Thursday, April 30, 2009
NOTES IN A BOTTLE
A recent alteration of my perspective has led me to view my previous posts as the notes in a bottle written by a self-exiled, misanthropic hermit from his island of natural habitat written in hopes of influencing such finders as care to abandon their habitual nature-hating destruction of the body on whose health we are all dependent. It would seem my bottles got swept up in the mid-Pacific, Texas-sized island of non-biodegradable trash and the notes became diluted by the prolific propaganda politics pours into any issue of importance.
It struck me right between the eyes the other evening when I tuned in Rachel Maddow to find out the fate of the captain in the hands of the Somali pirates. In my concern about the Bush rape of the constitution I had slowly morphed from a rabid distruster of all things political to political observer to political critic all the way to VOTER!!! I’d become a fan of Keith Olbermann and her because they seemed to represent my feelings about the duplicity of the neocons and the solution of Obama. It was only when Rachel broke down the breaking news that sharpshooters had simultaneously killed three pirates into the two party’s opinions before even mentioning the ultimate fate of the captor that it occurred to me that I wasn’t getting the facts of the daily haps, but the massaged political ramifications of everything from genocidal wars to gay love. Just as every valid citizen concern about the government is emasculated by being taken under its wing as a new department, i.e. EPA, NRC, FDA etc., the media’s economic need for sensationalism has divided the national concerns into conservative and the liberal chefs to flavor the faux food with just right kind of hot sauce for their target demographic.
As often as I have sworn off of posting political out of the unremitting frustration of hoping the greed greased gears of western civilization would grind more slowly and reconsider its ravenous consumption, I feel safe in saying nevermore. Politics is the national procrastination practiced by individuals intending to avoid personal responsibility for their actions by hiding in crowds taking sides. While I’m at it, I hereby cease posting on religion as well, for precisely the same reason. I leave both artificial schisms to those who love to dice the golden rule up into infinite rules of law and plagiarize nature’s laws as intelligent design.
So saying, I am happy to report that the three original surviving chicks are one month old today and the epitome of ugly ducklings, with chick fuzz molting and real feathers protruding from weird places. Surely the art designer for Dark Crystal must have raised baby chicks. In respect of the demise of three of the original chicks I have foregone naming the three three-week-olds until they begin having more reliable characteristics than the momentary markings of babes. They have all learned to climb the ladder to the roost and retire themselves at dusk. I play with them and talk to them in hopes they will, as I have read, imprint on me and come when I call if I ever come to trust them to free range outside the chicken tractor with the dogs around.
I have decided to dedicate a couple of beds to permanent inhabitants,
In six months, I may be eating artichoke omelet.