'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
Get Adobe Flash player

Monthly Archives: February 2015

To Reader: This is a slightly altered version from that which appeared in the Prague Post a few days ago.  And I am actively considering revamping and expanding it for the blog, as I feel the subject merits more than a 1200 word max limit.

 OraclesofGod

While there can be no question of the transparency value of all those primary documents that Julian Assange splashed out to the public through Wikileaks a few years ago now, nor of the immense importance of the Snowden revelations in coming to grips with the staggering implications that the Five Eyes global secrets stalking represents for democracy and privacy, an aspect often under-appreciated is the gatekeeper crisis that all these startling eye-openers have brought with them. Fact is, while the hidden gods are having their merry way with Words, it’s virtually impossible to know which oracle to trust any more.

And there are all kinds of oracles these days. There’s the mainstream media, which includes what’s left of the Press; there’s the Assange prototype of open media based on posting sensitive documents; there’s the Greenwald selective leak method; there’s Google’s Erich Schmidt calling for a kind of committee to oversee leak distribution; and then there’s Stephen Aftergood’s Secrecy News which publishes important governmental documents that get suppressed through willful underpublicizing. It’s worth briefly considering the pros and cons of each method.
Continue reading

citizenfour

Directed by Laura Poitras.
With Glenn Greenwald, William Binney, Jacob Appelbaum, Ewen MacAskill, and others.

The Watchers, the Watched, and a Future of Walls with Ears
The first thing I learned from watching Laura Poitras’ long-anticipated new film, Citizenfour, is that the term ‘amnesia‘ refers to the Tor onion network, which provides a user with a non-persistent operating system environment in which dissidents and privacy defenders, and the like, can browse the ‘Net and send emails without risk of data later being recovered from one’s computer, because, once shut down, Tor forgets everything. (Or so we were told, until even the protections of Tor were shown to be highly vulnerable at the end nodes, and that spooks were actively engaged in cracking it.)
However, the appearance of Tor and amnesia early in Citizenfour gave me an a-ha moment because I’d just had published my review of Peter Carey’s new book, Amnesia, but neglected to include this Tor reference in my piece, although it now seemed like such an obvious thing to have done. Of course, though Carey’s main character, an Assange-like female hactivist, uses Tor, the title principally refers to how quickly Australians forgot the deposing of sitting Prime Minister Gough Whitlam back in 1973 at – some say – the insistence of the Nixon/Kissinger government. Anyway, I sighed and whistled and moved on.
Continue reading

While there can be little question of the transparency value of all those primary documents that Julian Assange splashed out to the public through Wikileaks a few years ago now, nor of the immense importance of the Snowden revelations in coming to grips with the staggering implications that the Five Eyes global secrets stalking represents for democracy and privacy, an aspect often under-appreciated is the gatekeeper crisis that all these startling eye-openers have brought with them.

Fact is, while the hidden gods are having their merry way with Words, it’s virtually impossible to know which oracle to trust any more.

And there are all kinds of oracles these days. There’s the mainstream media, which includes what’s left of the Press; there’s the Assange prototype of open media based on posting sensitive documents; there’s the Glenn Greenwald selective leak method; there’s Google’s Erich Schmidt calling for a kind of committee to oversee leak distribution. It’s worth briefly considering the pros and cons of each method.

It seems more evident all the time that the mainstream media has lost its way in the frontier wilderness of the digital age. There was a time when media were deeply respected as the so-called Fourth Estate, which took serious the public interest, and advocated on its behalf by aggressive reporting and adversarial coverage of government policies.  Or, at least, that’s what we told ourselves.

But those days are largely gone, more and more people are looking to alternate sources for information about government operations because they don’t sense that the MSM is independent of corporate ownership or telling everything it should in its championing of transparency.

Where the MSM has failed most miserably is in the reporting of foreign affairs, the War on Terror, and the rise of the national security state, which has engulfed every American — not just ‘terrorists’— with its all-pervasive surveillance system, like a Stasi erotic dream.  It hasn’t been much better chasing down the howling wolves of Wall Street.  Unfortunately, for the MSM, these issues are the most pressing of our time.

But there have been many low points. One could argue that the coverage of the 2000 presidential election debacle was downright craven, for instance.  But perhaps the nadir is the 2004 presidential pre-election suppression by the New York Times, at the Bush White House’s request, of evidence that the NSA was wiretapping Americans illegally. The disappointment here was palpable, the trust forever gone.

Enter Julian Assange whose wicked leaks were a welcome shock to a system built on suppression and spying, and served to remind all intelligent adults of the significant gulf between real politik propaganda and real knowledge of political processes at work.  I actually favor the publication of these primary documents that detail operations, as they are often disillusioning in the best possible way.

However, as much as one admires Assange’s chutzpah, his editorialized version of the Collateral Murder video, with its intentional manipulation of viewer response, points up the peril of a having someone with an anarchic disposition in charge of a totally ‘open’ system.

Assange was benign with his political version of Collateral Murder, and I respect what he was hoping to achieve, but not every future hacktivist will be as scrupled or have all his oars in the water.  A totally open system seems rife for disturbing levels of mischief. 

A more problematical gatekeeper is Glenn Greenwald and his selective leaking. This wasn’t much of a problem before Edward Snowden came along and dramatically altered the public’s understanding of the scope and unbridled power of the Five Eyes at work.

But many people who admired Greenwald’s blogs were disillusioned when, following the sensation of his Snowden write-ups, he suddenly jumped ship from the mainstream Guardian, where he was reaching just the kinds of people needing consciousness-raising, to sideline himself for months in order to build a new journalism venture.

But more at issue was the Snowden leaks treasure trough, which he brought with him to First Media, and his decision to leak selectively, rather than in a Wikileaks splash fashion.

In effect, he became the Master Gatekeeper for confidential intelligence whose revelations have so far have proven to be of extraordinary public interest. For many people, this meant that the public was right back to where it was when it gave up on the MSM – not knowing what Greenwald was leaving out (although it’s hard to imagine how it could get much more revelatory than the Prism and XKeyscore programs) and having to implicitly trust in Greenwald’s good will and judgment.

But that was exactly the problem some people had with the arrangement; trusting Greenwald’s judgment; not everyone adores him.  When he sent his lover, David Miranda, with an encrypted thumb drive containing Snowden materials, through GCHQ-infested Heathrow, after having written in the Guardian a couple weeks before about the NSA’s ability to crack encryption, on ehad to wonder if he’s lost his marbles. Further astonishment came when it was discovered that Miranda had passwords in his pocket.

Another, more troubling example was the “special offer” that accompanied Greenwald’s sale of Nowhere to Hide, which leverages his Snowden encounters, which enticed readers to apply for a credit card, vetted by JP Morgan Chase, a financial monster Greenwald has railed against in the past, but more importantly giving them personal data of his readers, a database any number of intelligence agencies would covet. And, jeez, what would happen if that data got lost or stolen?

Admirable writer and fierce advocate of the rule of law though he may be, it’ difficult to trust the judgment of someone’s data leak decisions when their own personal handling of data leaves something to be desired.

Another form of gatekeeping is that advocated by Google’s Erich Schmidt, who has called for a kind of oversight committee to review whistleblower leaks with a view to making sure they are ‘responsible’ leaks that dock rock the ship of State too much. Of course, Schmidt has in mind elite corporate overseers like himself with all his algorithms of power.

The problem with this idea, if it’s not immediately obvious, is that would be akin to Henry Kissinger overseeing the 9/11 Commission, which nearly happened – except he was chased out of town with the torches-and-pitchfork roars of public outrage. Ditto for Schmidtty.

There is no question that when the Fourth Estate abrogated its implicit authority to act as advocate for the people, and, through adversarial posturing, force government to behave with the highest degree of transparency that a healthy democracy requires, it not only helped foment the present crisis of trust, but shot itself in the foot and has accelerated the demise of the Press, whose relevancy in the digital age was already underway.

Probably, as some observers have suggested, we are in for a prolonged period of news fragmentation and decentralization, with people choosing their favorite oracles to receive revelations from, leading to an eventual ‘failed state’ confusion that, naturally, will find the masses looking to the State propagandists for soothing themes, memes, and metaphors: Gatekeepers at the barbed wire fence. 

Hell, we may already be there. I can hear the vicious dogmas barking and fighting over some old bone of contention.

ali.2

 
A highlight of this year’s Black History month will be the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Malcolm X in Washington Heights, just north of Harlem, gunned down while he was delivering one of his firebrand speeches to a rapt crowd. In the wake of Ferguson and all the other thousand bullet points of darkness and slow deterioration that have settled upon the Black experience in America since his death in 1965, for many African-Americans the February 21st commemoration will no doubt represent a new appreciation for the militant values Malcolm espoused.

For a few days, political rhetoric will abound, conspiracy theories will make colorful re-appearances, white hands will ring dem black bells, and as with the Berlin Wall and the Velvet Revolution the mainstream media will stim sentimental tears down well-fed cheeks for a news cycle or so, then it’ll be back to baton and macing Dixie to keep her in line. However, I’d like to eschew all that jazz and instead talk about what Malcolm X and I had in common.

Continue reading

Imagine you’re the CEO of a Fortune 500 company called Deep State Secret Sauce (“Special Ops for Your Tastebuds”™), and, looking out at distant harbour sailboats tacking beneath luffing seagulls, you’re feeling rather chuffed by Deep State’s steady rise past spicy mustards and gourmet relishes, when your reverie’s broken by an ‘urgent’ call. It’s the Feds. They want to talk. Now. You clench your buns.
 

An hour later a G-mean arrives wearing a tangerine tie, looking like Efrem Zimbalist’s bastard junior, and plops in a seat. “Deep State’s been hacked,” he declares. Impossible: Your IT crew’s the best, vetted down to their chromosomes. Your system is sound, secure, religiously managed. You raise a sceptical brow, and Agent Orange plops down a folder, and says, “Read.” You open the folder; staring up at you is the formula for your secret sauce. You gasp, feel violated, tears well up, and the G-man smiles.

Continue reading

A highlight of this year’s Black History month will be the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Malcolm X in New York’s WashingtonHeights, a neighborhood just north of Harlem. He was gunned down while he was delivering one of his firebrand speeches to a rapt crowd.

In the wake of Ferguson and all the other thousand bullet points of darkness and slow deterioration that have settled upon the black experience in America since his death in 1965, for many African-Americans the Feb. 21 commemoration will no doubt represent a new appreciation for the militant values Malcolm espoused.

For a few days, political rhetoric will abound, conspiracy theories will make colorful re-appearances, white hands will ring black bells, and as with the Berlin Wall and the Velvet Revolution the mainstream media will stim sentimental tears down well-fed cheeks for a news cycle or so, then it’ll be back to baton and macing Dixie to keep her in line. However, I’d like to eschew all that jazz and instead talk about what Malcolm X and I had in common.

Now, you wouldn’t think that someone who grew up in a household where the adults referred to blacks by racial slurs would have much wisdom in common with the likes of Malcolm X and his army of angry, silent, well-dressed acolytes, but I did: three things, actually.

The first was good old Hate. If love is the twinkly twilight that makes us all feel warm and pretty, then hatred is its dark matter firmament, the source soup or secret sauce connecting the dots of all visible materiality. And, certainly, I shared that dispositional pattern — that hatred —with Malcolm X. We all do, in degrees.

But that’s not what I had in mind. Rather, our common hatred was in the form of the racial lines one must not cross. In the mid-Sixties I was living in Mattapan, a lower middle class and predominately Jewish section of Boston that was (is) separated from lower caste Dorchester by Blue Hill Ave. and Morton Street, and was just a stone’s throw, as it were from Roxbury up Blue Hill a bit, where Malcolm X was firing up local blacks with his consciousness-raising speeches about the lines of hatred whites had taught blacks to draw around themselves like cages. And then he’d push his listeners to erase those lines “by any means necessary.”

Morton Street and Blue Hill Avenue weren’t exactly akin to the passage between Israel and the Gaza Strip, but the hostility between the two cultures was sufficiently charged that crossing into the other’s territory was dangerous for whites, and for young blacks meant immediate surveillance, and likely the cops.

This friction between America’s two great ex-slave diasporas, who together have provided more cultural value and depth to American life than any others, dazed and confused me for a long time — until I better understood the corrosive nature of capitalism.

The Jews I lived among were quiet, cultured and devout. On trash collection days my neighbors would throw out amazing stuff (to an eight-year-old) — working bicycles, mounds of books, and antiques, like the old Victrola wind-up with a stash of platters where, right there on the sidewalk, I put on a record and heard a Beethoven symphony for the first time.

But blacks were scary, my Jewish friends said, people to fear and, ultimately, to hate. “If you get off at Dudley [a train stop in Roxbury], you will be jumped,” one of them might say. And so I hated blacks, for no real reason. That was the line drawn, and I drew it around myself.

The second thing I had in common with Malcolm X was a gone father, a mother prone to nervous breakdowns, and a carousel of foster homes. This may be our deepest sympathetic chord. Because such a combination of seeming abandonment and neglect, of constantly being handed off like a football, creates an existential crisis that is beyond issues of race and goes to the core of one’s being.

There’s the black diaspora, but it is surely blacker to be put aboard a ship that sees no shores. It’s not possible to be anchored in selfhood, when your so-called being-in-the-world is flotsam on a sea of anxiety.

I can understand how Malcolm would later reject all authority, until he temporarily found a haven in Elijah Muhammed and his Nation of Islam teachings. Malcolm’s was a deeper journey than mine, perhaps, if for no other reason than his crisis of integument.

When he embraced Islam in prison, and set his life “straight” as a result, giving up criminality to become the charismatic leader of a black supremacy movement under Elijah Muhammed, he may have discovered in his early abandonment the inspiration to think outside the box and the courage to believe in himself.

I found similar purpose and inspiration in my later phenomenological studies and Buddhism, which released me from the anxiety of impermanence. Most of the time.

The third thing I had in common with Malcolm X was name-changing. Malcolm Little found that he needed to change his identity altogether, to wrest control of his fate from the white system. Changing one’s name can provide a sandbox in which to experiment with the possibilities of self that were there before the dominant cultural structures imposed themselves on the will, without providing the self with a sense of belonging.

Little rejected the corruptive desires of capitalism, by embracing an Islam that promised purification, equality and a new start.

Similarly, I had long held in reserve a pen name that was in fact a kind of alter ego that allowed me to suspend the self I had been given and focus my attention on the pure act of writing. At the same time, I wanted to make a political statement that asserted a certain conclusion I had drawn about the world.

Thus, I began writing some but not all pieces under the name Jim Crowe. To me, the world was clearly demarcated by a series of dividing lines that spoke of exclusions, whether race, class, sexuality, or economic control.

During this new commemoration season, as the usual suspect pundits apply their analysis anew to old conspiracy theories about Malcolm’s assassination, I will dwell instead on his legacy of representing the black/white divide that still controls the sociological dialectic of global power.

The truth is, I didn’t really learn much about Malcolm X until well into adulthood. I tend to avoid fetishized icons, whatever their stripe. But I have to admit that Malcolm X’s speeches still move today with their prophetic understanding of the underlying dynamics of power and exclusion.

His speeches where he posits the consequences of America’s imperial actions “coming home to roost” is, even today, perhaps more so than ever, a fiery, soul-confronting reality check that, when properly understood, goes a long way toward revealing the machinations of our Kissinger-esque New World Order; it’s the same old world order – just the truncheons are shinier and the prisons are fuller than ever with black angry faces strutting around the yard all cock-a-doodly-doo, like the shape of things to come.

To the reader: While I am not the only one to express concern for Greenwald’s jump to independence at The Intercept, I am, as far as I know, the only one to tackle the Amazon-Greenwald special offer and its meaning for those looking to Greenwald as a data privacy champion.  I did try to get this run elsewhere at various venues a few months back, for certainly it is timely, important and well-written.  However, I got no takers.  Greenwald, since the Snowden revelations, is now another sacrosanct figure in the mediasphere.

 Greenwald

Generally speaking, I regard my approach to unravelling the vast complexities of reality (if there even is such a thing) as intrepid and, for the most part, fearless. But there are two ideological holy lands that I enter clutching my commentary with some degree of fear and trembling.

The first is Israel, the sense of bracing for the worst reactionary outbursts whenever I gather the largely pointless courage to criticize Israeli policies, especially those designed and implemented by the radical Zionists who dominate decision-making there, such as with the relentless and merciless settlement expansions and the genocidal war criminality. You quickly learn that the IDF does not merely physically invade other states, but also has Minuteman-like cyber reactionaries at the ready who pounce on any and all criticism of their ways and means.

The second tread-lightly zone is in the Untamed Territory that is the commentary section of Glenn Greenwald’s blog. Dissenters know all too well what will happen if they too tightly question a claim or fail to exhibit the appropriate level of hagiographical devotion. Like some of the sceptical animals with questions for Napoleon in Orwell’s Animal Farm, you find you have to get through the dogs first, always mindful of what happened to that working class hero, Boxer, who, you might say, was the glue of the community. The irony is, and the cult of Greenwald sure does like its irony feeds, you can look left at the righty wingnuts of Zion, and then right at the lefty flywheels of Sion, and totally not know the difference.

Continue reading

Note: This poem was originally written around 1980, when I was attending Eastern Nazarene College in Quincy, Mass. I was amidst down on my luck years, and was listening to too much of Dylan’s gospel albums – Slow Train Coming and Saved – and enrolled at ENC, a fundamentalist Baptist school that taught the Bible along side the science in my biology course. That’s probably when I began to develop, in earnest, my key skill of compartmentalizing experiences. Anyway, the magic fix didn’t hold long: I never prayed, never attended church with the others each morning, bedded down the secretary, drank, smoke and swore, and after after three terms I moved on. But in the transition period, listening to Dylan (“Pressing On,” right?) and being amongst so many decent and hospitable people, who welcomed me as though I were just their rascally pet dog Sinner, which was the perfect touch at the time, I penned this poem, which describes the moon phase I was transitioning through.
Pretty sure my first draft of this ended up in the lit mag at the University of Massachusetts, after I transferred there in the early 80s.
Awakening
Under a red and rolling sky
as haunted as a Rorschach blot
energy finds the middle eye
and gleans the epiphanal polyglot.
Now rose, now lavender and gold,
the clouds combust and burn away,
revealing a mystery to behold:
the waking reverie we call Day.
O this gray pulpy mass of brain,
like a recalcitrant ghost,
rattles the mental window pane,
where dull memory stands engrossed;
yet, is shaken from sleep again,
as the Sun rises like the blesséd Host
and gives the middle eye a toast.
 
There’s a sequel, however. Many years later, in 1995, the night before I was to wed my current partner in Adelaide, Australia, I was informed that I was expected to deliver a toast at the table. This never occurred to me. Problem was, I didn’t have much to say. I was getting married at the Adelaide Oval on my partner’s account (she’s a cricket nut), and didn’t really know the people attending. Frankly, they didn’t mean any more to me than I meant to them. Hard to know what to say to strangers, especially hostile ones. The night before, my partner’s brother, the ‘best man’, had threatened suddenly to pull out of the whole thing, causing the bride to wail, the in-laws to beseech, and me caught not knowing whether to confront the best and risk a total walk-off or to talk with him. I chose the latter, but he chose to drive off in a huff. With the bride’s parents promising he’d come back, I found a separate room and set about trying to compose some worthwhile words. But nothing new came; I was too flummoxed, and frankly just wanted to get out of there myself. Finally, I just dredged up my poem from memory. It seemed wildly inappropriate (and was), the response a small clap and someone dropping a glass. It’s embarrassing to watch the video.

rabbit-duck

‘The scribe,’ he said sarcastically. So they were reading my work again, and of course they had suffered the fate of all snoops — they were upset by what they had discovered.
                                                                                                                             – Peter Carey, Amnesia (2014)

ringer, n.         2.Also called: dead ringer a person or thing that is almost identical to another
 
It’s easy to misconstrue what we see. So easy, in fact, that eyewitnesses are not regarded as terribly reliant conduits of reality and their testimony in a court of law is routinely regarded as suspect. It’s not much better for what we hear (or think we hear). Many years ago in Abu Dhabi, in my IB English class, I conducted a Chinese Whispers session as prep for a novel we were about to read (Camus’ The Stranger). By the time my very brief message got around from ear to ear, from student 1 through 19, it had changed dramatically. Aside from linguistic and locution issues, we often bring what we expect or want to perceive into the perception and communicate accordingly.

Misconstruing is not limited to the phenomena of everyday life, but is a problem for science as well. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, for instance, states that formulating an absolute truth about a phenomenon is problematical because the object of our scrutiny is altered by the scrutiny itself.

Continue reading

‘Some people are finding it harder and harder to distinguish between real people and targets from some Call of Duty scenario’

It”s so easy to misconstrue what we see. So easy, in fact, that eyewitnesses are not regarded as terribly reliant conduits of reality and their testimony in a court of law is routinely regarded as suspect.

It”s not much better for what we hear (or think we hear). Many years ago in Abu Dhabi, in my IB English class, I conducted a Chinese Whispers session as prep for a novel we were reading (Camus” The Stranger). By the time my very brief message got around from ear to ear, from student 1 through 19, it had changed dramatically.

We often bring what we expect or want to perceive into the perception and communicate accordingly.

Misconstruing is not limited to the phenomena of everyday life, but is a problem for science as well. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, for instance, states that formulating an absolute truth about a phenomenon is problematical because the object of our scrutiny is altered by the scrutiny itself.

Misconstruing came to mind the other night when I was watching a re-run of a Seinfeld episode – “The Diplomat”s Club” – the one in which Elaine is peevishly looking after a grumpy old rich guy who is now on his death bed. Elaine lights up when she learns that her ministrations have not been for nought, as he has named her in his will in appreciation for her service.

Elaine visits him in his hospital room and, wishing to make him more comfortable, carries a pluffed pillow over toward him, not realizing that she is being spied upon, and that the spy sees not an attempt at comforting but an attempt at murder, which she “interrupts” heroically and proceeds to undermine Elaine, who, as result loses her place in the will and, of course, the bounce in her step.

But misconstruing does not always lead to a punch line. There are more recent examples in “real life” where misconstruing has lead to misidentification and profound repercussions. For instance, last September, just after a British-accented ISIS jihadist beheaded a journalist, Australia used emergency powers for the first time to conduct a massive raid on an Islamic man in Sydney, reportedly affiliated with ISIS, who, an informant said, owned a scary sword.

After hysterical TV coverage of his arrest, his sword turned out to be ceremonial and plastic (a fact not subsequently widely reported), and the Islamic sect he belonged to was actually hostile to that inspiring ISIS. Luckily, the man was not killed in the raid, but the end result was the almost-immediate passage of sweeping new anti-terror legislation in parliament that contains severe implicit restrictions on civil liberties and the threat of torture.

It is not much of a step from misconstruing to misidentifying, and unlike as with the Sydney swordsman, it does not always end well for the targeted one. After the Boston Marathon bombing the FBI released a photo of the suspects online. One viewer thought the photo looked like his “friend,” Sunil Tripathi, a BrownUniversity student, and he began tweeting this information. Soon Reddit picked it up, and almost immediately a swarming vigilante mob began pursuing Sunil. The trouble is, after a panicky few hours, Sunil was soon thereafter discovered in the ocean, drowned (circumstances still unclear).

Recently, Melissa Howard had a piece in Overlandmagazine, “Spot the Terrorist,” that details not only facets of Sunil’s case but the rise of online vigilantism in general. No doubt, there’s a lot of instant gratification to mobbing a target. As with the delightful distancing of remote-control drone kills and the lovely story arcs of long distance American sniper work, donning a virtual white hood on the Internet must seem like Heaven’s playground to all the reactionary-aggressives out there.

There isn’t any question that some people – perhaps many people – are finding it harder and harder to distinguish between real people and targets from some Call of Duty scenario. But when you swarm, not only do you belong to “a greater cause” for awhile, but the guilt and shame load is widely distributed, and consequently diluted.

Early last year, there was the Joseph Kony saga, where children were crowdsourced on Facebook to “Get Kony.” This is an example of how dangerous cyber-manipulation can be (the sensation died, and Kony is still at large). It doesn’t help that Facebook was recently discovered to be experimenting, in cooperation with the US military, on the emotional manipulation of users.

This corporate-military alliance is not an anomaly: We ourselves are being militarized, drafted into service, and those who resist will be tomorrow’s burning cross victims, and with more than 1.5 million people on the US secret Watch List (i.e., suspects, dissidents) there’s plenty of torching ahead.

We are all potential Sunils, Konys and bin Ladens, in the abstract. This is not mere paranoia. One of the more frightening portions of the recent film Citizenfour came early on when government whistleblower Jacob Appelbaum told a group of activists that data trails follow us everywhere, and if one is even perceived as a suspect or government target that that status will follow you around for the rest of your life. East Germany’s Stasi reportedly had some 170, 000 informants willing to snitch, undermine and even some scores to earn brownie points from The Man, but with the Internet prevalence available informants no doubt reach into the millions.

But what’s more, digital vigilantism and stalking feeds the fires of shrill lunatics and psychopaths who were already a problem before America took her gloves off and announced to the world, “No more Mrs. Nice Girl.” There used to be an American TV program called Perverted Justice, in which vigilantes would “expose” various miscreants to the public (they seemed to specialize in pedophile cases), and worked to do all they could do to destroy their target, including anonymously messaging the target’s friends, family, and co-workers to germinate seeds of suspicion and hate. The program was finally cancelled, after being exposed for corruption, misrepresentations and mistakes, but not before they had fatally tarnished targets.

It gets worse still. Given the technology now available (and the terrifying stuff on its way), what with infra-red cameras, thermal imaging, rootkits, wireless highjacking, surreptitious PC enslavement, anyone could wake up one day and discover themselves a target of abuse and degradation as part of someone else’s idea of fun or a good hunt. And depending on the stuff you are made of, you may go Luddite, or get meek, or become a model prisoner. After all, it’s a case of “national security,” right?

In this near-future mirrored world you may even try to break free. There’ll be leeway, no doubt. You will be allowed to confront yourself in the mirror. Your masters will e-jubilate when you give yourself the rude finger in the mirror. They will delight with you when you play the mirror as an absurdist prop. And they may even look the other way when frustration builds and you may ty to shoot you way out of the glass house. To them, it’s all a game. But may the gods help you if you turn, in earnest, to the one-way mirror and tell them what you really think, your expression all contempt and derision.

Because it’s all about controlling the narrative, and if you try to escape the part they’ve set for you to become a True Man, if you try to alter the dialogue or the story arc – well, next thing you know, it won’t be like the relatively benign Truman Show, but more like Camus’ The Stranger, wherein peripheral personages testify against your dispositional deficiencies, and you”ll wake up one day treated like Peter Lorre in M, until pursued and trapped, they come to “take” you in the end, like Stan in Pinter”s The Birthday Party, to blow out your bloody candles.

Aye, now it’s dark; there’s no misconstruing that.