A NEW PAGE

With the gardening gloves off now, imagine a page that barks, on a Persian rug streaking away from a black hole.

Betty Boop in her convertible is nineteen years old and chasing down the Road Runner. They zip through the pickle aisle, Westward Ho! A whole grain prairie schooner lumbers through, next to a pot of pink daisies, where birds fly in one side and out the other. Betty sings her canary song, and management closes the aisle with a mop bucket. The Road Runner stops short.

They guess it might be sky writing, Ouija hacks, laws that try to regulate them, but without much effect. It becomes a trackless place with diesel fumes, disintegrating space stations, cow farts, and insects that will be maybe the last survivors. But not to worry. Neither is it quicksand.

The bucket brigade is mopping up. A new flower stand is there, with Pedro making a bouquet. “Buy my carnations and I give you gift card until Christmas.” He waves vaguely at the parking lot.

Out there shooting hoops is the nuclear genie, and is he worried? Doesn't seem to be. He's got friends around the arctic circle, polishing his lamp. Star wars counterculture radar did catch a brief blip passing over, then fading. Then gone.

Full faith and the stepping stones of reason have eked out a path, swept by the breath of quantum dragons, scoured by an entanglement of baked pizza in the singularity. Off shore, barely concealed, are the jaws of perfect profit snapping.

Calendulas are blooming, and yellow oxalis. Mr. Finch and I have been enjoying March in record breaking heat. Kick over the mop bucket, overturn the chess board, say Oops! Will the Weather Channel last til Christmas, keeping its entertainment charter? It's a patient suffering electroshock convulsions.

I put out the cookie crumbs he likes, he flies in, gets his treat, and leaves the seeds. A piece of walnut is way too big. Mr. Finch flies over to a flat stepping stone in the path and pecks the walnut to beak size bits. Words for this are inadequate.

None of this matters to our neighbor, who rolled out a new lawn about three weeks ago. The house is tented. Whoever moves in . . . herstory, the back story, the who, what, why, etc. . . their lawn is now a foot high.

One after another, avoiding thought in the name of public sanity, we see Dr. Mengele, The Doomsday Machine, Dr. Strangelove passing by. All taken in like gelatin coated pills for the bowel. In temples and caves are a few awakened ones, but so far -- they haven't changed things much.

Our dove is cooing. Rushing rains have left behind dampness, scents oozing without borders, bringing memories from another life. My Kindle Fire crackles with real news.

NBC is breaking a report about a human organ previously unknown, and one of the largest. It has been hiding in plain view -- the Interstitium.

Like our heart or liver, it performs a specialized task. It is found in places where tissues move or are squeezed by external forces. “Interstitial” means “between the other places,” and about 20 percent of “inter” or “between” fluids found throughout the body are in places such as just below the skin, or in digestive and urinary systems. Until now the Interstitium has gone unnoticed because tissues to be studied have their fluids drained away for slicing, and they pancake like the floors of a collapsing building. Some endoscopists recently, while studying live tissues in a bile duct, accidentally noticed interconnected cavities not idescribed in standard anatomy. Having seen this, researchers have now found more throughout the body.

So for the first time in history, an accident has proven how precious water is to life.

Now we are able to change earth's climate, and to cause a nuclear winter that will end us, and most other life. In me as well as in you, the universe is aware. Words are inadequate. Within us right now, all at once, is all that we appreciate and abhor. This vast inconceivable panorama becomes aware in an instant that cannot be commanded or coaxed, happening unbidden like an accident, yet one that is not accidental. When this life is precious, then a new sort of change begins.

The tipping point is here.