This dude was dead serious. Usually, when confronted with the latest outlandish denials of the way I have come to theorize nature operates, I sit back and watch with the amusement only a heretic can enjoy. This guy caught me with no snarky defenses up. He’d taken my favorite theme of Gaia, the being that is planet Earth, and made her the infinite source of what he claimed was the most nourishing of her bountiful gifts. Whereas rivers were her blood system cleansing and regenerating itself through the trees’ bronchial function and the respiration of the evaporation/condensation cycle, he proposed yet another metaphor to go along with that.
With a very calm face framing clear unblinking brown eyes that turned to look directly at each of the people on either side of him and the line of people within earshot of his earnest voice across the long table and announced, “Oil is the milk of earth, produced in response to starving humans.”
Boy those oil companies are good.
No matter how well I have learned to live in the spontaneity of here now, no matter how undistracted I might be by the machinations of the civilization that assumes authority and ownership over wherever I am, no matter how far meditating on the sunrise may take me from the concerns of this body, when I return to walkin’ and talkin’ consciousness there is this momentum of expectation, this anticipation that seems to arise whenever curiosity is active.
It is puzzling to me.
My curiosity is completely informed wherever it wanders or is led so long as it doesn’t seem to stumble and stop to formulate questions requiring verbal versions of where I am. Then — all of a sudden time rushes in as the duration of gathering the precise wherewithal from language’s bountiful garden of verbiage to describe the least iota of the profundity of the implications beheld in that instant of inspiration in the most articulate grouping of words or sounds to ears that may yet need years to hear, if they care at all, is weighed against the worth of its effect on the thinking and behavior of those who may possibly get it as my western civilization trained mind struggles to measure the worth of my time in offering to the world samples of my free thinking as if it were a commodity more valuable than my merely living according to such insights for myself. Sheesh.
Considering the trickle of feedback this blog evokes, I suppose the patience I exert in my desire to pierce the walls of the invisible prison of closed minds could imply a masochist in a hurry.
Icarus - Nicolas Ainley
INSECT DNA SHOWS THROUGH
I was just watching an episode of David Attenborough’s Life in the Undergrowth and was struck by the similarity of some of the flying insects’ instinctual hiving and semi-dormant pupating within a protective chrysalis for the major part of their existence to some human’s urbanizing and semi-conscious procrastination of a full life within the protective confines of a pay-as-you-go civilization for a major part, if not all, of their cubically enclosed life only dreaming of having the wings effete authority assures us come at the end of employment in the form of a carrot or at the end of life as some sort of angelic Icarus’.