FUSION

Last night's full moon, interpreted by my camera with appropriate settings, became a brilliant orb, overseeing a vaporous sea of orange-red strata. On John's roof the Fubot, telephone wires and power lines, all blended together as though sublunar matters were swamp fog. In a ghost village. Next morning a bearded man wearing an orange turban strode the sidewalk. Orange for wisdom. It was a break from the dark skies.

Our fuchsia bloomed this winter. The potted rose kept its leaves and now it's blooming. January.

It shades off. What can we do? Maybe look away, go inside?

Imagine a real porch with chairs and a swing. Time. Were this actually a village. . .Time not coveted by anxious employers who want all they can get of it for as little as possible, with a loosening of the leash, possibly, for those who might create the next big thing. If it were not an online mirage . . . look at Apple's fall from economic grace.

Call this a rant. So? Actually, plans to spend some time reading were somehow ever ruled. There's a silver lining, an opportunity, in this virtual village.

Here it is. The science-state-war-machine has a blind spot, and I'm no exceptional spotter: Limits of the five senses. I'm not alone in discovering precognition or telepathy, even if I can't “prove” my experience. I might be pigeonholed as a victim of wishful thinking. Or perhaps called simply crazy. Such refutation I find understandable. But experience is the best teacher. Let others argue. As well, in the realm of acceptable senses, even including an arguable sixth, there is also who I am, you are, we all are. And beyond description, self realization brings appreciation, wonder – terms that dangle as though words could do it. Whatever anyone calls this, clearly it means scrapping the war machine.

It also means stopping the destruction of our planet and its peoples. It even means picking up that apple and sharing the wealth. With a compassionate heart such as no machine has, broken systems can be repaired and made to work. If that's what enough of us really want.

If not, let my fuchsia bloom in January, and let there be laughter! Let hydrogen war wreak its worst. Until that final moment, pandemonium posturing, look up to a sky with twinkling stars, each far outshining our pathetic mistake. Stars we imitate on Christmas trees. Whether or not we're alone in this vast universe, or whether our big bang might be interpreted as some sort of signal . . .

* * *

this just in from Universe.net . . .

A hydrogen bomb is magic?

Unmanned war drones are designed and built by faeries?

Scientists should serve these ends for --

The benefit of humanity?

A paycheck?

To sacrifice Hiroshima and prove Einstein right?

To satisfy generals and politicians?

The art of war, joy of winning, chest beating?

Cheapest way out?

Search for truth trumps all?

My sprinkler system won't end the drought.