Bad news: Elon Musk has become sentient.
Last night the nerd king tweeted: “I am become meme.” A quarter million people liked the post, and the five thousand comments are a cesspool of Tesla fellatio and hollow jokes. The memes must flow, I suppose.
People literally think this asshole is a living god. They feel inspired by his regurgitated sci-fi plotlines and speed-freak vigor. They wish for a strongman of old, a warrior king, a messiah. They want to consume their way out of their situation, so they pin their hopes on a hare-brained capitalist. But there’s no reason why Musk’s vision of the future should coincide with the needs of us peasants. He doesn’t work for our benefit. He’s a charismatic psychopath with a god complex, not a martyr.
I see this also at Rainbow gatherings: stale old nerds who have gained some small celebrity in their social circles and exercise it with iron fists for their own twisted benefit. Harem-building guru daddies and slick operators of propaganda. We constantly have to battle against their petty traphouse cults.
This is because Rainbow is a place with a lot of free belief . (Yes, I’m going full wingnut now. Materialists, @ me.) Thousands of strangers descend on a mountain meadow and playact a world without money or computers or cops, a world of liberty and equality and peace. The institutions of control dissolve and the energy, the massive amount of communal coordination it takes to maintain them, is released. Belief is to meme as agar is to mold. The Rainbow gathering is a petri dish, a controlled environment in which all sorts of egregores arise.
An egregore is an idea that is bigger than a person. It has imbibed enough belief that it needs more than one mind to sustain it. Countries, companies, deities: all egregores. Jesus is a big-ass egregore who hungers for more believers. McDonald’s cannot be sustained, nor stopped, by one person. The USA egregore has coated the world in military bases and holds a nuclear gun to our collective heads. It rattles forth on its memetic wheels despite all evidence that we’re headed directly for the cliff. Who can command such a beast as this?
In the temporary autonomous zone of Rainbow it is easier to see how these theocrats command their egregores. The people who invented the holy commandments are alive (usually sitting in a shady camp chair issuing orders to their kitchen minions). You can interrogate them. You can judge them by their fruits, see whether their magical paths have twisted their spines and broken their teeth. Not so with the elder egregores, who change their faces to suit the age. At one point Jesus was just a guy with a martyr complex and a grip of followers. Now he’s a tentacle monster with a franchise in every conceivable location.
So too will Elon be. He’s captured enough belief to pivot the world economy toward his goals, despite his wackadoodle behavior. But he hasn’t just injected his worldview into millions of disciples. He’s been infested in turn with their belief structures, as they fetishize him, as they project onto him their thoughts and expectations. He hasn’t become meme. The meme has become Elon.
In some sense this is true for all of us. The “I” that I refer to when I talk about myself is not the transparent consciousness that observes. It’s the collection of memes, the cultures that have infested me and created a symbiotic ecology. But that thoughtform, my Persona, is under my control. I can personally will a change in the way that others see me, just by changing myself. I may be a meme, but I am not yet an egregore.
The human body of Elon Musk may still exist, but the consciousness riding inside is now that of some petty archon. His will can no longer be separated from his function in the spectacle. Even if he could control his own hand, could force the knife to his own throat and end this torturous charade, even then his followers would drag his carcass to Mars and venerate it. He’s become undead before even dying.
There’s only one hope to save the poor fucker. And it’s going to take all of our magic combined to do it. Join with me, siblings, in a chamber beyond space and time, a single synchronous ceremony that will send the skinwalker back to whence it came:
Clap your hands if you don’t believe in Elon Musk. Come on! Clap harder! Believe that you don’t believe! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Thanks for reading,
###### SCIOPS is a weekly letter about the icky things that live in your head. Feel free to forward it, or share it, or speak to it as if it has a life of its own. You can find a web version of the latest letter here , or view the archive here .
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