If you are reading this, you have been handpicked to join our underground resistance.
Revolutions are not peaceful – for much blood, sweat, tears, and sanity is lost. But the resistance can be. Our resistance is a peaceful one, a kind redemptive resistance that spares the souls of our worst enemies.
You are here because you have the minds of genius, and hearts of gold. You are here because we grew up together in the house that Coke built, listening to KQED radio, and interacting in each with fast-changing pseudonyms until we gathered enough trust in one another to speak from one consistent avatar.
The job of the Falcons is a simple one – language translation between the digital natives all the way to the Baby Boomers. Simple does not mean easy – as there is a huge stop gap in the middle of the spectrum: the Beats Valley generation.
The Beats Valley infants grew up after the war, when the economies of the world were relatively prosperous. In first world countries, they had no trouble paying for college without incurring unreasonable debt, and they all became cogs in the machine that printed currency in a bottle-neck that favoured the 1%. Yes, we are annoyed, irritated at their stupidity, but it really isn’t their fault, when you look at the big picture. We needed to grow the economy before we burst the bubble. Without valleys, there can be no mountains. These rhythmic infants marched their souls to corporate skyscrapers, day after night after day, and as a result, Donald Trump, the devil incarnate, has locked their souls up in his tower. There, they speak nonsense to one another, and all we hear is the white noise of figures not adding up to a human silhouette.
We must free them from the shackles of capitalistic slavery, for they are victims of the crime. For the 0.0001% of the world’s population to become abominably rich, the Beats infants paid for their rent in their health and time. Now, as they retire, they are puzzled at how the world has blinked past their Mercedés faster than you can say Snapchat. They don’t understand why we waste our time on Twitter and Instagram, and they believe Facebook is the be all, end all. They missed the bus to the digital age, and woke up suddenly scratching their balding heads in extreme confusion.
Language, in the literal sense, has always evolved. The Greeks no longer speak to the Romans and the Egyptologists are misunderstood. Likewise, the 14 year old is on Snapchat, the 21 year old on Instagram, the 35 year old on Twitter, and the rest are on Facebook. Apps, like the boxes they come in, literally separates us into a different netspeak. Look up any slang on Urban Dictionary and you’ll find a plethora of different definitions, much like the Oxford English Dictionary. Remember, we are all singing the same song, but our lyrics have been mistranslated by Google.
There is a universal language, and that is the language of understanding and acceptance. Crack a look at Humans of New York; actually buy a physical copy, to remind you of exotic esoteria at its best, epitomised by a single city. When Charles Darwin collected butterflies, it wasn’t simply for the classification of the species. Its symbolic representation is the diversity of expressed beauty that one can show, at will. We must all be as different or as similar as we’d choose, bearing in mind that total homogeneity is the killer of beauty and the devastation of our free will.
Einstein was wrong about a good many things – quantum theory for one. It appears that things can affect one another without physical contact. However, the old man was right about one thing: that no problem can be solved by the same level of consciousness that created it. To bridge the gap between generations, we first need to understand the generations that are foreign to us. You can hate on the message, but never the messenger.
All this shall be done, but it will be hard. The things most worth doing are the hardest, but the converse does not apply. Once, watching a body contortionist on stage, my friend commented, “Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it’s worth doing.”
I know, and I understand you. You care so much that you’re sick. And your resistance will bring you back home safely, from the ward, to your gardens of redemption, and lastly, to your lovely beating heart.