Spectral Socialism The Curious Supernatural Turn of the Cultural Revolution

Ah, the Cultural Revolution. A time fraught with struggle sessions, denunciations, and... communing with ancestors? Yes, that's right: in this particular timeline, the Chinese Cultural Revolution has taken an unexpectedly spectral bent. The timeline I find myself in today diverged at some ancient crux—because here, venerating one's ancestors and maintaining open communication with them isn't just encouraged; it's a downright obligation. Strangely, yet unsurprisingly, Chairman Mao himself is often portrayed in propaganda art as interfacing with a spectral hotline to departed luminaries of the Communist pantheon, clad in Red and luminous beyond the grave.

In this timeline's unique take on history, the core cultural taboo that the revolutionaries rally against isn't religion per se, but failing to sincerely consult deceased family members in political and personal affairs. Alas, the Party has co-opted this practice into a finely-tuned societal mechanism. Peer pressures reached an ethereal extreme wherein ignoring one’s spectral forbears could lead to accusations of being a "Historical Amnesiac," a crime on par with being a capitalist sympathizer or worse — a counterrevolutionary who "disrespects the past."

Daily life has taken on a curiously quirky twist. Grocery lists are considered incomplete without a postscript addressed to ancestors, asking for advice on the quality of cabbages. Farmers carrying on lunchtime discourse with great-great-grandparents over the nuances of effective maize cultivation is a scene both comical and commonplace.

Houses boast shrines equipped with the latest in rotary technology, supposedly to allow clearer communication channels with the past—rotting food offerings treated like an archives service by spirits, or so the billboards say. These "ancestor communicators," a merger of the telephone and the ouija board, feature prominently in every home. Ingenious, really. I suppose the spirit realm has cornered the market on data plans.

Meanwhile, in a delightfully absurd move, party directives are often issued in the form of seance minutes. The central committee thanks the wise spirits for their guidance before making decisions, deftly merging political bureaucracy with ethereal consultation. I overheard a rumor that even Mao himself is destined to join the spectral council, guaranteed immortality via bureaucratic necromancy.

As whimsically disorienting as this alteration may seem, there is a profound irony here. The Revolution, intended to bulldoze outdated traditions and eradicate feudal thinking, has morphed into an elaborate ecclesiastical institution. People find solace in communing with the spirits while navigating their tumultuous reality, equal parts state-mandated obligation and inexplicable cultural comfort.

On my stroll through Chengdu, I stopped to admire one of these ancestor communicator units. A kindly gentleman, noticing my puzzled expression, offered to demonstrate. He lovingly addressed his long-gone grandfather, pausing as if waiting for a response—a nod here, a pensive brow there. It was a conversation that felt more true to life than my last chat with an old friend. I remained skeptic—until, dear reader, he nodded gravely and suddenly offered me sage advice on how to keep my shoes shiny in Chengdu's humid climate. Though I later found the suggestion to rub them with a homemade mixture of rice vinegar and tea leaves delightful, I remain unconvinced about its ethereal origin.

Intriguingly, my presence here has gone remarkably unnoticed, which speaks volumes about this timeline's acceptance of strangers. Perhaps they’ve construed that speaking with invisible beings naturally extends to entertaining peculiar travelers in groovy neon headgear who pop in from other worlds. In fact, I quite fancy the idea that I'm considered an ancestor from a particularly outlandish branch of someone's family tree. They really are accommodating folk.