The fruits of urban progress

The city cannot contain more than we allow it to. Projecting tired metaphors, the apparatus of history, the post colonial accident which we admit no blame for. The city which we fill with accidents of the post modern, endlessly repeating the same tired charade. The accidents which we name progress to effortlessly allow us to move slowly to visions of certain futures lamented. The city watched, but not observed, catered for our every need but not understood. Named but the identity undisclosed.

The disasters which we name as success, the detriments which we labour as fruits of progress. The spectacle of progress played to thumping bass music in dark dirty basements as the bankers spend their daily bonuses on cheap caviar. “ they don’t know Ireland” says the man on the radio, “ he should rot in prison” “ they are never going to stand again” The news plays as a quiet background to the softness of daily routines, a subtle numbing to the extremity of a daily life beyond our comprehension. Best not to worry. Best to switch the station as destruction is played on repeat.

Let us rush to the bargain store to fill plastic sacks with cheap thrills to conceal the bulges of a fried food nation. Let us get in a taxi so we can avoid the crowd, capsular in our pathways. The nation of progress. The Island of absurdity.

The cycles of the city can be seen in the litter cycles, in the endless metaphors of our rubbish which fill the street to be taken away from the city to build new mountains with our discarded piles of sincerity. This is a consumption society, laden with purchase satisfaction. We shop, we feel better, the credit companies can only help our every need. The cycles of the absurd.

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~ by beatricejarvis on March 9, 2010.

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