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Hail to the King, and the sky is falling in.
On 2004-01-02 at 8:43 p.m.... In the city by which I define myself, there are armed guards at the station. A few years ago, returning to one version of what passes for home, walking these streets would elicit an optimism which reminded me of nothing more than the way the crowds looked in those 30s showreels for Worlds Fairs or Expos, or some other celebration of invention: smiling with their eyes open, looking toward the pristine heart of things. The sight of soaring new buildings, skyscrapers planned and built by people and processes of whom I have only the vaguest conception, has always been uplifting and reassuring; whether or not it is clear to me, the universe is unfolding as it should. Now, though, there are armed guards at the station. Overt, implacable. Fear, or maybe the resentment of it, feels like a mollifying stooge despatched by the Ministry of Information in order to placate, to lessen the violence. I'm not used to guns. The sight of anything like that, (possibly conversely to its intent, possibly not), makes me feel anything but protected. It's an unexpected, slightly menacing token gesture. Like a ring of steel around Parliament, like a tiny Don't Panic sign in one corner of a dark hall, promoting this unforgivable, wrong-headed propaganda that's filling our heads, uninvited. Not a ground-breaking opinion, I know, but as with the skyscrapers these things are not in my hands.
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