A tampon or the voice of God?
In the darkness of flight, many a thought has come to the refugees streaming across the borders of civil and worldwide strife. In the hours before morning, when the moon is covered o’er by clouds and the guard dog is alert and ready, the victims of war dream of one thing. It is not a clean bed and a bowl of good soup. It is not the sad-eyed embrace of a loved one — a grandmother trapped behind the enemy’s Iron Curtain or a long-lost lover, the dream of “one,” of holding and being held, dashed forever against the rocks of failed politics and the gimlet-eyed heat of madmen bent on destruction and power. They dream of safety, surely. But they also dream of Jook.
What is Jook? It is something you put in or on your MP3 player to broadcast music using some sort of social networking concept. There are three settings — me, for the lonely lovelorn, you, for the pie that has found its missing piece, and us, for the man who knows he is part of something bigger and grander than these four walls and dingy floor can offer.
How does it work, you ask? Your friend has just been trapped under a car. He is wearing his iPod with Jook enabled. You are listening to a song that might give him solace, something by Barry White or the Cold War Kids. You switch your Jook device to You and you stream your music to your friend’s iPod. As the life drains from his eyes and the paramedics tell you the back the fuck up away, the last voice he’ll hear is maybe the guy from the Arctic Monkeys telling him yes, friend, I sincerely believe you look good on the dance floor and yes, my friend, I am with you.
Jook is the voice of G_d in the bush. Jook is the sound of a newborn babe mewling in a manger. Jook is our answer to the unending question: Why are we here? To right injustice? To fight poverty? To bring the world the Good News? The answers are simple. Jook. Jook. Jook. Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.