Livingroom Boxes
Even now the queer eyes look out at us, seated so before our livingroom boxes with hypnotic attention. It is some strange animal speaking to us, and it draws the queer eyes with brows wrinkled up. It is no animal, not alive; that they sense at once; yet, still, listen; for it speaks. It speaks the sure-fire and the mechanical. Appeals to the death in us, the white rotting stomachs that give way like infested sawdust: we stomach too much. All rot inside and gullible. Let them thrill us to changing styles, changing lives. A boat we must own, and live the seashore thrills. Until, at least, we feel all wet, and want a dry change. Then it will be cars again, or motorcycles, or airplanes. Let us fly. Anything that will thrill. What does the T.V. say next?
The queer otherworld eyes wince at this, and look in, and make nothing of it. Only, it's nothing for a woman, a man to do. To play subject to a livingroom box. Not for life!
