Reign of the sycophant

So any time I start in on the The Hive you know all shit will hit the fan in a deliciously messy and gruesome manner. It’s inevitable. The splatter.

The Hive is a personal pet madness I indulge in occasionally which I truly believe is my reality. Our reality. However, when viewing my thoughts dispassionately a few days later, it is clear the incredibly far-flung nature of my notions (which, incidentally, I stand behind 100%). When proselytizing about The Hive, I’m apt to throw out enormous universal concepts of Endless Time and Edgeless Space and everything is BIG. All concepts and allusions are intertwined with the matrices of absolute nature’s sheer vastness.

The way it works…after I finish a normal Hive post, I re-enter the suffocating confines of tiny Earth; I return to my minute and normal existence. To the “grind” as they call it somewhere back in civilization. Back to my encapsulated and insignificant existence, toiling away like the good bee that I am with the vainly ostensible purpose of augmenting the ancient Hive structure.

Retracting to Earth is jarring and disappointing for, unfortunately in my case, it involves an unhealthy dose of Corporate America in all her less than magnificent beauty. 24/7, Corporate America. Spending too much of your dwindling life in that environment draws you out of contemplations of the Big and Universal and jostles you right into the smug container of dreary human habitation, and the grandiose awe of an unleashed universe is suddenly amputated and you find that the unworldly limits you previously entertained are shrunk into a mundane sort of Sartre-like limbo. Large problems and galactic issues are traded in for trivial daily obstacles and rigmarole and the magic shrinks to fit the horrible crevices of a tethering Blackberry. Large issues fade and you find yourself contending with a mass of conforming and frightened humanity which sheepishly marches in unison to its fixated and desperate amibitions.

In the corporate catacombs, The Hive dissolves into the small world of glaring fluorescent lights and sterile walls and artificial cubicles like butter dropped in boiling water.
Who can think of the Big when mired in such a droll situation?
Can it be possible to have big thoughts against the limited backdrop of such a humanly contrived structure of hollow artifices?

I think so, but in such a situation, rather than focus on the macro, I must focus on those items bounded by short-term considerations.
Such as short-term social evolution, micro-evolution.

Which leads me to make an overstatement:
In the modern work environment, it’s not what you know but whose ass you kiss.

Now that’s quite a riveting tidbit of wisdom, isn’t it?
Did you need to hear it from me?
Of course we all know this.

I wonder how long this dynamic has existed in the American workplace.

Was there ever a time when ability and work ethic mattered?
Was there ever a time in our corporate history in which merit trumped sycophancy?
Was there perhaps an idyllic glimmer of time when you might head to work comforted by the knowledge that your hard work and intelligence would be rewarded and recognized by your boss and your boss’s bosses?
Was there?

Short term evolution I speak of.
Short term as in decades, maybe a hundred or two hundred years.
Fast-track social evolution in the corporate work place.
That is small and focused, isn’t it? No large societal motifs at play here. I’m talking narrow and I’m talking small.

For our corporate world is populated by swarms of up and rising sycophants, representing varying degrees of morality and scruples. Nevertheless, all of them, sycophants. I see it all the time. And I do not speak from a position of bitterness or from the distaste of sour grapes. I do not seek to rise in my company nor do I care about promotions or pats on the back or status-seeking parking spaces. But I see the dynamic in furious action. Constantly.

I see people, dead people, dead of soul but vibrant of ambition. Possessed of a frenzied rush to move ahead, move, move, move, for what, they do not know, over what, they do not care, they move, move, move. Away from something, towards something. We do not know. In their madness and consuming lust for glory and bodiless attainments, there is the spiritually famished skeletal visage of a Drive to drive. It’s a Drive to drive that these sycophants possess.

They will stop at nothing, they will say anything and they will say nothing, they will do anything, to drive.
To move. Jump, leap, bound, on the backs and souls of others because they have traded their own in to the mortal corporate commander.

It’s rather discouraging, really.
I see people who might have worked harder, people who might have had more intelligence and awareness and conscientiousness of spirit, but were deprived of anything other than that for their Drive to drive was not as strong as that of the most ruthless sycophant in their office.

Short-term evolution.
The social evolution of the workplace.

Over successive generations of striving as one-dimensional compatriots seek to become the evolutionary victors, a common breed of corporate leader, manager, VP, has materialized. Successive generations of corporate evolution has spawned a current regime of simpering and socially professional prostitutes of the mind who now occupy most ranks of upper corporate Execudom. Ability and intelligence has been bred out of most managerial circles. Or rather, I should say it has been bred down in allowance of the new-found dominance of the socially gracious animal. Sure, they are capable but that is only because the bar is so low. When one considers that all managerial cohorts similarly exchanged soul for glittery gratification, it’s easy to see how the modern managerial class has become a brainless, unoriginal, leaden mass of socially-spewing delicacies and beautified inanity disguised as systemically-restrained cleverness.

The short term social evolution of the corporate marketplace has elevated mediocrity to levels of adornment.
And repulsed intelligence and determination.

Sanctified self-interest, and excused subhuman voraciousness of the ego.