We have language. Words talk about what is beyond, behind, and beneath their own existence. They talk amongst themselves, as though we did not exist. Floating thoughts clutch at them, as though reaching for pieces of wood after a shipwreck. Which one might serve? Words are our history.
Language elevates us over other animals, guarding archetypes of thought. Words push us. There is a symbiotic relationship. These, the very artifacts of my expression, are an inherited legacy of mistakes, and triumphs over mere survival. In their rhythm is the pulse of being. The sound of them is a lullaby and a scream, and to let them run is a stream fed by an artesian well that never spills over, strange as that seems. They resonate. We echo. Language speaks to us as though we never invented it, yet without us where would words be?
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Today the air is clear, temperature back down into the eighties. Like what normal used to be. Enjoy it while it lasts, because the weather almost anywhere else is not the usual, usual, business as usual that's made our greenhouse hot. Deniers are running hang tail scared. Which is not to say that those who still have a home have a better handle on it.
There is no one path to Armageddon. A pandemic will do it. Surely even cannibals have heard of MAD. Or if it's just nose to the grindstone, as long as a job still exists, and not shut out by artificial intelligence. Or a robot. Or cheap offshore labor. Bees are dying. Pesticides. Foul smoky air. And with no pollination flower to flower, no honey. Stupidity, inattention and neglect are stubborn factors. The effects are synergistic. Ruined ecosystems are no longer capable of supporting life, causing further degradation of the biosphere. But who, eating a Big Mac, has time for this?
It could be and has been said that Mother Earth is pissed. We're blowing too much smoke in her face. Well, earth and life are certainly intertwined. But the ocean doesn't care if I piss in it. If enough people do, it's a problem that concerns those who are pissed off. Nature reacts to how we act. It's impersonal.
This is ominous. An angry woman can be coddled, placated. There's some back and forth there, a bit of wiggle room, subject to whatever we can devise.
Astrology looks to the stars, which are indeed natural, and finds arrangements that personify human characteristics. Some of them, which know no such calling, are selected and charted, with imaginary lines connecting them. But they're not part of the astrology game.
Stars, suns, planets, comets, asteroids are indeed connected with us. Everything is connected. Personalities are connected. Personal connections happen in accordance with universal laws that apply equally to everyone.
The universe could not be more intimately connected than with everyone being it, and who we are, yet it's no one's friend. Earth is not a woman.
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How does effect precede cause?
Precognition happens. And I don't need second hand reports. So after accepting this, what happens to cause and effect?
Bedrock assumptions are demolished.
The presumed order of time, often likened to an arrow, seems reversed. But this is just an afterthought, a description couched in everyday, normal terms. A precognitive experience, from the inside, has no figment of time. There is no arrow. Conscious awareness in precognition makes no such distinctions. For an immeasurable moment, nothing is measured. When the moment passes, ambient circumstances return; the arrow flies again; the timeless experience is shuffled in with usual patterns of thought in a sort of quarantine.
How do we get that cause precedes effect? This is our experience, over and over, and most of the time this production of our five senses is sufficient. But for stressful situations, sometimes a precognitive dream occurs that turns out to be accurate. This shows that our consciousness is not confined to sensory information. The five-sense world, however, does not like being disturbed, especially when it cannot dismiss such as mere dreams.
In broad daylight on a sunny day, suddenly I know a plane will crash, and where. About an hour later, it happens. The immediate reaction, without a moment's thought, was to blank it out of conscious recollection. It was so disturbing that this persisted for years.
If and when we we admit that conscious awareness includes paranormal experience, some re-thinking will be due. Will we get used to it? Here's the nub ~ probably not.
Hard enough, isn't it? Getting food on the table, doing whatever normal tasks have to be done, then to find the bedrock falling away. So the five-step continues, and all the while, all at the same, a radical newness is ongoing that won't ever stop. An ennui of whatever the usual existence was ~ evaporates.
To speak in the midst of this worsening climate in terms of renewal is both insensitive and all that's left. Wasn't it the ongoing business as usual, normal way of life, that accumulated green house gasses? Being conscious is being aware of this, also..Are we used to it yet? Cause is before effect, normally. Whatever violates this principal is both threatening and exhilarating, is life on the move, is consciousness unchained.
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Sonic sunflower, the fragile lizard cranes its neck. Piebald stories ruffle feathers. And the next thing you know, lizard leaps.
Dawns the morning of the magician
Follow the rolling echo, with sunspots breeding, and the edges curl, shedding ropes of hemp all twined, with a pride of clowns proceeding. There goes a flight of birds in flashing wings, singing to the wind.
The concert flies over a shadowed rock, tossing roses and bolts of lightning.
Seated in bleachers, judges murmur while the parade passes. Rusty hinges, they say, are for saving sand. We'll meet at the ATM, someday, where the cents will tally.
Various citizens line the street, elbow to shoulder on either side. “We know the tally. We know, a subway sandwich gets crowded, and could anything exceed the logic? Slices of salami, slabs of cheese, Hercules on a pillar. Truly, a fly in a tunnel.”
A pattering of tears dabs the ATM.
To pander the beat is to ponder time. A stitch. Read the graffiti on the wall. Scrape the mud off your shoes. Hear that? The grandfather clock in the hall is banging.
Hocu, pocus . . .
Quick as a lizard!
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