The Roses are Stones
And your audience: the pallbearers
"It was as though Keda was detached from the world, exalted and magnificently alone in their rose-red haze of the upper air."
"They were unreal. They were so far, so remote. No longer of her, they were over."
"At the edge of age, there was a perilous beauty in her face as of the crag's edge that she stood upon."
"The last of footholds; such a little space. The colour fading on the seven-foot strip. It lay behind her like a carpet of roses. The roses were stones."
Titus Groan - The Roses Were Stones
-- by Mervyn Peake, first published 1946
The Stone Age
The Audience are pallbearers.
Their hearses flanked by gargoyles.
All is sullen and gloomy at the dawn of our funereal age.
Only the quarry bustles with activity, of slaves and their back breaking toil.
Mining needed raw materials.
Meeting demands, flooding the zones.
Flooding to the edges of age. Flooding to stifle and drown out, anger and rage.
Flooding the Zone with Shit.
Flood audiences back into the Stone Age,
Until they willingly carry coffins,
Heavy burdens.
Caskets of Sanguine Groan: mourning not uttered.
Stifled Hysteria: gagged, internalized shrieking.
Flood the zone with stones. Avoid getting caught.
Flood the zone with shit, repetition. Try not to drown.
It doesn't matter when sources send a signal; truth or not means naught.
Flood the zone with shit. Weighty stones casting you down.
Cycles, feeds, scores of poorly patterned thought.
Hyper-polarize, looking for common traits. Flood the zone with shit.
Looking for allies to fight against it, to fight back harder.
Fighting to make a single decision, but to fight what.... one wont yet name?
Flood the zone with shit, until you're seeking perdition.
Flood the zone with shit, repetition.
Flood the zone with shit. Go online to make a decision.
Flood the zone with shit. Go bathe in it, be sodden in mire and muck of your own derision.
Flood the zone with shit, until you don't give a fuck.
The Stones perched above you watch quietly
What did I do to get here?
I've been researching 'Hyper-Polarization' over the past month or so, and can see it's incremental rise in popularity of late. I see this with disdain, and struggle to keep a stony indifference in the face of 'hyper-polarization's' spread.
One blunt thwack slaps away whatever the past month's research efforts were for, replacing it. Thwacking, thinking was much ado about naught, months researching for naw-thing, because hyper-polarization arrived already. It's knock, knock knocking on your doors (of perception).
The free-thinking, the warrior individuals, the lone were influenced through urgency and possessed by necessity. The lone were arisen only to be stoned by jagged chunks of granite and basalt boulders wrenched loose and hurled from over the bluff's horizon.
Aloner lone knows best the chances of tipping a Ponerological Armageddon that's looms over the horizon: tipping it in one's favour. But tipping for all of one's favour is to tip to all who share a common trait. Despite hyper-polarization, what dictates what traits we share in common?
Do you know? Can you guess? Could you entertain the possibility that whatever dictates among us whichever traits be so common as to be in kind, none of them are of our diction. Or suited to our predilection. Or for our safety and guidance: to give us a general collective direction. Do you want to flood the zone with shit or do we all unconsciously love the flooded zones of shit we're in today?
Despite hyper-polarization and repetition of Flood the Zone with Shit - there is one trait shared in common we all share. It is dictated upon us but that is what enables all to share in it. It is a shared suffering, spread far and wide. We share in suffering..
Ingrates
Flooding the Zone with Shit is our fate?
Or is it more Like a Mockingbird on The News Wire?
Or is it a Lyre Bird?
Conclusion
"Now the ordinary dramatis personae of a Euripidean tragedy are these protagonists in a drama of human life. The deus ex machina is not a human protagonist, but an incorporeal spirit of surmise, of hope or faith—in form a messenger from the uncharted, but in reality no more than a projection of our own, to which faith or hope alone is emboldened to give the sanction of a deus, of a messenger from some region beyond the scope of our explored experience."
R. B. Appleton (1920). The Deus-ex-Machina in Euripides. The Classical Review, 34, pp
10-14 doi:10.1017/S0009840X00013238