Thursday, September 27, 2007
disillusioned
Cripes man, ain't that a kick in the teeth or so the old song goes.
Right fucking here, in my much beloved hometown. Although at present I am sometimes overheard to malign it and its frightening transformation, it's still my fucking home.
Until now, my gripes have been primarily about the physical transformation as the leaders of our fair city endeavor to make us grow up and become a real city. I lack the profanity to properly express my anger and anguish at the creeping cancerous growth of the vast homogenizing franchised soul-crushing sameness of post-suburban living.
Until now I could at least still entertain the illusion that although the place has undergone dramatic physical change over the two plus decades of my being here, the people, like the song, remained the same.
I could still imagine that most of the populace, yes the people, both life blood and beating heart to the city, were well, just like the kids. They were alright.
I fear I have been sadly mistaken.
Sigh. . .
Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away;
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air.
You better watch out,
There may be dogs about
Ive looked over Jordan, and I have seen
Things are not what they seem.
What do you get for pretending the dangers not real.
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is no bad dream.
- Roger Waters
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