Entertainment'n'Education

The reason why the Kids were sometimes hanging out with the bunch of youngsters from the college of deskilling is not exactly a matter of choice. Or, it is, in a way. A matter of the choice of the latter. To demystify the seeming enigma, to undo the quasi-knot, let’s say that the Kids didn’t have a particular inclination for the likes of deskillers. Or, they didn’t know it. By contrast, the college bunch felt everything but aversion towards the street gang. We are not talking affinities as they are typically perceived, or, manifested for that matter. To put it bluntly, deskillers (un)consciously craved something genuinely exotic. Or, at least, what appeared so to be.

Crystal clear afternoon sun lives the aftermath of the crispy morning. Eating away the debris of the fading noon, the day was heading towards the fruition of the sunrise promise. The bus is driving through the suburb abutting the edge of the city better known as the metropolis mindwarp—kingdom of idle-paced, random strolling. Neatly mowed lawns pass behind the window. White laced windows melt as the bus is driving past the impeccably lined wooden houses. Dark grey pavement shines back to the luminous clouds. Cars parked in front of the house. The driver’s seat still warm. It’s only 7 P.M. End of another day of laboring. Behind the white lace, seductive smell of microwaved lasagna. Reading the paper afterwards. A game of soccer on the telly. Or, something like that. It’s fantasy anyway.

The bus is driving along the concrete sidewalk proudly witnessing 3000 human and 6000 dog steps walked that day. All of them now vanishing into the quiet death of the day. Slowly being slayed by the unbearably clear rays of the day…like any other. The bus is driving beneath the ghosts of the wooden houses. The apparition of its own ghostlessness. Through the silence that is not one. Through the lightless sunshine.

Until the greyness of the concrete paths becomes increasingly patched. Ornaments from the nonexisting trash cans blind the surface / block the reflection > cut the rays crudely / root them into the pavement > forming gigantic strings / hypergalactic transversals through the impenetrable jungle of tangled telecommunication signals. Messages don’t get through easily here. The air is oversaturated with aimless walks. Morning sickness-meets-afternoon boredom. Followed and preceded by void. All the Kids can do is simply keep devouring the buzz that substantiates it. All the Kids can do is simply hang out with the bunch of deskillers who are alighting the bus and stepping onto the turf sacer.

There is a branch campus of the college in this reforgotten part of the sour-smiled planet. An oasis of patternless design in the orbit of baroquely rotting decoration. The auditorium is a crossbreed of an internet café and an amphitheater. Discreet, electric blue neon light dominates the area around the bar. The floor area seats 200 people. The tables breathe quietly under the subtle rays of electric candle lights. Dry rose petals in the tiny bowls. Immaculately white table cloths. Silver, china, crystal glasses. And faces illuminated with the light from the cell phones. Catching up on emails while the band is playing. Or, a lecturer talking. They are young. But they live fast. And grow up fast. In an age of life expectancy unimaginable only ten years previously, they fear death, but, at the same time, don’t know how to fill the period between now and that mysterious moment. Because they grow up fast. Finish school as soon as they can. Enroll in a college, get a job, get married, get children, get divorced. Or, some such stuff. In any order. Or, without thereof. In either scenario, they grew up fast. And crave for something genuinely exotic. Or, at least, what appears so to be:

Once upon a time young minds started to rebel against the inverted face of the dream their foremafothers inscribed in the songs of the bloodline. They saw the world being populated by houses with pools in the backyards. They realized that in order not to be stigmatized, it was expected from one not just to inhabit a residential object, but to, actually, own it. It became clear to them that such objects were not the only type of property that was required to be constituent of who one was. Among such objects, one decided, were cars, TVs, telephones, land, information, sex, art, knowledge, holiday homes, acquaintances, businesses, ideas, looks…you name it. It was more than obvious that assuming such an identity entailed investing a lot of time, energies, imaginations, and skills in various ways of ensuring financial means to such ends. That left little room for living anything that was not in some way subordinated to the ends in question. Even less space could be found for reimagining a family life which was not merely miserable mimicking of the photographs in glossy magazines, interpersonal relationships that were not based on utility, and creation whose vibrancy was not castrated in the name of the dominant taste.

Such a conundrum inspired the young minds to devise their own tools for handling the troublesome circumstances. Some of them, faced with an identity that provided an insufficient basis for calling oneself an individual, thought that self-aggrandizement could compensate for the lost voice. Others took advantage of science and technology to perfect the way they looked. There has been a lot of face lifting done for such purposes. Economic inventions have been implemented in the programs for the improvement of living conditions. Industries have been developed to supply people with the necessary equipment for living. One of them in particular  has been imagined to offer to youth an opportunity to release their imaginative potentials and energies. Thus, a lot of entertainment products have been made. Only, nobody read those stories. Nobody watched the movies. Nobody listened to music. Because that’s not what one is supposed to do with such stuff. Buying it is enough for their endless, meaningless proliferation.

There has been little communication. Because business talks require few words. Beautification is considered redundant. There have been a great amount of questionable behavior—unscrupulous treatment of fellow travellers. People learnt how to feel bad about such conduct without necessarily having a profound emotional justification for remorse. There have been other manifestations of degraded sentiment. So, people are again taking advantage of science, technology, and medicine and are undergoing all sorts of treatments. They find out that in some instances they feel similar to the fellow travellers whose intoxication has been a conscious, self-sacrificial countercultural choice against hypocrisy. Both camps suspect that something must have gone askew on the way to the future. In the world, living its own self-proclaimed prophecy of madness, they decide that it must have been just about everything.

The Kid in a whitewashed purple hoodie, grey baseball cap, black baggy jeans and a white T-shirt stands out, as his microlaser look cuts across the carpet, engraving in it the notes of the transpositioned bassline. He speaks the language of the shitty corner of the earth. He can be silent in the languages he doesn’t even know. He recites from memory verses written in the unwritten Panapocalyptic Manifesto entitled 25 E half all(E)y.