This morning I woke up to news of NASA’s supply mission to the International Space Station having come to a premature and spectacular end in the form of a giant fireball to the tune of 100,000,000 dollars. It is a story like any other I suppose; good intentions marred by budget restrictions, management vulnerable to human error and ego, and an unhappy ending tempered only by the fact that no one was hurt. A lot like your average divorce then.
Still, I don’t write simply for the sake of writing. I am not enslaved to a corporate paycheck, and I have no vested interest in pleasing a particular customer base. I am a literary ronin. I fear no deadlines and answer to no editor. The words before you are unmarred by the censor’s pen. Thus I am permitted by default to speak the truth as others are simply not. Good. Fuck them. Fuck them and their corporate sponsors.
It is a tragedy of our time that kids like Justin Bieber are more popular than humanity’s collective efforts to better ourselves by pushing back the veil across the universe so omnipresent yet so inconceivably distant. The Indian Mars mission cost less than most Hollywood blockbusters, and yet it received little attention in the West beyond a thoroughly collectively surprised: “whoa! India has a space program?” Yeah, also, after this morning it appears to be better than ours.
Meanwhile we lose our minds over the most trivial crap – usually whatever is showing on MTV and FOX “news” or whatever Bill Maher said that makes uncomfortable amounts of sense in a world so pacified by political correctness it has lost the ability to be true to itself. Global warming? Not real. The younger generation? Doomed. Terrorism? ISIS is in our schools, and let’s not forget to enjoy life because Ebola is going to wipe us off the planet.
I advocate – whenever I can – that everyone take a deep breath, count to 10, and stop relishing the flawed nature of their humanity quite so thoroughly.