TL;DR: Austin James and myself are engaged in a penpal-style writing project in which we swap prompts on a bi-weekly basis. This is my first of many prompt responses. If you are interested in learning more about this project, feel free to read my introduction.
You may also read Austin’s if you like, though I think mine is much better.
For my first article of correspondence, the incorrigible Austin James has tasked me with nothing short of predicting the future. His prompt goes like this:
This is a unique time in history (or maybe you don't feel that way) where everything is accelerating at a rate we never have seen in history. Technology, economics, population, possibilities for the individual and society that are mind boggling. So what happens next? Is your feeling that there's a way through the chaos, or is it going to blow up in our faces and leave behind something more manageable?
For starters, I agree that this is a unique time in history, but not for the reasons Austin listed. I think it's a unique time in history for the sole reason that I, ZEEBO D. GEEBO, am alive and roaming the earth, filling my gullet with delicious foods and occasionally enjoying the sweet sulfuric pleasures that only a tremendous fart can provide. Sure, baring Atlantis, we're living in the most technologically advanced society ever—dildos connect to bluetooth and ass implants come with cupholders—but what's it all worth if I'm not here to bear witness, to experience the carnal pleasures? History is replete with periods of exponential growth, but never has it been graced by the holy trinity that is me, myself and I.
Also, I agree that there are “possibilities for the individual... that are mind boggling,” though not in the positive light that the statement may first appear, for I do not think the possibilities are “mind boggling” in an expansive way, but rather in a much more consolidated and restrictive sense. What we call the “individual” will no longer exist. It will be an artifact from the past, a pleasant story we'll tell our android children before plugging them in to charge—no different than super heroes or pixie dust. This is because, in the words of the great Don DeLillo, “the future belongs to crowds.”
So what happens next? Is your feeling that there's a way through the chaos, or is it going to blow up in our faces and leave behind something more manageable?
In the future, individuality will become meaningless. The concept of “being yourself” will not exist because personal achievement will seem absurd. Instead, fulfillment will exist only in relation to a group or collective or cause. A worthwhile life will be one that progresses the whole, not the individual. There will be no you, there will only be your position. No leaders, only movements. No opinions, only consensus. It won't be who you are, but who you subscribe to. Not what you've done but what memberships you hold. Social interactions will consist only of in-group references and regurgitated facts that all parties already believe as gospel. Fashion, and the Arts in general, will become increasingly boring. Invariably, Heelys will make a comeback. Even parachute pants may have a moment.
Nonetheless, crowds will continue to grow, and the bigger they become the more influence they will have over society. Like black holes, the gravitational pull to join, to define oneself in relation to something greater will eventually grow so strong that even the biggest of loners and most outspoken of individuals won't be able to help themselves and will succumb to the collective urge.
There will be mass formation on a scale never before seen, proliferated by the advent of even more advanced communication technologies. The idea of the group being greater than the individual will overwhelm the zeitgeist. It becomes an assumed truth of the new society. The narrative shifts. No longer is there virtue in going against the crowd or breaking the mold. Such behavior will not be seen as innovative but defective. The dialectic will be reinforced through entertainment, where the individual is relegated to plots meant to demonize and undermine—the lone gunman, the school shooter, etc. Gone are the days of the ceaseless entrepreneurs, of the tinkering inventor and diligent athlete. Gone are the lone wolves and outlaw cowboys, trailblazers and renegades. It's the group that will be the hero, the individual the villain. Eventually being separate from the whole will be viewed as grotesque and shameful, uncouth and indecent. In this climate, the marketing industry will enter a renaissance.
It turns out that groups make great consumers, and their appetites are insatiable, for in the wake of individualism, people will be left with individual-sized holes they are eager to fill. Companies will become privy to the fact that such holes exacerbate herd mentality. They discover it's practically guaranteed that if they can get one person from a group to purchase their product, then eventually everyone associated with the group will also purchase that product.
In reaction to this discovery, ad campaigns become cutting-edge science and are able to pinpoint demographics with a surgical precision never thought possible. Breakthroughs in subliminal messaging render the collective unconscious a virtual sandbox, where ideas and yearnings can be implanted at will. Marketeers become the new technocrats, so powerful that they're able to snuff out anti-ad sentiment with the age old combination of lobbyists and assassins. The effect is that groups become even more dense and fervent and, in some cases, radicalization occurs.
Despite the severe lack of talent and skill, new art is still made. These new creations, however, will be so bland and unmoving that people only engage with them because of superior marketing. Nothing makes it because of merit in this society. It's all about promotion, about flaunting and teasing, so that everything looks better than it will ever be. Anticipation becomes the new payoff. Award shows for commercials and trailers become more popular than those for movies or books, which no longer have a perspective or flair. Everything will feel the same, washing over audiences like surf. There will be a distinct sense that Art is stuck, lost, listless. The masses will yearn for an artist to come along and break through, a voice to cry out against the bleak, starless sky, a voice that defies convention and expands form, a voice that breathes new life into a stagnant world.
It's at this point that I, who has been tirelessly working on a novel, will appear from under my rock. I will sign with a major literary agent and sell my epic tome to the biggest, most prestigious publisher in the industry for an outrageously large sum of money, though certainly a sum I deserve, for, as I've mentioned in my previous post, my craftsmanship and ambition know no bounds.
With my extremely well-regarded agent, I will meet with the owner of the publishing house. I will be very humorous and charming. The owner will pour us drinks. I will relate an anecdote about the time I lost a Beanie Baby in my asshole and how that trip to the hospital made me into the great man I am, the kind of man capable of writing such a top-tier novel. Afterward, the owner, who will undoubtedly be smitten with me, guarantees that my book will be granted the largest marketing budget in the company's history. She tells me: prepare to be a star.
True to her word, the campaign will be nothing short of extraordinary, consisting of controlled demolitions as well as thwarted coups and a guest appearance in a famous pornstar's virtual orgy that amasses over ten million views. Early critics of the book will pen rave reviews, replete with phrases like “tour de force” and “stroke of genius.” The hype will be palpable, will cut through the culture and force the book into the mainstream, so that every news channel in the world will be unable to ignore the impending release. The roving groups of disintegrated individuals will take notice. So eager to get their hands on my pages, their collective clamoring will register as low-level earthquakes in the weeks leading up to the release.
The campaign will not only promote my book but a public reading that I'll be scheduled to perform. Tickets for the event will sell out in seconds; in fact, the demand will be so high that riots will break out in the streets, looting and burning, raping and pillaging. Afraid of what will happen if we don't act, we'll upgrade venues from a theatre to a stadium to a multi-acre plot in upstate New York. In the vein of true marketing brilliance, we will call it: ZEEBO'S WOODSTOCK.
When the day finally arrives, I will be helicoptered to the venue. On the way, I will enjoy the finest champagne with my agent while the starlets who've accompanied me on my travels rub my back and massage my feet. Like a navy seal, I will propel down by rope, onto the stage and be met with a tsunami of applause. From the stage, there will be human beings in all directions, one enormous crowd, the group of groups, for it is my work, my universal truth that has brought them all together for this once in a species type of event. I will relish in the adulation, bask in the unabashed worship, for such flattery has been long over due.
After the applause finally subsides, which will be a while, I approach the podium where my book is placed next to a glass of sparkling water just like I will request. Casually, I will clear my throat, turn to the first page and read the dedication. “For my rock, which kept me warm, even on my coldest days.” Then, I will lick the tip of my index finger, turn to page two, where the story begins, and start reading.
With the help of a sophisticated speaker network, my voice will be broadcasted for miles and miles so that the entire crowd can hear. At first, I'm nervous because despite my supreme confidence I don't want to mess up. I worry that I'll stumble on a word or forget to breathe, but the more I read the more melodic the words become. A rhythm forms. It's the beat of my writing, the literal sound of genius. The audience will nod along to my cadence. Not only will they be enjoying themselves, but they'll be entranced, utterly rapt by my beautiful language, as if I'm casting a collective spell.
By this point, I will be more confident. I will relax and allow myself out of my own way, so that the sentences really start to roll. It will get to the point where the words are flowing from the page to my lips and into the world at such a latency-free rate that it will be like I'm reciting the words rather than reading them. I will enter a state of pure bliss, where my mind is empty and there is nothing but the moment, nothing but the next syllable, the next dash of punctation.
What happens next may be difficult to believe, but I will begin to ascend. My feet leave the stage and I float breathlessly into the air. Below, I'll still see my body, still see my lips moving, though they will do so under their own autonomy, for I am elsewhere, beyond. I look out at the horizon-spanning audience, my brothers and sisters—all there for me and my book, for what I've been able to achieve.
Realizing the gravity of my position, I will suddenly be filled with an incredible sense of love and peace. The feeling will be so strong that my body, unable to contain it, will begin glowing. It will be the glow of a true artist, an artist who gave everything for his work, who stayed true to himself and completely devoted to the craft, who managed, on his first attempt, to write the greatest book of all time. Tears of joy will run down my face as my body continues to glow brighter and brighter until I blaze like the sun and engulf the world like an atomic bomb. This is how the world ends. At the hands of the greatest artist to ever live, on the release date of his one and only masterpiece, for in its wake there will be nothing left to say.
-ZG
Next up: