Remodelers just finished and left after three weeks of trundling about the house. This is hardly worthy of complaint, even within the limited realm of first world problems, but there is a point to be made.
Years ago, when I lived in Lafayette, Indiana, there was a remodeling company which aired commercials on TV. Their slogan was “When the workmen leave, your pride is restored.” They meant, of course, that they will have restored your house to a condition you could be proud of, but they were oblivious to the alternate interpretation: that after weeks of the indignity of surly louts lumbering in and out of your life at their whim, you could once again claim control of your life.
It’s true, you feel it. It affects not only the limited part of the day when they’re physically there, but how you eat, how you sleep, and everything else you do. It’s a stressor, no doubt.
Now imagine being a refugee.
I’m seeing a lot of stuff out there in blogland, from people I generally respect, about the great conspiracy to control us. The government is reading our emails to Aunt Sally, to find out exactly when and where we will meet for dinner. Corporations are conspiring to dictate our very desires, our taste in everything from clothes to music. People, we are being led to the slaughter like so many bovine schlemiels. Resistance is futile.
Except a few of us, small in number, but grand in courage and determination, have been able to see through it all. We few are smarter than all the sheep in America, hell, the world. They are being diabolically controlled, and don’t even know it, but we geniuses have their backs!
The exact nature of this forcible brainwashing is variable. A lot depends on what it is that we, as individuals, are having trouble being successful (okay, rich) at. Personally, I am pretty sure that, since I haven’t made a dime on poetry, that the combined forces of the government and industry have made it their mission to make people believe it’s not good enough. Literary magazines are in on it as well; you can tell from the poems they publish, which I personally can’t make head nor tail of. They don’t publish mine, therefore depriving the ignorant but somehow noble masses from seeing them. And paying me lots of money. Justin Bieber and Billy Collins are both in on this as well.
Bob Dylan probably started the whole thing.