Our species continues its slow-mo descent into its own dismissal. The epic cascade is suffering downward. Quality of life squishes up for the pinprick chosen elite as it evaporates as a mega-mirage for the rest of humanity mired in doom and gloom. I am not a doomer. Although on pesky days, if you read my paranormal posts in social media one might easily label me a prepper. I am a post-prepper. I exist in the epilogue.
When I had my breakdown/through about America I was lounging upstairs in my Tara of the North 1840 Greek Revival house. It was circa 1988. Snow piled up against the columns on the three-story portico and as the storm progressed the white out began to blow up against elongated windows covering the bottom portion of the glass. The icy blue snow banks continued constructing for days, not hours. Realizing the temperature was howling at forty below, the naked expansive sugar maples and thin needled evergreen trees swayed in the storm showering off their layers of white stuff so as not to break or crash from the weight of frozen acidified water.
I listened to the snarky constant hiss of the oil-fired steam radiators while sitting at my drawing table supposedly working on a cover illustration for Maui Murders. The juxtaposition of tropical icons on the board I was painting and the February western Catskills ice storm cometh may have been a portend. Eventually, I would leave the four seasons of the East Coast and move to Costa Rica, the land of two seasons, green and green wetter.
My concern was immediate – paranoia wondering if there was enough fuel in the tank for the heating system in the white giant of a house. While sitting in my studio room, my apprehension migrated to a larger view. What would have to happen for our species to get off the petro ride?
Now, it is 2014, and I have an answer. Third world civil societies want our plastic bags, our plastic toys, our plastic clothes, our air-conditioned interiors, our designer cars, and other hipster imagery. All this crap is marketed and shoved down the gulping throats of emerging economies based on dirty oil as the basis of human finances on Earth. There is no regard for mass destruction of just about anything to purchase a lifestyle intrinsically glued to oil and gas. Dirty oil smacks down, fracks, drill baby drills, everywhere, and everything, to carry forward a manifest destiny so arcane and species suicidal most into science have concluded this is the 59th minute of our species.
What changed me from artsy NY designer, Hamptons espresso house operator, politico conservative radical American consumer to serenity breathing jungle hermit was not one momentous occurrence. The slaying of a cultural dream takes a few decades in time, activities, and discontent. I do remember bopping around in the Atlantic Ocean fluke fishing and seeing the pollution on the ocean’s horizon a new density of putrid brownish ochre color. Then looking up and seeing nothing but jet airplane trails crisscrossing everywhere like a visual tangle from a childhood nightmare. Putting my rod in the port side holder I got up to stand at the rail. Gazing into the jade colored shimmering waters, I saw an epidemic of jellyfish, billions upon billions floating. If you know anything about marine ecology, this is a horrific sign. I sat back in my chair, silently befuddled. We continued to drifted for fluke off Westhampton Dunes, New York. As Capt. Arthur started up the engine, it triggered a realization. The apocalypse had happened and no one noticed, not even me, Ms. Super Aware Bird Woman.
The Sea ‘N Aye Dog, was an all oak wood, lap staked, Mackenzie. The craft was built by hand in 1964 by a person who designed and constructed Mackenzie’s, his name was Mackenzie. The 24-foot long beauty was a Cuttyhunk named after the upmost famous Striped Bass hot spot on the planet. A rough water boat designed with an aft tiller and a normal pilot wheel with a shear line beauty as pretty as any yet safer than almost all others. The aft tiller allowed one to stand in front of the transom and back down on a fish in the slap of surf exactly where big stripers hung out munching on incoming lines of bay shrimp.
Stay with me, the boat is a metaphor, eventually, I am hoping yet with writing the occasional loose end or line allows you dear reader to envision on your own. This is my definition of prose.
The task-at-hand is our species is not going to awaken from its appalling apathy and arse ‘ole addiction to oil. The status quo of convenience is blocking the channel. We are crammed up on turtle island spewing out gunk, roaring around mowing down tree scapes, piercing the back of the turtle at every angle and as deep as 30,000 feet. Our lot is more impressed with power transmission lines than breathing clean air, drinking pure water, or living in harmony with our fellow gravity-stuck flora and fauna. Those who get the harmony part are too busy escaping through altered states of consciousness or like me jumping up and down on digital soapboxes preaching to the choir.
The poorest Sudanese wants a house made out of cement, a cell phone, and a chance to work on the latest pipeline. Get it? The elite has socially engineered a global army of slave soldiers and you and I are luckily in the forward platoon. We are all Chinese workers in a factory larger than Montana. We just do not know it.
Luck of the genetic code, you and I are assigned the comfy kitty kat section of the mother ship while four billion plus of our own kind exist in squalor and creeping crud. This is by design, dear ones. The mission of madness and the psychology of psychopath politics have no room for social consciousness in its prospectus to rape and pillage the resources of the third rock from the son/sun/Ra. No matter what the level of education, the astute understanding of one’s particular pinpoint of effort, and the reality the oceans are dying, Homo sapiens keep running around the gerbil wheel chasing the golden carrot.
My ’88 ah ha moment probably arrived before most of you were born if you follow me on Twitter. Impotently speaking, seeing the burning bilging forest from the Silicone Valley cubicle is probably my own fault. I am one of those. You know the kind of human that must find the friggin’ underlying cause. Questioning authority and raising a ruckus is imprinted upon me.
We comprise a subspecies of a rare breed. Yet, somehow we are linked, all eight of us, via social media. Since we do not tolerate intolerance, nor do we buy into the con job, or mental masturbations, we move with grace and articulation. Not stealth like, more elegant and obvious, if you can take off your blinders for more than 140 characters.
Social consciousness is passé. We are hip to the rudeness we are out of sync with the master planned community of dirty oil. In our own self-imposed Nilo LED lit marginalization we hold ranks tougher and kinder than the UN. Social media is the conduit of the awakening. As much as I would love to be on the cure all be all edge of a story of species survival for us and the other beauties on Earth, I do not foresee an ark, even one filled with DNA containers, surviving.
Homo sapiens are no longer alive. We died a few decades ago, the obit is not quite complete so it has not been published. I propose it was when Jimmy Carter was POTUS the tipping point occurred with our ta da this is the end swan dive into the abyss for our species, and the others. JC was blamed and buried by the hatred of others who could not abide a guy with ethics and genuine concern as the compassionate brilliant leader of the free world. If you did not see the Jesus analogy, do not worry, it is too late anyway.
I leave you with this poem written by a Welshman. I do not know if this is true but the name he publishes under is about as Welsh as one can get. The Welsh tried to become free from the English hundreds of years ago. After getting the bangers beat out of them the lesson of Welsh independence is they married into the crown, subversively spreading their eggs and sperm into the monarchy.
The Prince of Wales is called the Prince of Wales and not the Prince of Ireland, or Scotland. Herewith could be a lesson on how to change the humanity death archetype. Those with the anti-oil pivotal paradigm gene marry into the current globalizing oligarchy. We have at least three more generations. If we begin to fuck/screw/fornicate/charm/tip toe, our way into the realm of swells we may just breed those into existence who will manifest what Jimmy Carter actualizes.
How Do You Do That?
When I awake, before my eyes are yet open,
I see pictures
Of Dante’s levels,
The unfaithful, choking on the foul worms of deceit,
Liars, upside down in boiling oil,
The slothful hauling rocks,
Two headed demons feasting on thieves,
Souls, screaming as they cascade into the cacophony below.
The picture of you comes to me,
The sun lights up my curtains,
The sweet perfume of summer blooms
Fills the room.
Sing morning songs
All is well with the world.
How do you do that?