Things to Do; Purchase an Oil Proof Raincoat.

The very real and necessary urge to create has me by the heart. Just the savage need to get words down. More than likely words that no one will read, or, if anyone, a fraction of the fraction that is the English speaking language. Just need something to chronicle it. I am not any one of dozens of things I may be, or what people see me as. I am all of them, and wearing the costume of my own creation is getting tiring. But of all those things, and for the sake of everything, I like to consider myself a chronicler of the human condition. Who does that anymore? Everyone has something to sell. An agenda to push. A reason to get you to buy their book. I don’t need you to buy my book. Yet. I need you to appreciate and cultivate the hope that drives us on. Because we are all of us dying [don’t tell the children] and the sands, they are a-flowin. We are all of us doomed, and the only real question is how you want to be remembered if you want to be remembered at all.

That’s what this creating is. Just digital flotsam. Like what Chaucer did, only you can understand it. Another 100 years and who is to say what will understandable anymore. Universal Language Text Conversion. That’s what we’re shooting towards. Everyone communicating with their pods and berries. Pads talking to pads in the first world while everyone else gets eaten by mutants. The complete and utter breakdown of literature as we know it. Literature wasn’t going anywhere anyhow. It’s all too nothing. Nothing to say and no reason to say it. Just stories about things that may or may not have been, trying to teach us a lesson that none of us will learn.
The poison is loosed and we are all victim to the rich and incompetent. I don’t know if you’re worried about the spill, but that shit scares me white. It’s the straw I think. And the camel was crippled and dying to begin with. I don’t want to be the lunatic saying it’s the beginning of the end, but it seems to be that the bad guys are winning and the guys we thought were good are merely politicians. Celebrities are the only thing we have that count for heroes, and they are all cowards and narcissists. Heroes are soldiers in as much as they are in harms way to keep our oil cheap and heroin out of Bagley. But mostly they are forced to serve because poverty keeps the dream of education out of reach unless you carry a rifle.

Oh the storms. There is a storm coming. And I’m not talking about a metaphysical or political storm. I am not talking about a storm in the press room or the White House. I am talking about a storm that the world has never seen. I don’t need science or reason to see its approach. If you take the time to stop and listen, you can hear the winding of the gears of a great clockwork universe. Pulleys and cogs and gears all working together to maintain the time. Keep the system in check and the seconds rolling into minutes into hours into days into ages. And if you listen now, take the time to cast aside the music and the movie, the distracting minutia fed to us to keep us docile and content, if you put all of that in a box and shut it and listen to the wind, you will hear what I hear.

It is the gentle screaming of a woman defiled. It is carried on the wind from the other end of the river. It is the silent death of my brother turtles. It is the chemical genocide of a million lives, large and small. And as their spirits hover over the gulf they cry in unison for justice. Reciprocity. They pray to Gaia that they be revenged seven fold. Sweet creatures of the gulf, forgive us our apathy. But our prayers will go unanswered. There is a balance to all things, and there is a reckoning coming. Comeuppance for our folly. The poison we spray from our tailpipes will be in our food, our air and our blood. A yellow rain is breathing into the zephyrs, cumulating and preparing. We shall all pay the price that British Petroleum has leveled on our heads.
And amidst this I can do nothing. I am locked into a calendar that is relentless in it’s pursuit of my days. There are so many destinations that are so very close. I shall turn 30 and begin my ministry. The Revelation of Jeremiah will make Saint John look like a milquetoast. The Bright New Tomorrow is obscured by clouds of acid. Look you to the skies and pray mercy of our scorned and angry Gods. No shriving time allowed.

Mine is not to prevent the inevitable. Mine is not to rally or cajole, for the pleas of a lunatic are as a fart in the wind. Mine is but to witness the Ultimate Tragedy. Those who have born children into this doomed Earth will know little rest in the coming years. To hear the fall of Rome was as a billion mirrors shattered in the night. To see the fall of America will be to bear, in high definition, the last camel beg to be slaughtered. Back broken and lungs filled with carbon it will bleat its last only after we all admit our part in it’s undoing. Embrace me zephyrs. Soon comes the fall of the Great Twin Cities. Ensure you have your survival gear handy.


Melvin said…

I feel as if I have stumbled upon a kindred spirit. My wife and I have recently moved to the bemidji area to live in the woods on my uncles land. To live sustainibly with the earth. I too have heard the cries of innocent creature killed by the machine known as "civilization". Your piece about the oil spill was very moving and empowering. Empowering to know there are others who feel the same. It is late now but tomarrow I am going to make my wife read this too :)

Thanks for sharing your heart and mind with us.

p.s. the user "loboisfuzzy" leaving comments on your youtube channel is me, f.y.i.. Thats how I found your blog, through the video about the beaver. peace!
QP Quaddle said…
Thanks so much. Yeah. The only way to empower ourselves anymore is to comisserate. I am glad to see there are pioneers out there trying to create sustainability. Best of luck to you. I will keep writing if you keep reading.

Popular Posts