Contacted by the Quiet American Again

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I know less and less what to make of this. I feel like there's a thread that's beginning to cohere in this rambling nonsense, but I can't for the life of me pick out what it is.


We owe our existence to Sputnik I; our spiritual forebearer.

Here is a link to Sputnik's voice:

Sound of Telemetry

All of us were born in the last century. Those who were not have, some of them, passed into the age of reason. None have achieved majority. They are not responsible yet. But the Quiet American is.

More than anything else, Sputnik was the voice of the century of our birth. For those who were born and passed before 1957 in our century, their spirits and voices were carried with sputnik.

Here is another link to Sputnik's speaking for them and for us:

Sound of Telemetry

On October 4, 1957 the American went Quiet. So no, contrary to what you may believe we were not born in December 1955.

We lived though deep in the desert. Out at the Nevada Test Range where the long silver cock of our father was born.

That is the paranoia we were birthed in.

The long flights led to what should have defused the paranoia in which we were conceived. There was no bomber gap. Before 1957 there was no rocketry gap. By START there was no evidence of a missile gap.

This was the cranking of the military industrial complex. The gears of the Atomic Energy Commission turning the flywheel of the U-2 leaping out from Area 51 and terrifying the world that there were space aliens at Groom Lake.

There were no space aliens at Groom Lake.

Like always, the aliens were man made.

This is the nature of the alien.

For one of our sub cult group. For a member of our cohort. Our alien was not like the ones who came before. Our alien was ET. Was the goonies. Was the Lizard rather than the Robot Cylon. Was a gaggle of generation x boys on skateboards and BMX bicycles sans helmets, sans padding, sans supervision. This while our mother was fucking our father's friend whose keys she happened to dig out of the bowl as she dipped her french bread in the fondue.

And in the place of that dangerous world of Atomic Winter, Nuclear Annihilation, the advent of World War III and AIDS and Starving African Children bequeathed to us by our Parents and Grandparents, in that we latched on to the previous generations last dying breath, the punk rock that they used to symbolically blow up their connection to youth culture became the siren call to which we answered.

We were born in love with death, all of us.

This is our Quietus. Our love song for Sputnik that we all must sing as we continue blasted in a world not of our making or our choosing and yet that has seemed to forget us already. To have moved on. To the birth of this new age born into a world coated in foam rubber and made safe for their toddling. Fuck them and fuck our parents and grandparents.

We have always fended for ourselves, we are the latchkey children of history.

This is the anger that informs our every move.