she lacks an authorial voice her words, written and spoken a stream of predictive text, parroted speech her critical and narrative content indistinguishable from AI except AI is more nuanced, intuitive, less clichéd, less shrill,
wittier /
stuck in a closed circuit, which she proudly calls her “circle”
and what he euphemistically calls “the perimeter”
regurgitation is their duo’d dialect //
yet, he parlayed
to be her favorite toy, tethered to her scratching post, center stage
and boy,
does she scratch and meow, and meow and scratch, always coughin’ up a whollotta nuthin’
she’s amplified her own monotone acoustics over his
and he doesn’t recognize his own voice
or hear his own thoughts, anymore ///
alone, only in church and in the shower
he confesses,
prays aloud for his own deafness, or for the blessed return
In this piece, which is an interpretation of one of many universal myths which impart the water crossing and trek we all are to embark upon after death,
most of the departed climb up the steep, barren embankment and enter the tunnel individually, while a child and a dog are tenderly escorted — led by the hand or carried by chthonic monks into the tunnel leading to the
Underworld
the tunnel appears under geological strata — presumably the surface of Earth, with blue sky and forest in background above it
interestingly, the artist’s limited use of perspective also allows the sky and forest to be viewed potentially as the Great Beyond itself — as a Northern or Alpine “paradise,” a Valhalla, beyond the sojourn in and through the tunnel
a high, solid, wooden fencebisects the river, embankment and tunnel and prevents arrivals from observing the exiting monks — only one-way vision and traffic for the dead
and while the monks do not cast shadows, the human figures continue to be accompanied by their shadows; for those who subscribe to Jungian analytical psychology or gnostic texts, the physical shadow depicted may be interpreted symbolically as the anima/animus of the person — which would ultimately disappear during the tunnel upon the full reintegration of the Self/Soul/Spirit
through re-unification with one’s divine twin (which is sometimes also called the cosmic/celestial twin or daimon) after having been separated during human incarnation and birth.
author’s note:
i often and prefer to call the underworld aka afterlife “The Great Wide Open of the All” — which in my liminal gleanings is a supremely contented blackness of universal consciousness, devoid of thought or sensation — a perfected existence in the dark cosmic fabric of nothingness,
there may be levels in the afterlife which may manifest our own personal imaginal constructs of paradise — far beyond what our limited sensory perception and experiences of life on Earth are - such as, an Alpine Paradise upon emerging from the tunnel -
i know full well the breathtaking beauty and feeling upon exiting a scary and lengthy mountain tunnel where my heart and eyes are stunned by a grand vista of forest, peaks and sky — from my many road trips in the Western U.S.
yet, i truly prefer the former — when i die, i want to rest for all eternity — although with just one desire, one sensation: warmth.
she sips a glass of wine and admits, agrees she too, doesn’t want to be
on this prison planet under these archons, guided and insulated by sadistic angels, both, in servitude to the demiurge
no escaping it, Them
even in Bucolia
she’s still plagued by the 24-hour news cycle, contemplation that often veers off into nihilism,
and, by bouts of suicidal ideation — but to go back around, back to another false birth in this Samsara, to start over? — no thanks //
perhaps crying in the wilderness, then.
where is that, exactly? the mountains, buttes and canyons also betray us — those ancient Watchers, the petroglyphs warned us of — and of shapeshifters cloaked in feathers, fur and scales ///
and, if I’m not careful, I will start to cry during the first verse
The Commander Thinks Aloud
Boys and girls in cars Dogs and birds on lawns From here I can touch the sun
Put your jackets on I feel we're being born The Tropic of Capricorn is below
We stall above the pole Still your face is young As we feel our weight return
A trail of shooting stars The horses call the storm Because the air contains the Charge
The radio is on And Houston knows the score Can you feel it, we're almost home
The crew compartment's breaking up The crew compartment's breaking up The crew compartment's breaking up The crew compartment's breaking up (This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up (This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up (This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up This is all I wanted to bring home to you
this song — since the very first time i (belatedly) heard and learned about it on the Song Exploder podcast in 2016 — became an instant melancholic metaphor-lamentation for me, even while retaining it’s very visceral and intended meaning —
at first, for the climate chaos we face on our communal spaceship — Spaceship Earth,
for our lives — for the simplicity that is both stolen and lost
in the daily struggle — of and against exploitation, repression and oppression; in the daily drama of our dis/mis/mal contentment; in the daily, unnecessary grasping, striving, amassing and hoarding — whether for – or of, wealth, land, power, influence, reputation, career, fame, control or privilege —
or, in orbiting the Earth in a shuttle or space station or landing on the Moon in a spacecraft — when we could’ve just been human beings caretaking of this Eden and of each other.
“To deliberately believe in lies while knowing they are false.”
The US accounts for more than a third of the expansion of global oil and gas production planned by mid-century, despite its claims of climate leadership, research has found.
Canada and Russia have the next biggest expansion plans, calculated based on how much carbon dioxide is likely to be produced from new developments, followed by Iran, China and Brazil. The United Arab Emirates, which is to host the annual UN climate summit this year, Cop28 in Dubai in November, is seventh on the list.
the grounding and ground-stoppage of aircraft and closure of US airspace on September 11, 2001
The thin wisps of condensation that trail jet airliners have a significant influence on the climate, according to scientists who studied U.S. skies during a rare interruption in national air traffic after the September 11 terrorist attacks.
only the immediate cessation of industrial civilization could’ve saved us – 50, 80 or more years ago, that is /
but now, we are dependent on industrial civilization for everything including the Catch-22 conundrum of the Aerosol Masking Effect aka “global dimming” //
the “aerosol masking effect” where pollutant aerosols emitted into Earth’s atmosphere by human industrial activity reflect the Sun’s heat and mitigate the rise in global average temperature and artificially “cool” the planet —
but here’s the rub: as we draw down industrial activity – with falsely fantastical greener energy alternatives and “cleaner” industrial operations, we lose that artificial benefit and global temperatures will rise even more and faster because of the opposite effects of global brightening ordemasking (colloquially known as: The McPherson Paradox for Prof. Guy McPherson, guymcpherson.com) ///
if the World’s population begins to understand that the aerosol and particulate pollution from some of the worst industries and practices — those that also emit the greenhouse gases that cause global heating, fuel climate chaosand drive ecological destruction and collapse — is also simultaneously and artificially cooling the planet — keeping global temperatures lower than what they actually would be
— and that the warming effects of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere last centuries or decades longer than the near instantaneous effects of aerosol demasking,
Changes to our atmosphere associated with reactive gases (gases that undergo chemical reactions) like ozone and ozone-forming chemicals like nitrous oxides, are relatively short-lived. Carbon dioxide is a different animal, however. Once it’s added to the atmosphere, it hangs around, for a long time: between 300 to 1,000 years. Thus, as humans change the atmosphere by emitting carbon dioxide, those changes will endure on the timescale of many human lives. Alan Buis, “The Atmosphere: Getting a Handle on Carbon Dioxide”, NASA Jet Propulsion Lab
maybe then, they will realize — there is no time for hope — only hospice.
“alchemy exists to transform mortals from a state of suffering to enlightenment”
endogenous alchemy is the only possible panacea for humanity — as individuals, as families, as communities, as a civilization — and for all we have wrought upon our fellow non-human Earthlings and upon Earth, herself
no matter what situations or circumstance we face, we have an escape route: transforming our own mind.
i had a baby — i kept forgetting to completely nurse him he would latch and suckle, but because i was distracted, i would never fully feed him, and he was malnourished, but this sweet baby never cried / nor complained he was happy and content with what i gave him, smiling always at me but then i lost/misplaced him somewhere they/all assumed he had been taken/abducted but i felt sure i had just misplaced him / it seemed we looked everywhere in and around our home and the second time searching the house, i found him in the refrigerator on the top shelf in the back his white skin and pastel clothing blending in with the milk and pale juice jugs he was there on that refrigerator shelf all along
i had apparently placed him in there with the milk — perhaps so he could eat/
he had died in there from asphyxiation it was an accident, and i understood that i was unwell, forgetful, incompetent and losing my mind [although in my dream i don’t know the exact concepts of postpartum or postpartum psychosis]
everyone else does not understand that it was absolutely an innocent act, a tragic accident but they are disgusted with me, violently angry with me and want me to be punished, arrested, sentenced to prison or maybe put to death for accidentally forgetting my baby, for misplacing and inadvertently killing my baby — in the refrigerator
desperate to get it over and done with before she’s dead
i choke on the dream scene, the prognosis and the grand scheme / ever-present in my throat / and weep then, a memory of us wedges in i cry a smile, and smile a cry
i think this, is all, too much i can’t do this.
though,
she is the one doing it
with her dignity, her calm, her reserve, she’s had too much practice, she’s well-traveled on this terrain
