The Corporate Value of Human Life

I wrote this piece many moons ago, back when callous disregard for the poor was still shocking (earth shattering, really) to me. It’s still refreshing to read the voice of someone who feels a scandal is afoot whenever injustice arises, rather than the “yeah, yeah, whatever…” attitude that most of the population uses so as not to feel outraged at all moments of waking capitalism.  So, here it is:

You can seldom walk down the street without a man’s outstretched hand reaching toward you for change, or hearing a plea for a cigarette from someone sitting on the side of the road. As you walk by, you may wonder how he can let things get so bad?, you may ask ‘why the hell doesn’t he just get a job?’ or you may even be thinking about whether or not you fed the cat before you left the house. One thing that may not come to mind right away is that our economic system actually depends on the beggar. In this ‘free market’ of ours, most everything exists for a reason.

When unemployment is high, labor is cheap. When labor is cheap, life is cheap. Every corporation knows that as long as there are people competing for minimum wage, they have to be grateful for what they get. As long as the wages don’t go up, the profits are free to soar. Luckily, multinational corporations also know that they need to keep most of the first world employed in order to keep them rich. They need consumers to buy whatever they are selling. Unfortunately, the poor aren’t consumers, especially not the poor of the Third World.

The truth of this is leaking through the cracks, right from the horse’s mouth. It is becoming known just how expendable non-consumers (the poor) are to profit-seeking institutions. The World Bank, among many other First World financial institutions, is a major lender to the increasingly desperate Third World.  The World Bank’s former Chief Economist, Lawrence Summers, wrote a memo that was leaked to the press in 1992.

 In it, he is quoted as writing, “Just between you and me, shouldn’t the World Bank be encouraging more migration of the dirty industries to the LCD’s? (Less Developed Countries)” He argued that the poor have short lives anyway, so making them shorter by exposing them to toxic waste and pollution won’t make much of a difference. According to him, underdeveloped countries have “inefficiently low” pollution, and compared to the poor, rich people value their clean air and water more because of their greater “aesthetic sensitivity”. 

The scariest part of the whole affair is that once a country is indebted to the World Bank and it’s affiliates, the World Bank does have the power to restructure the indebted county’s domestic and foreign policies. After all, if you owe someone money, you better do what they say, especially if they have binding trade agreements and powerful armies at their disposal. The poor quickly learn not to bite the hand that feeds them.

More recently, the economist, John Perkins has published an insider account of the collaboration between the U.S. government, the World Bank, IMF and other major U.S, companies whose aims are to ensnare developing countries with heavy debt, only to later exploit them economically and politically. In his book, ‘The Confessions of an Economic Hit Man’, Perkins describes how the U.S. uses debt to build its economic and political empire, while enriching its own companies on the backs of its debtor country’s citizens. Perkins knows these tactics because he was paid by the U.S. to use them.   

The most shocking thing about these surfacing leaks and confessions is that they illustrate the eroded corporate value assigned to poor life. In our rich countries, we are taught that every life is unique, special and important, but that’s only if you have the money to support that lifestyle. All our preconceived ideals of inalienable rights, and equality for all, (no matter how farced) are no longer applicable in practice outside the G8. The poor are not unique or special, probably because there are so many of them. But they are important. They are battling debt slavery, and most of us don’t even realize this is going on. So the next time someone stops us for change, maybe we should reconsider where we put the blame for so called “wasted life.”

Meaning ful/less Proof

If there was a God, it/she/he would not have made us creatures with such weak convictions and such fragile hearts.

Update on the Watchdogs

This is an update on Who’s Watching the Watchdogs.

The preliminary hearing was early this morning, except for the fact that there was no preliminary hearing. The watchdogs are fucking with us.

 A month ago, I accompanied Tom to the fingerprinting office, where we waited for 3 hours before a police officer informed us that the finger-printing machine was broken. We watched people go in and out of those metal doors for the entire time before they informed us of the malfunction. They told us to return anytime we wanted to within the next couple of weeks. And of course we didn’t. No message was sent, no police officers came by with any sort of warrant or reprimand.

They know exactly where we live, of course, because the same two officers whom we had the initial altercation came to my door a couple of weeks later on a completely unrelated matter. It was as if we were stuck in an under-budget film that couldn’t afford to pay more than two actors to play the “police force”. An ex roommate of ours had called the police to the door because we told him that we would withhold his mail until he paid us his part of the internet bill (about $160). Here’s some background on this dude: when he moved out, he took off with my other roommate’s laptop, had stolen money from us while he lived with us, and left month-old dinners rotting on common plates in his abandoned room (which we had to clean up, of course.) I felt justified in telling him that he couldn’t get his mail until he paid his bills. But he decided to add insult to injury.

The two officers were sweet as pie (sheepish, even) as they stood on my front door sloop. And I really had to wonder why that was.

Well, at today’s prelim my friends’ names were mysteriously absent from the roster. They inquired at the clerk’s desk why that was.  The clerk replied that either the file had been misplaced, or that the prosecution was not ready. Tom and Sven were informed that they may or may not actually need to appear in court at all. If they do, the notice will be sent to them in writing.

They are fucking with us! That’s why my friends were not read their rights, or taken into the station, or given the chance to contact their lawyers that night. The fuckers!

They knew that they didn’t have a leg to stand on to accuse my friends of “assault against a police officer” so they sent us on a wild goose chase. The incident was never reported and the arrest was never actually filed. As far as the courts are concerned, there was never an arrest made at all!! Except for the fact that Sven and Tom were given summons for fingerprinting and to appear in court.

So now what?

My friends got beaten up, pushed around and unlawfully arrested (whether it was actually processed or not). They have spent time and energy protecting themselves against fraudulent charges only to find out that even the fraudulent charges are a lie. And now, what recourse do we have? Sit silently and thank our lucky stars that the police just wanted to harass, not to maim? They had no right to harass in the first place.

I am both relieved, and angrier than I have ever been.  My glasses are still broken, but the bruise they gave me has faded away.

 

picture via The Black Sentinel.

Ripe Passages

After finally spilling ink onto the last unsoiled page of an old journal, I reread a few passages and found this:

“Here is some context for you (and by you, I refer to my future self) I finished work at 11:30pm; I was supposed to meet up with A – who claimed to be too tired to go out because A had slept all day. I called B, but B was feeling depressed and in a non-talkative slump. C hasn’t returned my message and D did not answer their phone. So off like a rocket, I took to my lonely drunken nook of ‘Else’s’. I sat down at a colourful little table amidst colourful little people. And here I am, waiting for a waiter to satisfy my thirst.

Everything is so busy in this insomniac city. Everyone is yelling and laughing, pleading with each-other for some attention. A strange state of affairs this is. I have an inkling that I should be soul-searching somehow. But my soul is not calling out to be found. I’m not feeling sad, not even particularly lonely.

No waiter yet.

I’d really like a glass of red wine. I can’t even tell the waiters apart from the bathroom-goers. The French and English mingle into sparklingly noisy waves rolling in and out of my ears.

All the people here stare at me indifferently. Only a slight look of scorn or disgust clouding their gaze. It’s as if I were merely the shadow of a leper that they can’t bring themselves to be fully disgusted by, nor fully acknowledge as existing.

How do life-long poets keep their inspiration?

Do handwriting analysts consciously change their writing in order to change themselves, lie to themselves, or show a more favourable writing facade to the rest of the world?

What did J.G. Whitehead do when he was alone? and why wouldn’t he tell anyone about it?

Everyone clears out shortly after my arrival. My entry is like a secret symbol of the degeneration of the clientele. And I treasure my status.

A tall, beautiful waif lifts herself out of her chair at a nearby table. Her two male friends supervise her movements, likely wishing her motions were for them. A third man comes to her left flank. They stand in a semi-circle before her. I sip my wine. They follow her out of the bar. She smiles. The waitress comes over to clear the drunken debris left in their wake. I wonder if the tables feel resentful. Like disgruntled whores tucking themselves in to bed after a long and arduous day.

The back tables have all cleared out, leaving me on the threshold. Abandoned quiet lies behind me, noise and booze cavort before me. I am in the netherworld, alone, as all souls must be between birth and death – where the numbness reigns. I’m really glad A cancelled out on me, but on the other hand, I kind of wish A would walk in with a bunch of A’s friends, and I would try not to be noticed. And if I were, I would ask to be ignored.

“Leave me with my pen and paper. They are my solace, and always at my disposal. I love them truly.” I would say, mimicking Elizabeth Smart’s prose. “I need to write words I barely know how to spell. How do you like them apples? I cannot be like you.” I would say as a closing statement, just to throw them off my trail. “I love my pen madly” I would mumble to myself as I crawled on all fours back to my wine.

Look at that: imagination is the key to excitement. I want to go skating tomorrow.

I love that the table in front of me has a Portuguese canister sitting on it. It is made of red clay and decorated with white and black paint. It is beautiful.

I want to go home and do Tarot. Ask the arbitrary placing of cards (which are arbitrarily assigned arbitrary meanings) what the depths of my soul consist of, and what lies in my future – Both of which are arbitrary enough questions.

Isn’t it incredibly strange that I am my mother’s daughter?

I think I have had too much sugar today. Perhaps.”

When Idiots Speak

‘Pat Robertson has described feminism as a “socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.” ‘-Wikipedia

I guess he’s afraid of having to cook his own meals, and this:

Goals of Feminism:

1: Strike fear into the hearts of idiots. CHECK.

2: Attain gender equality.

Remember, ladies, we might have won the battle, but we still have to win the war.

White and Nerdy

Weird Al surpasses himself this time. This parody is pure gold.

 

The Closer you Get, the Further you Are

Sometimes, I feel like I’m finally getting it, but this feeling never lasts for any significant amount of time.

For instance: when facebook first gave me the option of throwing sheep at people, I was ecstatically delighted. I went on a sheep throwing rampage. It was beautiful, and I got it. Then Facebook gave me the option of “pwn”-ing, which immediately brought on the realization that I had alreay lost whatever it was that I thought I had. I have been stumped ever since.

This elusive vowel-less word meant nothing to me. Even after looking it up, it still doesn’t make much sense- along with many other acronyms that are thrown around in cyber space. It took me ages to figure out ‘lol’, then as soon as I did people started using ‘lmao’, which threw me for another loop. Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that if it doesn’t make sense when I read it in regular English, it’s not worth knowing about. This is something I have to come to terms with about myself: I will never be on the cutting edge of internet slang. Never. Thankfully, Wikipedia put some of it into perspective:

“Like most jargon, Internet slang aggrandizes authors and readers, causing them to appear to have specialized knowledge of a complex medium. However, there are cases where using Internet slang is considered ridiculous, due to association with the stereotype of the internet n00b.”

Even the definition of internet slang includes internet slang! Ugh.

On to Other News:

I found the coolest inflatable pig ever!

Upon further inspection, I realized that this pig was not like other inflatable pigs. It had both an air valve, and some other valve of some kind:

…and then it dawned on me: Holy Shit, this pig is a sex toy.

Which, I guess explains the lipstick. I will never look upon inflatable pigs in the same way again. It also goes to show that there is a whole lot more that I don’t get in this world than internet slang.

Jagged Little Sentences

Jagged little sentences
Tumble out, awkward, unnoticed
annoyed.
Screaming words with invisible ink
Lucky we should all be so mal-adjusted
why should it be that the phrases
so brilliant in thought
could fall with such a barren thud
when uttered
does angst disappear, or does it just get closeted?
Mark- dot-question-Point
We all get tired of the problems
the issues- other’s, our own
and a word is a word is a sentence
like so many others; preceded, succeeded
meaningless.
Leaving a gaping wooden mouth
mimicking some other voice
heard from so very far away.
Slippery, fricticious, entering, pounding,
Lubed up, rubbed down
Piss and pockets
va-gi-na
pee-nis
ears perk up,
space
silence
heard.
Beautiful that what everyone has
felt, seen, worn
finds some eager ears to land in.
While blue hats are sold for pennies
to people with no heads.

Time change is a Killer

Apparently, according to my sources, the end of daylight savings time can be fatal to pedestrians.

“Ending daylight saving time translates into about 37 more U.S. pedestrian deaths around 6 p.m. in November compared to October, the researchers report.”

Are we seriously still doing this for the farmers? Aren’t farms all mechanized by now; and run by robots?

For Flux’s Sake!

I’m sure that everyone has received the “change is the only constant” memo by now, so why does change still have the power to offset as it does? Every once in a while, I get this strange visceral feeling that tells me that things are no longer as they were. I realize that not only are things not as they were, but events have precluded the possibility of reversal. And it freaks the fuck out of me. But why?

Perhaps the reason is because change can be so imperceptibly slow that when you realize it has happened, the accumulated changed hits you all at once in its amassed form.  It knocks the wind out of you. It is the boiling frog syndrome in all its treacherous glory. ie: if you throw a frog into boiling water, it jumps out right away; but if you place it in cold water, and then heat it up slowly, the frog won’t realize the water is boiling until it is too late. 

Getting destroyed slowly is worse, in my eyes, than being thrown into a vat of boiling water. At least if you are subjected to the latter, you are forced to have the awareness of change. The latter affords reactive agency. So why does it strike more fear into the hearts of us frogs than the former? We expect neither situation, and both amount to the same thing. The former may be a slower destruction, and hence can be considered somewhat smoother, but both lead to the same little nook in Hades.

 And then there is that perception that change is inherently bad. My own acclamation of its destructive force fuels this perception. However, fearing and fighting against destruction is obviously short sighted. Of course we realize that in the same way that change was brought about, it will become normalized. The destruction wrought by change is inherently creative. There can be nothing new if we let go of nothing old.

The Hindu goddess Kali is a representation if this conundrum:

“I am the dance of death that is behind all life. The ultimate horror. The ultimate ecstasy. I am existence. I am the dance of destruction that will end this world. The timeless void. The formless devouring mouth. I am rebirth. Let me dance you to death. Let me dance you to life. Will you walk through your fears to dance with me? Will you let me cut off your head and drink your blood? Then will you cut off mine? Will you face all the horror, All the pain, All the sorrow, and say “yes”? I am all that you dread. All that terrifies. I am your fear. Will you meet me?”

We fear the unknown; and the unknown can only be encountered through change.  We know this. We also know that the unknown that we stumble upon might very well improve that which is known to us. Yet, still there is still an instinctual adversity to change because we fear that it might also herald that which is much worse. I mean some people even fear getting new haircuts for flux’s sake!

The problem is that no matter how we intellectualize it, no amount of mental masturbation will bring about the courage to face change without fear. There is no route to courage, it seems. Unfortunately, all that is left to us is practice.