I'm in a stream of consciousness mode today. I think one needs to be when talking about the mental imprint of Las Vegas consumerism.
People go to Las Vegas to assume the roles of giants, and if you're from Manitoba, it's wholly relevant, as many can't even locate Winnipeg on a map. You get in that airplane seat and let your muscles liberate themselves as all Prairie cold exits your psyche and descends into that former wasteland.
In the grasp of my leather seat, I saw the same reflection in the nearest window. In the clouds, I stared at iron gates. As all objects, dwellings, and beings below shrank to the level of fleas, my fingers seemed to grow bigger and more dominant. The moment of highest levitation can be god-like, and in that god-like trance, I was all those towering things: a king at the peak of his yacht, a dictator on the podium with his devotees seated below.
But this master narrative vanished as I stepped outside the gates of the airport.
And then the realization began as I watched, from the window of the car, the pixie veneer of the Las Vegas Strip morph into a pulsating, blinking, bulbous of a mass waving its mechanical arms and legs for my full attention. I tilted my head up to those electrical landmarks as an ant does to the peak of the topsoil. From point to point, all the brands bore the presence of statues: Walgreens, Harley Davidson, the Hard Rock Cafe, everything else. I was below, not above that man-made forest. The flesh and smiles of all became irrelevant.
Evening was when the power really took effect.
All of the casinos and their respective signs engulfed and swallowed those who passed by. Bodies became silhouettes. The self-described "movers and shakers" looked more like molecules as the trance effect of blinking slogans propelled their girth towards gold-encrusted entrances. Every sign had a purpose: to cast a pall over any who claimed dominance. To lure them into a trap of built-up body fat, hollowed wallets, and deranged drunkenness.
The lotus of The Flamingo was a nucleus attracting smaller specimen.
The beacons emitting from the crest of Luxor became the focus of every driver.
When everyone either stopped to take the occasional picture or stand for the occasional glimpse, all faces became anonymous, cloaked -- every light erasing every identity.
The people and the lights were one.
Except the lights bore the power. They merged into the last flood of the century washing out every city -- all lands and all faces were in a time-lapse state of total erosion. It was just parallel energy regurgitating itself.
In this peak age of commercialism, humankind's creations have become bigger than humankind itself. We were once larger than our methods of transportation and habitat, and now those very things run us. The world became bigger, and we became smaller. This is the age of disconnection, and in the age of disconnection, all facets of consumerism rule over and whip the mind. No person can ever claim to be mobile, for the car, the airplane, and the casinos all run us; we do not run them. We only think we do because of the false sense of agency advertising has given us. Every advertising sign is not an invitation. Every sign is, in a way, a mockery of the human body, for in Las Vegas, people migrate like flies from casino to casino, and in no way can one call an attraction to things "agency" or "independence".
And thus I say goodbye to the mythical era of giants.
And then the realization began as I watched, from the window of the car, the pixie veneer of the Las Vegas Strip morph into a pulsating, blinking, bulbous of a mass waving its mechanical arms and legs for my full attention. I tilted my head up to those electrical landmarks as an ant does to the peak of the topsoil. From point to point, all the brands bore the presence of statues: Walgreens, Harley Davidson, the Hard Rock Cafe, everything else. I was below, not above that man-made forest. The flesh and smiles of all became irrelevant.
Evening was when the power really took effect.
All of the casinos and their respective signs engulfed and swallowed those who passed by. Bodies became silhouettes. The self-described "movers and shakers" looked more like molecules as the trance effect of blinking slogans propelled their girth towards gold-encrusted entrances. Every sign had a purpose: to cast a pall over any who claimed dominance. To lure them into a trap of built-up body fat, hollowed wallets, and deranged drunkenness.
The lotus of The Flamingo was a nucleus attracting smaller specimen.
The beacons emitting from the crest of Luxor became the focus of every driver.
When everyone either stopped to take the occasional picture or stand for the occasional glimpse, all faces became anonymous, cloaked -- every light erasing every identity.
The people and the lights were one.
Except the lights bore the power. They merged into the last flood of the century washing out every city -- all lands and all faces were in a time-lapse state of total erosion. It was just parallel energy regurgitating itself.
In this peak age of commercialism, humankind's creations have become bigger than humankind itself. We were once larger than our methods of transportation and habitat, and now those very things run us. The world became bigger, and we became smaller. This is the age of disconnection, and in the age of disconnection, all facets of consumerism rule over and whip the mind. No person can ever claim to be mobile, for the car, the airplane, and the casinos all run us; we do not run them. We only think we do because of the false sense of agency advertising has given us. Every advertising sign is not an invitation. Every sign is, in a way, a mockery of the human body, for in Las Vegas, people migrate like flies from casino to casino, and in no way can one call an attraction to things "agency" or "independence".
And thus I say goodbye to the mythical era of giants.
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