?”
And the timid representative of the Brothers of Personnel, not truly cognizant of the heavens surrounding him, not knowing that the temples he walked in, was unaware that the meeting places of the lesser Pharisees would be given to that awful creature, the state, simply shrugged. Nor did he know that the Psalm of “Ever Onward” would be hushed, much like the voices of the children that would be thrown into the sacrificial pit. The Priest of Personnel was yet another true believer. One, who like many, could not face the seven somnambulists.
Fred speaketh to you Brothers and Sisters, forget not the seven somnambular plagues of Industry.
And thus Fred then spoke to the seven who walked in their sleep:
“You, lead strides-man, thou be ‘Arrogance.’ From thine throat comes the roar of the lion. Yet yee knowest not the humility of time, patience and wisdom. In time, your roar finds itself covered, as the moon at times covers the sun in full daylight. The corona of your roar is at once muted and beautiful. Therefore it will be remembered and practiced by the least amongst you; the under man.”
“And you, second strident among the worst of plagues, you are ‘Secret Society.’ You walk behind hidden meanings, pressing of the hand, and once removed encounters in the dark of night. Darest thou not earn your keep on your own? Have yee not the courage to meet eye to eye with potential disaster and face its loneliness? Are thee afraid to win? Thou bind thine self to other’s leather apron strings. Thou art neither bad nor evil, but rather a simple follower; an under man going under.”
“Third amongst you is the most despised. Yet thou are never spoken of betwixt your six brethren nappers. They knowest the poison of thine presence. That is you, pallid ghost called ‘Nepotism.’ Thou steal honor and spirit from others. Thou bow to that which is not earned. Thine alter is built on the bones of your ancestors. But this alter is not built of pride. It’s foundation is the stiff necked haughtiness of rotting flesh. Inherited laurels bespeak of the smell of decaying ineptitude.”
“And you, fourth one with arms stiffly outstretched; oh living zombie. Thou shalt not hide behind the others. Thy name is ‘Education’ and it shall forever be suspect. Do not saunter with the other seven diseases. March away with the speed and honor of the following beings. They fight in the army of the over man. These soldiers shall be called ‘Labor’, ‘Perseverance’, ‘Self Respect’, ‘Originality’, ‘Pride‘, ‘Passion’, and ‘Triumph.’ March with these and emblazon thy true name “Wisdom” on the reins of your beast. The other seven that you saunter amongst will lead thee to the obscurity of mental collapse; and then .. …. eventually….. to nothingness.“
“The fifth among you shall be named ‘Capitulation.’ Thine cloak takes on a multitude of colors and shadows. Amongst these are the hues of passiveness and friendliness. Thy forms are the flock and the multitudes. Thine shape is that of the serpent, or at best the chameleon. Doest the oily slime of a dead oasis make you jealous? Doest it nurture more spine than thou? Then shed your cloak of capriciousness. Or is it vacillation? Doest thou vacillate to save your hide or your mind? Doest thou croak like a mud frog when he vacillates his bloated chin? Or is it fickleness? Art thou fickle like a young girl with choices? Doest thou give away your most prized possession with every choice? Or is it equivocation? Doest thou weigh each and every fact like the money changer in the temple? Doest thou spill gold while trying to count brass? Or is it ambivalence? Doest thou really not care? Doest thou have the weak mind of the mollusk?”
“Next to last is you, sixth sleepwalker called ‘Victim.’ Art thou only a victim of your self? Doest not thou maketh thine own bed? You bed with short term concern for self. He who deservith shall recieveth his true deserts. Thou are the under man who has gone under with each rising of the moon. A victim of short vision and short days. Thine melencholyness has been won by thine own hand. Doest thou wish to leap from the palisade? Doest thou wish to leap from the boat? Thou hast not the courage to use thine own hand for the task. You dream that others should attempt your wishes. But when they fail, thoust can lay blame on them also. Trust not your fate to me!”
“And you, ’Failure’, why do you skulk last? Is it so that no beast or being should see thou in the throes of agony? Love thy self. You are noble. For you are like a father showing right from wrong. Do not take man under, but rather over. You, Failure, are a ghost, a spirit, an ether of falseness. You cloud man’s mind with fear and paralysis. You, Failure, should be a tool, not a barrier. Walking with the others makes you into a false god. Stride alone and you will become a king.”
And thus spoke Fred.