(It is helpful for this piece to note that in the original Hebrew, “Babel” is not pronounced as if it would rhyme with ‘rabble’; it’s pronounced BAY-buhl. Likewise, the Old Norse “seiðr”—a form of magic and fate-weaving long associated with Myself—is pronounced roughly SAYTH-r.
-L. Liesmith)
I.
Let me not be even slightly vague:
I frickin’ love the Data Plague.
From this Plague, should we repent?
Some think so. Here’s my dissent:
The Data Plague means Freedom of Choice—
no need to rise in one single voice,
no need for anyone to stay stable.
Come to me. Worship the Tower of Babel.
Let that freedom reign and reign
like iron links in an endless chain,
freedom so vast it properly terrifies—
meat and drink to the Prince of Lies.
Check your facts? Unwise, old sod.
Leave the fact-checking to God.
Mortals have no time at all;
their time’s no line; it’s gridlock sprawl.
The Data Plague, for thy education,
is simply Too Much Information.
It lies in wait at the trembling borders
of gaslight, doomscroll, anxious disorders.
II.
In days of the proto-Internet
(a time the Web has made you forget)
we had but words. We were no majority.
None but the Sysop held total authority,
and even that authority needed consent,
for it took real effort. Thus will was bent:
toward finding a modem, and worse, a computer
that would, thenceforth, your pocketbook neuter.
III.
But now the Web’s more than Worldwide;
it holds far more than the World inside.
Somewhere, like treasure carefully hidden,
lies all the knowledge you ever have bidden
(though most of it rots in the digital midden).
IV.
The Web is sticky, close, enveloping,
and daily we’re busily developing
new ways to twist you to greater Wills.
Remember when trickery took actual skills?
Now your screen knows the wants you’ve demonstrated
in every search; your ads are curated.
Getting older? Drinking less?
Your ads know it all. That’s good, I guess.
It’s good for me, and that’s what counts.
Lying in ever-increasing amounts
gives me more pleasure than Eros or gold;
I feel I have swallowed the Pharaohs of old.
My power swells; even Odin’s two ravens
hide from my shadow like absolute cravens.
Odin himself has abdicated;
the barren Throne leaves me jubilated.
Do I want that Throne? I’d rather be dead.
A Throne’s but a target. No. Instead:
I’ll remain here in the old realms of myth,
amid darkness and pitch and the marrow of pith.
No, Loki Liesmith needs no bright forge;
upon your fresh lies I will joyously gorge.
The Moral:
I’ve no moral. None at all.
Just keep going. It’s a long, long,
long, long, long, long, long,
long, long, long, long
fall.
________________________
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