Beneath the Rose

There is a certain irony in discussing secrecy in the panopticon of the modern world. Beneath the suspended rose of the conspirators, whether for or against the state, the occult virtue of secrecy is a somewhat quaint conceit, I can ask you to turn off your phones, but that will do little good: it will in fact be a suspicious sign. Your GPS coordinates are known, the microphones and cameras you carry can be remotely activated. Your very interest in this subject has been duly noted, you are guilty by association, and that thought crime is logged and cross-matched with your other deviations. In the security industry phones are known colloquially as trackers and we use them to micro-manage our docility.

No phone?  The number plates of your car have been logged by roadside cameras on the way here, your credit card details when you paid for a ticket, your facebook page when you liked the event. You are haemorrhaging data, and in addition you have been trained to dutifully update your status and identify your friend’s faces to complete a picture that is almost perfected. As the refrain in Orwell’s 1984 goes ‘Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me.’ You are being cyber stalked by your boss, your work colleagues, your exes, your ‘friends,’ credit agencies and corporations.

Everyone is a fucking cop nowadays.

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