Raveolution

Uponderance

Nearly worthless, I couldn't do anything that day. I sat in my office, leaning back in my expensive ergonomic chair, staring out the window and biting mindlessly on the end of a pen. I think for the first hour or two, I was mostly attuned to the clouds until I finally chose to acknowledge a tattered and sun-worn billboard one that had always been in my line of sight, but that I had never paid much conscious attention to. Platinum blonde, barely dressed, a cue to buy her perfume, Laeauxdeur. 

Laeauxdeur... Once, an international intern told me, in confidence and somewhat confused, that this word, in his language, would translate to the odor of water.  It came as no real surprise to me as I knew we created names for products based on perceived allure, regardless of meaning. The more obscure, the better. What glamour is not false?  Whatever it took to sell because the end goal was the success of the brand. This meant success of the Koch subsidiary, which in theory contributed to the success of Democracity, the heartland of Consumerica, and ultimately, to the mysterious workings of the global marketplace, the DAO, that traffic of august societal importance. 

Many years ago, I had refused to work on the Laeauxdeur campaign, so I did not busy myself with knowing how that campaign had contributed to society. I did, however, work with Avonne Laeauxdeur quite often these days. She, I had realized, was a martial force when it came to contribution value.  There is an industry term for the Avonne Laeauxdeurs of the world, designated by those involved in their manufacturing process. It is nebulae.  

All nebulae are top of their game, but ultimately Koch approved and designed, and therefore endorsers of the Consumerican dream.  We, the industrious behind the screen, know they are not stars, but projections. people, no more cosmic than any one of us, chosen for their ambition, looks, and ability to exploit. They provide no truly needed light for humanity. If nebulae were truly cosmic, I always imagine them as colossal clouds of spectacular haze, marvelous distractions as they were.  

In Democracity, most of the goods are produced or distributed by or have some association with a Koch subsidiary.  Although nothing bears the brand Koch, we are everything, everywhere, and in the minds of most, nowhere and nothing at all.  But in my mind, all cues and even nebulae then worked for us at Koch Enterprises or Koch E as buried in the fine print on certain human resource documents.  No matter which industry zenith they came from, if someone chose to represent one of our products, they worked for us. They were part of our unseen conglomerate vision, a modern manifest destiny.  For the others in the field, we call them simply cues, because that is what they literally are, your cue to purchase any of the myriad goods our societal machine cranks out.  It is a term synonymous with and yet distinct from the advert they are featured in.  Beautiful but ultimately unmemorable, unrecognizable novelties.  Unlike nebulae who have power in their name as well, queues only have a face.  The only thing they are necessary for is to keep tightening the bolts of our merchandise-driven global juggernaut.  Of course, among those who serve society in this way, cues do not use another word for those at the top and attempt to feign equality among themselves.

Avonne Laeauxdeur, though, she was special, a true phenomenon, the most exploited of them all. Avonne had been and anonymously still was a top nebula for Democracity.  In her mortal life, unbeknown to most, she was a short extension of her mother's dynasty.  Yet her five-year run is considered a fairly long career for our quick-consuming, disposable marketplace.  Avonne had been, and still very much was, the perfect cue to buy our manufactured goods.  She continues to be pulled onto the covers of all gossip magazines annually, touted as the eternal Nebula, the ultimate illusory distraction.  Avonne's longevity, although I could never be sure of this claim, was rumored to be perpetuated like shrapnel from an exploded blue supergiant star - by Prisley Morris, ex-Nebula, Democracity tastemaker, and mogul, and Avonne's mother.  

Avonne's fame has remained, in effigy, our top seller.  Perhaps her look was universal, or it was conjured, nostalgic, post-mortem fanaticism.  Everyone loves a tragedy.  Either way, her image always worked.  Lagging sales?  Slap her on it.  Avonne's image transferred like magic to any medium and to any product.  Avonne's nebulous image could not steal my thoughts for much longer. Noticing her billboard's tattered perimeter blowing in the wind like hair whisks, my eyes began to refocus on reality.  Unlike in the populace, Avonne did not create subliminal consumeristic desires in me, perhaps due to something we shared in common that I sometimes wished I could forget. 

The office alarm went off, a soothing chime assisting my mind to refocus attention on my workspace. The alarm is a requirement on all sub-executive floors as a reminder to take time for well-being.  It is also a reminder for those who are not salaried that you will not be paid if you work during lunch. You have been warned!  I decided to stay. My decision did not affect my pay, and I would never sue over a lack of well-being reminder since I wanted to move up the ranks.  Plus, I hadn't achieved much that morning anyway.  

As the chime faded, it initiated memories of my morning car ride. My eyes drifted to the window again, and the beats in my head from the Marty Mix, now a soundtrack for the movement of the clouds. With great ease, I surrendered to its silent serenade, a seduction of senses.  Visio audio, tactioception. Overtaken, I quickly discovered that if I closed my eyes and listened intently to the music, I was back at that splendorous wonderland-like rave.