Today, you are a member of … Somewhere between the Activity of Quasars and Monks
You know, Members, if ever there was a man for our times, it’s the author Philip K. Dick, who would have been 89 this week if he hadn’t stroked out in 1982. Beset by drug addiction, mental illness, and a writer’s paycheck, he was nonetheless hugely prolific, prescient about our dystopian trajectories in all their failed and resourceful humanity, and eventually was made in to an android head that was accidentally left on an airplane, never to be seen again. We all may now live in the uncanny valley of celebrity overload, political schizophrenia, and cultural automata that arose without the yokes of right and wrong in his narratives, but take heart: those same stories are instruction manuals for the lost, forgotten art of how to go crazy without forgetting to occasionally take notice of the poppies.
