What is my fate? That is a grave question calling for the apprehension of all my previous digressions. There is a warrant out for my arrest, an order to handcuff the Joker and bring him in on charges of attempting to make a fool of everybody and himself by implication. I must resist, nevertheless, the command to stab into the heart of the matter without further preliminary ado's, for, if that were the rule, there would be no Hamlet. Nay, I would fain approach my fate like the obscure Scandinavian philosopher who wrote his twelve-volume Suicide Note (lost) and casted himself into the volcano with it.
What is my fate? I presently feel it is something to be precluded, something definite to be avoided in favor of infinite possibilities. I fear "fate" might spell the end of my careening career and, since misery loves company, that of the whole race as well. After all, I am in the race. It follows that not only my existence but Existence in general is at stake here and now. Therefore, I run the risk of succumbing to the temptation to try to save the entire world, and even more so since my consciousness of the world convinces me that everything in it refers particularly to me. Hence I am naturally inclined to dictate everyone's fate as well as their salvation, whether or not there is a difference between the two.
In my originally selfish urge to salvage myself, I find the motive to make a heroic, altruistic effort to save everyone else: Perhaps from the fate of smoking or drinking, or from the fate of being an atheist or of not attending college, or of being hostile and depressed, and so on and so forth ad infinitum.
I feel alienated from my true, healthy self or destiny, whatever that may be, but that ideal self is damaged, or so I am led to believe. I cannot find the damaged object in the perplexing mirage of my subjectivity: in fact, I cannot find my inside at all except in confusing hearsay. Jacques Lacan said the existence of elephant turds proves there really is an inside, but it will take many years for people to realize it.
Therefore I suspect my disease is outside, in Them. Again, I find no damaged object within subjectivity, but I do find defective objects, or others, and I try to fix Them, to save Them from the disease supposedly afflicting me. The health benefits of the selfish-altruistic policy will surely trickle down to me.
I can feel secure in ignoring myself as a unit, for the disease is collective. I can speak as a 'We' now, from the superior advantage upon which my True Destiny or Real 'I' resides. 'They', the others, are the problem seen from that transcendent peak, and They are more than a nuisance, albeit a possible good living if I am persuasive enough: their very resistance proves the merits of my project, as well as the existence of the Unconscious Demonic Forces underfoot in the slithering forms of sliding serpents slipping sloppily in slimy caves and what not.
Father Reason shall descend from his exalted mountain abode on the triumphant peak of Mother Earth, and I, in Father Reason's good name, will found the International League of Alienated Alienists for the provocative invocation of Global Group Therapy on behalf of the psychically impoverished masses.
Sick Society shall be our Patient. We shall raise the consciousness of the social components to the Realization that they are Electronic Devices. Once the New Operating Program is distributed by the Reformatted Social Institutions, each individual will run itself accordingly.
First of all, the component, charged with its selfish interest in the High-powered Energy Field, shall not hesitate to interconnect itself with other components to form a Colossal Parallel Processor of the Distributed General Will guided by the Ideal Program.
At present, the defective component cannot save itself because its system is degraded. When one unit in the series malfunctions, all other units are disturbed accordingly. The individual does have freedom of choice in the Sick Society, but that freedom is inhibited by the defective structure, which the malfunctioning electronic unit misreads.
What good is a free individual in a Dysfunctional Society? That individual is bound to choose evil. Under my direction, we shall re-engineer The System from the top down, and it shall be a well-maintained, smoothly functioning, Automated Cooperative with a minimum of stress on its fully functioning, integrated components.
Mind you that in our Fully Automated Society there shall be few moving parts, perhaps only one, namely, Me. The great defect of the Machine Age was that for anything to be accomplished, parts had to resist each other and, no matter how well oiled, they began to squeak, wear out, and break down.
In our Sane Society there will be, of course, a few bugs to iron out, but our Long Term Investment will pay off for our Patient in the long run. Under my tutelage, the League will not make the mistake of former programmers, for we shall be quite nice, at least much nicer than Bertram Gross’ Friendly Fascists!
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