Beauties Of Ordinary BreastS
A Fleshy, Adipose-Induced Revolution
There used to be distinct, rabid media to get the word out. The media are still here but less of us know how to use them. Even less of those who know haven’t a word to get out. What’s the new word?
After thinking about the self-declared “media of social revolution” – or interweb – the planned boundary devised by the USAn government and those allegiant to it becomes apparent. The internet was developed accidentally, although there were other non-governmental technicians near the same technological discovery at the same time. But it was developed to limit free speech, or limit the creative infinity of revolutionary exposure. We were informed of its anarchic and autonomous possibilities, a cyberscape of endless vocalization and stance. We all have a voice and now it can be heard, right?
But no one is heard because we’re all talking. Voices aren’t heard through written word or image. What of video? Millions of videos exposing every candid act from death to sex to adventure to lame rhetoric. Everyone has the opportunity to show another person who they are, but what are we saying? Aren’t we doing what the web was intended for? Reveal the plan before the first step can be taken.
There has to be more passion and sober insight along the way. We have to be aware beyond what they are. I yearn to say what makes me clear enough to ignore what’s around me, what’s trying to steal my attention from me. Other media, other voices and images vying for my neuronal communication, neuro-regenerating areas I’d rather not be using to process their information.
Turn it off. Not to use the maxim suggested by Tim Leary, but rather than tuning in, turning on or dropping out, why not turn off. Turn off the media surround. Embrace the media we don’t know how to use. Go back, step headfirst into the direction we came from.
Without reverting too far into historical frameworks and primitivistic behaviors, the ideal of forward progress is the problem. Problem, what an understated word! More than a problem, a disease. A decrepit, degrading projection of destructive agendas from those willing to murder anyone who chooses to stay neutral and unimposing. Not the scared but the silently defiant. The clear-minded, open-hearted, slow-walking mass of marauders patiently awaiting their opportunity to slay the beast of burden, the clout of clear-sightedness.
I listen to voices on the radio, but no one is pirating anymore. Websites can’t be pirated because someone is in control of the servers. No one is controlling the airwaves. But you’d have to buy a shortwave, long-band, ham of an audio contraption to invade the waves. You need the bandwidth of a bus and an antenna reaching the sky to tap into a listenership not waiting to listen.
So my voice is behind the times, they say. The entranced are the people who suggest a state for my perspective. They’re the ones devising combinatorial semantics and lexicon to describe the original emotion of rebellion inertly grown in the heart and minds of the first civilized dissenters. I sit in front of a screen, which is sitting in front of another screen that’s projecting the dissent of one who was filmed and paid to dissent creatively. And then I see something all great screens possess, straight to the heart of the matter, or should I say tissue.
What do I see? What is the word?
Mar couldn’t speak, he could only stare at her breasts. His whole existence revolved around those two, hanging bundles of adipose tissue. They represented his search for life, his search for a personal reproduction of himself. He imagined the pair in early development, barely projecting from a young chest. He imagined the tight, soft, buxom breast of the 20-something, her nipples erect at the first sign of tactile sensation. He longed for the round, full, large, opus-like, colostrum-dripping-from-enormous-nippled-breasts of mommy. Even the gravity-defiant breasts of an elderly materialist whose remaining anatomy dripped from bone was a sight for sore eyes. The revolution of sex from intimacy to objectivity in Mar’s life wasn’t easy for him to handle. It consumed his life, his vision and was entering his mind and heart. It would never get far enough down his throat to reach his heart, but once it entered Mar’s brain, his mind was in control of his being. He was obsessed with these parts of woman, anatomy he’d never have and would never touch again. Breasts symbolized volumes on power, control, life and individuality. The ones with them needed to stand up topless and scream about injustice and re-volition. The ones without them, like Mar, would be speechless, slobbering scumbags drawn to the will of the newly-minted Beauties Of Ordinary BreastS, crusaders for the fertile-world order. Mar could only fantasize about their rude, nude rebellion, their breasts of flesh defeating the beast of burden.
Breasts. It was all Mar saw when he looked at his screen but he always wondered: what do they sound like? Valuable and priceless, he thought.