THREE BEARS

The story teller's genitals vanished in a dream, leaving a grin. Truth be told, said the teller, what's in a grin? Once upon a time . .

. . . when we were starfish and lived with trilobites, now and then a tentacle broke off, but not to worry. In the turmoil and froth are weeds growing all around, tethered to the bottom. New tentacles always grow back.

Our favorite pastime then, akin to sitting at Starbucks now with a laptop, was trolling through the weeds and chattering about life on the surface. There was this trilobite sage, who one afternoon went out on a tentacle, speaking of an island destined to disappear in the far future. Would it grow back?

In October of 1529, Alvaaro de Saavendra arrived at an atoll he named “Los Jardines,” (The Gardens). These were renamed Eniwetok in 1944. A series of nuclear tests, called Sandstone, took place there in 1948.

The story got shuffled under the till box at Davey Jones Pub. Even without a plot and with no characters to assassinate, there was a hint of political incorrectness. And an Island?

As seen from Mars, the island, even if it was still there, would be invisible. Terraforming colonists on the red planet would spin a tale about the home they left behind, perhaps recalling the Roman god of war. It was getting too hot. There were destructive storms. Agriculture would probably end in a nuclear winter. Life on earth – a wrenching nightmare.

A gibbous moon seen from earth prepared for birth, producing a gut feeling. Probably much the same as that felt by Newton and his apple. Falling apples are not a vanishing act. Our solar system, with its precious speck of dreams and water, is no doubt visible from the next star over.

The story goes on. Or at least has gotten this far. This backyard is as important as Mars. Animals that show up here know this, to the extent of their imagination. My limits, undefined by an apple or a cranium, or by relations with others, have vanished. Speaking metaphorically, for myself and for Mr. Finch sitting on my chair, and for Louis Armstrong, It's a Wonderful World.

But not everyone gets it.

Isn't there something else? Are we having fun yet? I want more. Do as I say and get me more. My ancestors want revenge. It's too hot today. The moon is full.

Not so long ago, land was the ticket, worked by slaves, peasants, people. With improvements in transportation and trading, money became distilled work. When it discovered how to multiply itself, things literally took off.

Enter the minions.

Sandstone sparkles. It beckons, calling to the trilobite kings: I am the destroyer of worlds. Civilization? Bow down before me and my minions!

Commodify, multiply -- money on the march! The imagination, legally owned ideas, the future value of speculations, become giddy bright commodities. Science fact or fiction, makes no difference. Truth is a revolving door. Lobbyists, regulators, legislators pose as democratic operators. What a grand deception! When land was power, castles made it hard for owners to hide.

And if we don't know where they are, or who they are, what can we do about it?

So far, so bad. So maybe the minions wake up. What's to lose? More of the same? It's certainly not getting any better, as the climate shows. Whether we'll still be here depends on appreciating our home now, before it's too late.

Or maybe not. Plug stuff into the money machine, a recursive self-aggrandizing loop, and out comes more climate change. There are lots of ways to play the end of that game.

There were three bears.

Only three?