Let us assume it is inevitable
And let us prepare to prepare for work, having lost what we will have lost.
Let us not assume that evolution is loyal.
It is today; we are inbounds, and no one knows where loyalty ends
Until they’ve recognised that there’s a new way
A way that makes it possible to make more delights for this world
Per dollar spent to such a degree
That to ignore it would be malpractice.
It is the wild jungle, and it will be blameless.
Let us prepare for that, sure,
But let’s not dwell on the inevitable.
Let’s prepare to lose what we will have lost
If we are among the fortunate few who survive.
Creativity, I have heard, is a journey into the basement
So full of this and that that you forget what’s down there.
You have to forget because to keep it all in focus
Would drive you mad.
You send yourself down to put hands on whatever item you can find
In the dark, and you call yourself back up,
“Let’s have a look.” And the thing is either quality or trash.
You write a function with your hands on the home keys
And the journey over the stairs might happen
Forty times. You name a project something silly and the trip might happen
Forty times. You may be handed something that is only quality to you
And to those who get you. Those who have also forgotten
Something that they somehow know anyway was down there.
And we ship these things. And we defend these things.
These things become our culture.
There exists a machine now where you pull the lever
And like quicksilver it comes up the stairs with
Forty things. Let us not pretend that they will all be broken things.
We can ship these things.
These things from the basement of the masses.
We remember the texture of the handrail, wooden with divots, painted over.
We recall the things that once came up that we decided to keep, which seemed so miraculous.
We will have survived, blameless.
What is it we will recall?
What is it we will have lost?
Sorry this one didn’t rhyme. Rhymes sell, I know. I used to look at free verse poems like Pollock paintings. “Well hell anyone could have done that.” And it’s true. You could! You have a basement full of splatters and portraits and your kids’ fallen teeth and everything you’ll ever see in your sleep just like Jackson Pollock had. He just got there when he did. You and me, we can get there today. It may not sell for millions but it’s ours. It’s worth it to have a look. It’s holy work. And hey, grinding out things for the capitalists might be the hand you were dealt. You can take up space at the line. You can make it sacred. It matters. What else could possibly matter?
All right. Take ‘er easy.
This is Phil.