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They need to be completely pointless...and the universe stands back and holds its breath.
When the seams run out we're left high and dry with a lot of out of date software.
Believe me, I know why the miners went on strike.
The middle classes are meant to be the great social anchor, all that duty and responsibility.
But thecables are dragging. Professional qualifications are worth nothing - an arts degree is like a diploma in origami.
As for security. it's nonexistent.
Some computer at the Treasury decides interest rates should go up a point and I owe the bank manager a year's hard work.
They're enslaved by it. They're the new proletariat, like factory workers a hundred years ago.
They're not prosperous enough. Salaries have plateaued.
Houses in Eurasia are a dump. Maintenance is almost nil but the charges keep going up.
My flat cost me more than my father earned in his lifetime.
We're all locked into huge mortgages.
Now and then it sits up and seized the undertaker by the wrists. A pointless act has a special meaning of its own. Calmly carried out, untouched by any emotions, a meaningless act is an empty space larger than the universe wound it.
there's something interesting in their lives. It's musical chairs in reverse. Every time the muzak stops
people stand up and dance around the world, and more chairs are added to the circle, more marinas and
Marriott hotels, so everyone thinks they're winning.
Today's tourist goes nowhere.
All the upgrades in existence lead to the same airports and resort hotel. the same pina-colada bullshit.
The tourism smile at their tans and their shiny teeth and think they're happy.
But the suntans hide who they really are - salary slaves, with heads full of American rubbish.
Travel is the last fantasy the 20th Century left us, the delusion that going somewhere helps you reinvent
yourself.
There's nowhere to go. The planet is full. You might as well stay at home and spend the money on
chocolate fudge.
And the Third World doesn't gains nothing. Gags of coolies who mix the cement and lay the runways.
A select few get to mix the cocktails and lay the tourists. They're the real victim.
Middle-class pique. We sense we’re being exploited. All those liberal values and humane concern for the less fortunate. Our role is to keep the lower orders in check, but in fact we’re policing ourselves.
People walk up to the check-ins and for once in their lives know where they're Poor sods, it's printed on
their tickets.
My job here is very different than what I used to do when I got out of the flying school. Now all I do is transporting crap. Well, sometimes I charge useful stuff, and once in a while I fly with humans, but rarely.
Most of the times I bring from one industrial town to another pieces of furniture, lamps, electronic stuff for the house, and sometimes I barely know what I am carrying on my plane.
When I was younger, I thought the only reasonable thing one could do if he could fly, was transporting useful, fundamental goods - like food, or water – to the people who needed it. So I enrolled in a little NGO and started working with them. I used to fly to Congo, the plane stuffed with sanitary equipment for the hospitals, for a couple of months I even did that for three times a week. It was tiring and I didn’t really get any retribution out of it, but it felt like I did. That was the last thing I have truly believed in, before I met the Eurasian movement. Now that I am so involved in the movement, it feels like going back to those days when I used to fly back and forth from Congo three times a week.
People like going to airports. They like the long-term car parks, the check-ins, the duty-frees, showing their passports. They can pretend they're someone else.
Travels in general. Is it a kind of confidence trick? The same hotels, the same marinas, car-rental firms.
You might as well stay home and watch it on television.
A good story to tell friends, an absurd story under my belt.
Just another middle class opinionated man who declares himself against every ideology.
"I am the copilot. I sit on the right.
It's up to me to be quick and bright;
I never talk back for I have regrets,
But I have to remember what the Captain forgets.
I make out the Flight Plan and study the weather,
Pull up the gear, stand by to feather;
Make out the mail forms and do the reporting,
And fly the old crate while the Captain is courting.
I take the readings, adjust the power,
Put on the heaters when we're in a shower;
Tell him where we are on the darkest night,
And do all the bookwork without any light.
I call for my Captain and buy him cokes;
I always laugh at his corny jokes,
And once in awhile when his landings are rusty
I always come through with, "By gosh it's gusty!"
All in all I'm a general stooge,
As I sit on the right of the man I call "Scrooge";
I guess you think that is past understanding,
But maybe some day he will give me a landing."
Keith Murray
