" And you tell me over and over and over again my friend,
You
don't believe we're on the eve of destruction."
(P.F. Sloan 1964)
(P.F. Sloan 1964)
If it's the beginning of the End of Days, I don't imagine that Gaia is upset that we are saving her the effort by working on a Do-It-Yourself project.
Look around you at the decay evident in the vainglorious works of men.
Grand old buildings - unoccupied, windows broken, masonry crumbling, their soul and their substance slowly soaking into the inert soil beneath their foundations - sadly witnessing the disinterest of the passing parade.
Great and small monumental works subliminally lapsing into decrepitude and ruin, barely noticed by an apathetic population obsessed with greed and self-interest. Or wilfully and callously destroyed in the name of some god or other, even if the god's name is Progress. Or Profit. Or Power.
The affairs of state of the world are not only going to shit, but going there with foot to the metal, hammer well and truly down.
Nascent flames are starting to tentatively lick at the fertile air above the smouldering embers left over from past efforts (we're looking at you, Bush; and you, Blair; and you little Johnny, you shit.)
Consider the terrifying concept that the actions of most powerful nation on the planet are subject to the childlike whims and fragile ego of the spoilt grandchild of a draft-dodging barber/brothel owner from Bavaria.
Or that the once-great Britain is governed by a spoilt Etonian bully-boy.
Or the full-blown madness of Kim Jong-Un or Daesh.
And be afraid.
At the same time, apparently unfulfilled by wreaking (or threatening to wreak) death and chaos on mankind, these particular maniacs are wilfully destroying the planet, bringing the whole fucking house down by obstinately pretending that anthropogenic climate change is not happening.
They are possibly waiting for further evidence. They are immune to rational advice from experts, appearing to react to stimuli on a more primitive fight-or-flight level.
Not until the oceans are lapping at the front door of Kirribilli House, or No.10 Downing Street, or the White house, or when clouds finally appear in the bleached sky forming the words "THIS IS IT, SUCKERS, GET READY TO FRY" across the sky, will these sophistic sciolists acknowledge the possibility of climate change.
Our very own antipodean, antediluvian, egregiously god-bothering, eschatological Pentecostal happy-clapping wilful pretender, Scotty (no doubt feeling safe in the knowledge that he will be "taken up" anyway when "The Rapture" occurs, so fuck the lot of you), who hasn't even considered the need for a fall-back plan, will regret not attending those learn-to-swim classes at primary school.
The Mona Lisa smile on the face of Gaia is slowly changing into triumphal laughter as she prepares to eradicate the noxious infestation of homo not-very sapiens from her planet.
Once mankind and its works are effaced and the waters recede, paradise will return.
Not the Paradise we were promised by humanity's manipulative corporate religions if we would only stop masturbating. Just paradise.
Nothing but a beautiful pristine planet and the odd Ozymandian remnant of the Human Race.
