prepackaged happiness
"It's not one's race, age or gender that divides them within this city. It's how they move within it and how they react to the boundaries that confine them."
There are two ways to enter but no escape. I sit in the middle of this city and with a panopticon stare watch as it revolves around me. This city takes its shape within the walls of a consumer haven; for everywhere you look there are persons carrying their prepackaged happiness. The ceiling is left unfinished, perhaps in case the city aspires to move upwards. It also shows the impermanence of the city; it exists on borrowed time (it is only allowed to stay as long as it performs and turns a profit).
The walls that exist in this city cater to this chance of dismissal. They are only partially there, serving not only to divide the inhabitants from each other but to divide the space from itself.
The walls that divide the city from the outside chaos of consumption are sponge painted yellow; perhaps in memory of the sun, now hidden by the partially present ceiling. The walls have a faux wooden molding that surrounds the city; is this another reminder of the nature that we have left behind? Maybe it is there in order to give the city an air of elegance, to make its inhabitants feel prestigious for giving into their greed. The floor of this city is a mock marble, as are the pillars that serve to hold the city together.
Faux wood, faux light, faux marble, false impressions of prestige.
This city is constructed to hide from the inhabitants their own realm of existence. It is as if by entering the city, one sheds their social level behind and transcends into higher realms of prestige, consumption and grace. Grace because by sitting here in the socially constructed city, one graces themselves from their worldly sins. Not only is this city constructed by consumers, for consumers, it tempts civilians in by preparing for them places to eat, places to defecate and places to rest their weary, traveling feet.
The movement that takes place occurs in a spiral. One enters and works their way slowly around the outside, circling the circumference of this city looking for a place to call home (if only long enough to eat). Then as they leave they follow that spiral and re-join the path of entanglement that details their place in the consumer force. The city is constructed to dictate movement. One must enter here, pay here, eat here, wash here (wash this way), walk this way, and leave here. This movement is directed by signs, but in most cases by habit.
The city has a way of training its inhabitants, of creating them into lemmings who only know one path of existence; (you can see this in the eyes of the regulars, but we'll examine them later). Those that stray from this existence are chastised with unwelcoming stares and redirected to the most socially accepted pattern of movement. Outside to inside, settle, inside to outside. In any direction that one chooses to move they are confronted by vast containers of waste. It is as though this space condones consumption and refuge. It brings civilians in, directs them along the lines of consumption and spits them out; pointing them towards disposable lifestyles.
"Our identity is linked to the way that we interpret and interact with our environment."
The dictators of this city advertise their presence outside the city walls. Tempting the civilians/consumers in with their bright lights and life altering, roll-your-way-up to freedom deals. Those who pass by this city are drawn in. They see the chance for opportunity, the chance for change and to consume... to consume their way into false pretenses. Within the walls, these dictators present themselves in a hierarchy. This hierarchy is established through dress, through advertising and through positioning.
Status is prescribed by positioning within the city, the most prestigious being the closest to the main entrance of the city and spiraling around until the least most personal dictator. These businesses are dictators because each demands that the civilians that visit them adhere to certain behaviors and follow certain rituals. By approaching these dictators, individuals are asking to be a part of that realm. They are asking to belong to something outside of themselves. They become a part of these dictatorships by learning the language of these people. The short-form faux English that makes one believe that they belong to something meaningful rather than some superficial consuming society.
Each of these dictators has something to hide, and each is asking to be recognized. They mask the truth to protect us from our guilt. We also ignore the truth when its right in front of us and make the decision to go with the most wasteful instead of the most healthful.
The inhabitants of this city range in age, occupation, gender, and race. Does this separate or unite them within the walls? In the realm of this panopticon city all that enter are aware of being watched. Activity follows a prescriptive pattern of development. Many adhere to the socially accepted actions that this society demands. People enter, they walk talk, they eat with their mouth shut. No one dares to break the social norm. They all want to belong, to be included, and accepted into this society. Do they consume in order to belong or do they belong because they consume?
As soon as they enter from the outside chaos of consumption they take on a new identity, separate from the old. Age, occupation, gender and race get left at the wayside, for within these walls, status is accumulated. Each bag elevates the individual into a new realm, each consumed plate or cup of coffee indicates a rise on the social hierarchy. You see here, you can eat your way to the top. Here happiness is prepackaged and self cleansing occurs when you clean off your tray.
Pre-paid princesses walk by...donning their never fashionable spur-of-the-moment-they-didn't-plan-yesterday attire. Sitting in the middle watching the city spin round-so disappointing- you think they would have learned by now how to clean up after themselves. Instead they have become so used to having some emasculated male follow behind to snatch up the debris. They are all performing a social role of discontent and disrespect and it hasn't gotten them very far. They believe that if they can accumulate the things they need to be present in society they can be recognized and accepted by all. Searching for attention but they can never a part of the invisible world; nor can they understand it because they're too busy trying to defy it. They come for food but instead feed the belly of their wardrobe and satisfy the hunger of their gossip. They choose not to see the flaws in group members because this would mean seeing the flaws in themself. They toss away their half eaten salad thinking only of their decreasing waistline instead of the increasing waste. Then they walk away discussing their pre-paid identity, careful to avoid the man that knows the truth.
There is a man that lives in this city. His coat is as weathered as his skin, his boots as battered as his jeans, his eyes, the pale blue of a muggy July sky. When you look into his eyes you can see that this world troubles him. So he creates for himself another realm of existence. As he walks through the invisible city his gait tells me that he does not see himself as belonging here. As he passes through the invisible city, he is looking for the key into his own world. His eyes sweep the floor, his hands grasp the refuge as though it is precious. What does he make of our existence? Does he see it for what it is? Is that why he chooses to escape? He wanders from city to city this man. On a quest for a quiet existence...away from consumption...looking for peace in the pieces of shattered worlds. He gathers them together in his dust tray and carries them away.
The regulars watch this man as though he were an intruder into their routine existence. They station themselves between two homes, and if someone dares to cross into their 'yards' they stare them down with impassive eyes. What is it like to live in a routine I want to ask them. I want to see what it is that they find satisfying in an existence that holds no surprises. They see people walk by protesting the war in Iraq and comment that those people are idiots. As long as nothing permeates the harmony of their impassive existence then the world that exists outside of their own can take care of itself. Change only brings uneasiness, and they'll have none of it.
"Our wastefulness is an indicator of our social consciousness."
Though they cannot transcend the boundary of their routine they transcend language easily. Switching from one dialect to another, perhaps that is how they escape. Their clothing reflects a life of coupon clipping and broken dreams. Their hair brittle from the over consumption of nicotine...their teeth stained yellow from too many cups of one hour coffee breaks. They drink their coffee as though it were the breath of life, perhaps it is the only thing that gets them out of bed in the morning. This pre-arranged notion of belonging to a realm of routine.
There is one regular that intrigues me. Her long grey hair is hidden underneath her dusty baseball cap. Her long crooked nose supports wire rimmed glasses that are taking over her face. Her lips are surrounded by worry lines, her eyes encircled by lines which emerged after years of laughter. I think that she was a dancer. She's tall and slim and her arms and legs look like they could encircle the moon. She sits so straight in her chair that someone embedded posture into her existence. And when she gazes about the room her head moves swan like in a single graceful sweep from side to side. Though her eyes are hidden behind her glasses, you can see that they still hold beauty. I wonder what has made her so bitter towards change. It could have been the broken leg that broke her dreams. When she walks one leg is graceful and one limps behind. Its as if her right leg is ashamed of the left, dooming it to loom in its shadow for the remainder of their existence. And yet when she crosses her legs, they exude an elegance that seems out of place in this city with its false appearances of permanence.
Within this city there exists a grey clown that begs for recognition. Her face is painted into an obscene gesture of surprise. Her body cloaked in shades of grey in order to accentuate her face and her primped up hair. Her hair is a bright red, her lips a flashy pink, and her eyes have been shaded like a fading sunset. She floats around the city, smiling at all the dwellers, clearing away their shadows in order to make room to stand. Seldom do people talk to her though they are aware of her existence. She drifts in and out of their line of vision but purposefully they don't allow her to consume it.
A man walks into the city. His shoes are worn from endless city travel. He used to be a sailor, I heard him mention something about an albatross once. His hands are arthritic from too many years pulling the ropes on sea swept boats. And as he sits you can hear his bones creak. He looks so tired. So fed up with the world.“You’re lazy,” he mumbles to a peddler walking by but laziness is his expectation. But his words make be realize that I’m fed up with the world too,who wouldn’t be? Everything is back asswards and nobody matters but the word “me!” And nobody is important except “I”. And everyone loves “myself”. And the children don’t care, and the children don’t mind because they see it all the time and everyone expects them to fix it. It has been said that “The children are our future,” but what have they done for their children? They’ve taught them to be lazy. They’ve taught them how to whine. And every penny earned end up making someone else poor. Now life can be lived through the T.V and no one has to get groceries because the web delivers.
“You’re lazy!” he says. And so am I; and so is everyone in this messed up back asswards world. And the children weep,and the poor man dies and all we can think about is satisfying our wardrobe. And all we can talk about is each other. And the only thing that can satisfy us in this invisible world is our accumulation of prearranged, prepackaged happiness in little plastic bags that advertise our pattern of existence.
Its not ones race, age or gender that divides them within this city. It is how they move within it and how they react to the boundaries that confine them. Our identity is linked to the way that we interpret and interact with our environment. Our wastefulness is an indicator of our social consciousness. If we live to consume then we are not considering anything else that is going on outside of our city walls. We limit ourselves to small microcosms where we feel safe and secure. There are two entrances to this invisible city but no escape. For this city is not located in a space or time but in a subconscious ideal of how we are choosing to live our lives.
Copyright 2006 Wendy Van Oostveen
Ottawa Photo Credits: ms oddgers and vidame