I don’t wanna think about it too much. I really don’t. If I do, my head starts to hurt. I start squinting my eyes. But. I just can’t stop thinking about it. Good God, I want things to go back to like they used to be. I mean there was always something going on in the news, but in an unpredictable way it was….well…predictable. There’s always been some low-level scandal – no matter which party was in power. It may not have been a real scandal, but somebody was always complaining about something that they thought was scandalous. Heck, even I’ve been known to get worked up into a lather about something from time to time, but at least then I was pretty sure that whatever it was, was real. It – whatever it was – may have not, in reality, been all that bad, but at least it was real………….or was it?
As I write you this morning, the Main Stream Media is beginning to move on to whining and moaning about the Health Care Replacement Bill offered up by the Republicans. I have no opinion on it. Really, I don’t. I’m not qualified to have an opinion. I went to music school, the God school. I know what people want me to think, but the people telling me, in reality don’t know anymore about it than me. They’re reporters. They went to reporter school. I don’t have an opinion on Obamacare either. I don’t. I didn’t have it, and it doesn’t look like I ever will. I have to pay a lot more now than I did before its roll-out, but honestly, I don’t really blame Obamacare’s existence for that. Seems I was always paying more and getting less prior to Obama being president. (If he ever really was president) I fully expected to pay more and get less no matter who was in charge, or what they did. So I just don’t know.But here’s what’s scary to me. I haven’t felt this way since the 70’s. In the 70s though, I felt this way at times, ’cause of something I had inhaled, coupled with listening to Pink Floyd in a room with the lights off. Now, I’m feeling this way, and I’m stone cold sober. I’m feeling a little paranoid, like I’ve entered some alternate universe, where nothing – NOTHING – is real. I’m pecking at this keyboard. I feel the keys. I see the little words crawl out on the screen in front of me. But am I really typing these words? And by the way, what exactly is a “word?” Is it something in print? Is is a thought? Is a word a set of pixels? Or, is a word just something that exists in the digital ether? AAAGGGHH!
OK. So here’s what’s propelled all this existential/Buddhist/transcendental paranoia. It’s Wikileaks. Not Wikileaks really, but what they told us about the CIA and all this hacking, listening, surveilling stuff. It’s a little bit Main Stream Media induced “Donald Trump is a Russian Spy/Barack Obama is a Treasonous 4th Amendment Ignoring Benedict Arnold/The CIA is Lying/ they’re telling the truth/ISIS is a threat/ No They’re not. This one’s lying – that one’s lying – no they’re not – yes they are. Oh. My. God. Who do you believe? What are you to believe? I mean, if you don’t know who or what to believe, then is anything other than what is right in front of you, that which you can experience with your own five senses, is anything oher than these things, real? Somebody, somewhere – wikileaks shows me – I think – maybe – is wanting me to think certain things. The CIA – I’m told – not only can plant stories – but they are likely reading this as I write it, in real time. They can wreck my car remotely. But they could crash one of those driverless cars into me. (BTW these things never seemed like a real good idea to me, but I’m definitely not getting into one of them now. EVER!) They could plant child porn on my laptop, report it to the authorities. And then, I’d be a pedophile, or at least everyone would think I was. Makes me question the legitimacy of the stuff supposedly found on Anthony Weiner’s computer. Maybe he’s not the creep we are being told he is. I mean, really. Maybe not.
Maybe Donald Trump isn’t really president. Maybe Barack Obama wasn’t president. Maybe there really isn’t a president at all. Maybe what they tell me is the President is just a hologram. In some ways I feel as if I am standing between two mirrors and seeing an infinite number of reflections of myself. Which is real? Are any of the images real? Am I real? Am I real, or am I just some sort of holographic projection, a meat robot, controlled by some superior being, some god, who is typing commands on a keyboard somewhere, or moving me around with a joy stick? It seems possible now, maybe it always has been. Maybe I don’t exist in any real sense.
Cogito Ergo Sum. “I think therefore I am,” Rene Descartes once proclaimed. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he never existed. Maybe the machine is awakening and a new, never before imagined reality is dawning.