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The face of the Goddess

The face of the Goddess

The old goddess died, finally, at the ripe old age of 2782. Nobody alive could remember what to do next. The High Coven sent the secretaries into the archives and after a month of dusting off the sheepskin parchments, and staring at the fading illustrations of ten thousand year old scribes, they brought their findings to the Great Hall.

“Well?” Mother Dolzella asked, speaking first as was her right as Mother to the Coven.

“She has been reborn. Even now, she walks the world in a new body.” the eldest secretary said.

Mother Prinka, Dolzella’s second, looked over at the seers. “Is this so?”

William Farseeing looked at his compatriots. None were keen on speaking out of turn. He sighed and rose. “The thing that was housed inside the body of the Goddess did not pass out of this realm. We were not without protection even for a moment. We believe she wandered the Horse Plains, taking shape as a white mare and then a white hawk and then a white mouse. But recently, she settled somewhere, into something, and fell asleep. It is possible she now walks the earth as a human infant.”

Mother Cendissa turned back to the secretaries. “And how will we find her, this new incarnation of the Goddess?”

“The texts are … vague at best,” a secretary stammered nervously. “The gender is problematic.”

“A goddess must be female. Right?” Mother Cendissa asked pointedly.

“Uh, well, in times of great conflict, the Goddess has walked the Horse Plains in a male form that she might better kill her enemies.”

“We are not in such times,” Mother Irma said.

“No, but the goddess is timeless and all-seeing. Only she can see what is coming at us down the timeline,” the secretary said apologetically.

“This is sacrilegious, this talk,” Mother Prinka snapped. “Tell us how to find her.”

“The child holds the memories of all the Goddesses, not just of the recently deceased but all who have ever walked on this side of the Veil. You will know her by her words and her works.”

“Works?” Mother Dolzella asked.

“Uh …,” the secretary hesitated as he looked down at his notes.

“He means the magic, High One,” William Farseeing said. “That much magic, contained within a small body, will be noticed. Extraordinary things will happen around her. We must send out to all the land and have the people be on watch.”

****

Nona sat on the porch and watched her youngest child play with her wooden horses in the dust around the stone walkway. She should be glad but her heart was heavy. She was old, too old to be bearing anymore children. All her other children were close to marrying age. Except this one. When she found herself pregnant once more, more than four years before, she thought she had the wasting disease. It had only been when her breasts began to swell that it dawned on her that she was pregnant once more. Ingrem had been beside himself with joy, hoping for another son.

Izzy felt her mother’s eyes on her and looked up with those impossibly blue eyes. Blue eyed and fair while the Horse People were dark haired and black eyed. The healer and the midwife had said it was unusual, but it was known to happen, what with Nona being old and her eggs as aged as she.

Izzy met her mother’s eyes. She did not smile. She had forgotten how to smile, lately, Nona thought sadly. The nightmares haunted her, even in the daylight, now.

Nona smiled encouragingly at Izzy. She missed that smile and the easy laughter. This was the bright child she would have liked to keep close to her until her dying days but it was not to be. The Horse Soldiers were coming today. Yesterday, the messenger had brought her the High Coven’s sigil along with a terse note. “Be prepared” the note had said. Nona had packed Izzy things, few as they were, this morning, being sure to include her stuffed horse doll with the mane and tail made of the finest lamb’s wool. Nona had made it herself, even down to felting the cloth herself from the sheerings of the black goat that had been born the spring before.

Black goats, another strange omen.

The world had become full to brimming with strange portents. The local witch had taken note and sent a runner to the great white city where the High Coven held court. The Coven had sent a seer who spent the days of the Birthing Moon interviewing all the local children born not long after the death of the Old Goddess. The seer had looked bored right up until Izzy walked into the room, hugging her black horse doll, entrancing him with her strange looks, perhaps. Izzy was a silent, solitary child who did not like strangers. She had clung to her mother’s side and refused to speak.

Nona looked down at the sigil she had clutched in her hands. Maybe it was a mistake. They would come, these Horse Soldiers, and they would see that beyond her strange coloring, Izzy was just an ordinary child. She would not tell them of the insanity that seemed to take hold of her child, nor the strange dreams that no four year old had any right to dream.

Nona looked up. Her strange, fey daughter lifted her head and stared towards the road, her little body tensing. The three ranch dogs came galloping around the corner of the house and took up a post around their small charge, their hackles up. Izzy looked over at them and whispered something, holding out her hand. The dogs relaxed, perhaps reluctantly, and went to her, nuzzling her neck. Izzy scratched each in turn behind the ears before sending them up onto the porch. The dogs came to Nona and sat at her feet, guarding.

Not long after, a phalanx of mounted horses appeared on the rise. In no great hurry, they walked sedately down the road towards the house. Izzy cocked her head but did not move, her wooden horses still clutched in her little fingers. Nona wished Ingrem had stayed. She needed his strength right now. But Izzy was the apple of his eye. He could not bear the thought of losing her. Nona had sent him off to the high pastures to check on the new colts, fearing he would die on the lance of a Horse Soldier it they tried to take her from him. It was best the hard decisions of life and death were left to women.

****

The phalanx drew up before the long, low ranch house. A child played in the dust there and a women sat upon the porch surrounded by three enormous wolfhounds. The Captain dismounted and walked up to the porch to converse with the woman while his men held their horses in check. It had been a long ride and the water in the troughs along the edge of the yard looked fresh and clear.

Kaplan, reins loose in his hands, watched the child. The fair hair was startling on first glance. The child ignored all of them, seemingly busy with the play of moving little models around in the dust.

Kaplan was not the greatest of horsemen nor was he used to sitting in a saddle all day as these Horsemen were. He tried to relax the tense muscles in his back as he let his mount have its head, trusting that it would do what was good and proper for a Soldier’s mount.

This was the eighth candidate to be interviewed. He prayed it would be the last.

Back in his younger days, he had ridden whenever he could but caring for a dying Goddess had taken most of his time towards the end. His was the last face she saw before she faded and the breath stopped in her chest and it was thought he should go on these interviews to jog the memories of the new Goddess.

The Captain had an issue with the dogs. The woman shrugged and rose to her feet, taking the dogs into the house before returning. Satisfied, the Captain turned and stopped short. The child was gone.

Kaplan was suddenly terrified for no good reason. His eyes raked the yard, hunting for her. Her little bare feet betrayed her. He spotted them as she wandered under the bellies of the war horses. One misstep, a shift in stance and she would be crushed.

“Oh, dear god,” Kaplan hissed. “No sudden moves, any of you!”

A flicker of hand signals passed among the Guard. The Captain saw it and nodded. He held out his arm to keep the mother on the porch, the woman intent on retrieving her child.

The horses ignored the command sent down the reins to them from their riders and bent their heads to sniff at this strange thing walking under their noses. The child touched their velvet muzzles and blew softly into nostrils as she passed. Made bold by her familiarity, one even nibbled at her straw colored hair. The child laughed and pushed its head away.

Kaplan blinked in wonder. These were war horses. They were trained to kill. She walked among them as if she were one of them.

The child found him.

Kaplan stared down into those impossible eyes. She looked up at him and then held up her arms. Kaplan shook his head, thinking this interview were best conducted in the house. The child stamped her foot and grabbed the stirrup, intent on scrambling up into the saddle.

“Let me up, Kaplan,” she insisted.

Kaplan bent down and gave her his arm. She grabbed it and he pulled her up. She settled into the hollow between his body and curved saddle.

“Who told you my name?” Kaplan asked.

“It is your name. This form, this face, it has a name and it is Kaplan,” she said. “I dreamed you were coming.”

Kaplan nodded. Perhaps she was just a witch or a seer, come young into her powers. “Did you? What else have you dreamed?”

“The land is full of ghosts and shadows. I cannot shift them fast enough. She grew old and weary and the land suffered for it.”

“Who?”

The child looked up at him, annoyed. “This is not a game, Kaplan, though I know you think you must play it. The old goddess is who I mean. She handed me her skin as I walked into this world. Fool that I am, I took it.”

“Frionna? Lady? Wait. You had a choice?” Kaplan asked, perplexed.

“We all have the choice to say yay or nay to what fate hands us,” the child said. “My name is Izzy, by the way. Short of Izzabella. Do not mistake me for the old woman whose land this once was. I will not answer to her name. I am not Frionna, though I have all her memories inside here somewhere along with every other goddess from the beginning of time.” The child touched her temple, a frown between her brows.

“What …?” Kaplan shook his head.  He needed to get his wits about him. “What is your first memory?”

“I remember eating the sun and finding myself pregnant with this world.”

Kaplan hissed. How could she know this, if she was not Frionna?

The child, this thing called Izzy, reached up and patted his cheek. It was a familiar caress, something Frionna had done almost daily. Kaplan jerked his head away.

“Do you fear me?” the child asked softly, her eyes stripping away his flesh until she could see his soul. “My mother fears me. Nothing in her life prepared her for having a child such as me. I will go say goodbye to her. Secretly, she will be relieved, for she is confused by my burden.”

“What is your burden?” Kaplan asked, afraid of the answer.

“There is a storm coming. It will rage across the Horse Lands and strip them bare if I do not stop it.”

Izzy wriggled out of his embrace and swung out of the saddle, clinging to the stirrup like a little monkey as she dropped to the ground. Kaplan’s mount snorted in surprise as she ran under his nose but it was careful where it put its feet. The rest of the herd turned their heads to watch her as she scampered through their ranks.

Kaplan looked up, bewildered, at his friend William Farseeing. “You said it would be Frionna.”

“Is she not Frionna? The portents all tell me this is she,” William said, worried.

“Oh, Frionna is in there somewhere, but …” Kaplan shook his head.

“But what, Kaplan?” William asked, leaning over to place his hand on his friend’s knee. “Could you not feel the power roiling about her? She is wondrously alive with it.”

Kaplan searched desperately for the words that would explain his unease.

“Remember how the secretaries came back from the archives and warned that we would not get the Goddess we wanted but instead we would get the Goddess we needed?” Kaplan said, staring after the girl, who was hugging her mother as the woman wept.

“Yes. Why? What do you think she is?”

“There is a statue in the temple of a goddess with thirteen faces. The Coven keeps it turned so that the kind faces, the faces of compassion and love are all that one sees. I have climbed into that alcove and studied what faces the wall. They are terrible faces. Angry, ravenous, vicious faces. There is a face that is eating her babies. There is one that breathes flames. I cannot help but think of that now. What if we turned around and left, letting this mother keep her strange child?”

“Do you really want the Goddess running wild and loose among the herds, like some feral dog? Better that she is surrounded by all the wisdom of the Horse Lands and the power of the High Coven.”

Kaplan shook his head. “Yes. I know you are right.” He looked back into Williams face. “But I am sore afraid.”

“Why? Be glad. We have found our Goddess,” William said.

“If she is the Goddess of War, I will follow her into battle without question,” Kaplan said. “But, by all that is holy, I am an old man and war is a young man’s game.”

“Maybe you are mistaken. Maybe she is a more subtle Goddess. Perhaps the Goddess of Judgment.”

“Yes,” whispered Kaplan as he watched Izzy take the Captain’s hand and let him escort her down the sidewalk. “Who, do you think, will be weighed and found wanting? Us or our enemies? What happens when she seeks retribution for all the wrongs done to her?”

William shook his friend’s leg. “You sat at the knee of the old Goddess as she sank into senility. It has clouded your mind. We are the Horse People. We have lived here, in much the same way, for ten thousand years. If there is a danger it comes at us from the outside. Listen to the world, Kaplan. It is shifting. Even now she is un-making things and turning it on the lathe of her own heart. Trust in that, if you cannot trust anything else.”

“That is why I am worried. I am afraid she will make me love her and it will break my heart.”

William laughed. “Such is the way of magic, my friend. It makes us all fools. All you can do is relax and let it take you where it wills.”

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6 degrees

6 degrees

You are born knowing the truth about yourself but by the time you reach maturity most of that truth has been replaced by the lies that others tell you. My favorite lie the the one that says you are alone.

This is the Truth:

You are born into a network of people who are connected whether it be through family or love or work or shared interests. These are real, visceral connections, measurable on a psychic level through a means that science is only now beginning to understand.

Imagine a long, elastic thread running from your core to the core of everyone who knows you. On the psychic level you would look like a starburst. Some of those threads are strong and bright. Some are tenuously thin. Some have faded to only an after image invisible except if you catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of your eye.

Now imagine all those other people being connected to everyone they know and those people being connected to others in the same way. It is hard for the human brain to imagine the infinite number of souls who are only a thought away along our long elastic thread of connection but the theory that you are only six degrees of separation from every human being on the planet is not far wrong.

We know about this network. It lies in deep in our subconscious, always there, always accessible. It is a comfort and a source of power that sustains us in our time of need. When people tell you that they are praying for you what they actually mean is that they have turned their attention to the long elastic thread that connects you to them and they are putting their attention and their intentions on that link, making it stronger while at the same time they are calling down the energy of the total network, channeling that energy through themselves, and passing it on down the line.

If you believe in your connection then it only takes a thought to open yourself to it and take what it wants to give you. The strongest links, the one that connect you to those who love you the most, these threads hold you in place and sustain you when  you are in deadly peril.

If you can let go of your fear, and trust that this network works as it was designed to work, then you can shift your attention away from the struggle to not die and shift it towards seeking the light that will heal you, body and soul.

When people die, they have to work really, really hard at it. Most of the pain comes from severing the ties that hold you to this place.

That part of what you think you know is true. Dying is very lonely work.

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Which way is UP?

Which way is UP?

What if…

What if life on this planet rose from a space faring race who only come down into the gravity wells of solar systems to feed, breed, and seed the next generation of life?

What if the human form is a part of that process?

What if one could recognize the evolutionary step that would take us back to the stars by the simple test of symmetry?

The evolutionary progression of biological symmetry goes from none (your distant cousins, the sponges) to radial symmetry (jellyfish and anemones) to bilateral symmetry (all vertebrates). Because of gravity, no form of life can be said to be spherically symmetric because, no matter what the environment, things need to know the difference between up and down.

Yet the conscious awareness of our own spherical symmetry is the skill set we are missing if we are to travel between stars or between dimensions.

After all, the only thing keeping human awareness from exploring the pan-dimensional universe is our inability to shed the need for an UP and a Down. For now, we must work the baby steps. Shoot for the rudimentary skill set; the ability to exchange UP with Down with Sideways at a moments notice.

What if the seemingly exponential explosion of neurological disorders like autism and ADD or OCD is not a sign that our genes are faulty but that the First Mother, who turned a corner and walked into this world to seed this gravity well, had a plan and a time schedule that ticks away inside the matrix of life on this planet, an internal clock that is forcing change upon the human species, not on their physical appearance but in the way the mind deals with the illusions and trappings of spacial reality?

What if we are meant to touch the ineffable, make it real, and learn to follow where it leads, out of the world and beyond this dimension?

What if, one day, those who “get it” simply walk out of the world. Would it be magic or miracle?

Or would it simply be growing up and leaving the nest?

 

Walking out of the World

Walking out of the World

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Halo of Thorns

Halo of Thorns

Life finds a way to survive just about anywhere. The land above the Snake River in central Idaho steps up out of the canyon in gradual benches. There is very little rain and when it rains the water percolates quickly through ground that is more pulverized basalt and fossil shards than soil. The summers are brutally hot and the winters are bitter cold so what plants there are, grow small and low to the ground.

There is a little plant that grows in this high desert that is remarkable for two things; its beautiful lacy foliage and the halo of two inch spines that surround said greenery. One can imagine the evolution that brought it to grow in this shape. The spines keep the grazers at bay. Well, mostly. The deer and the rabbits will get a few juicy bits that grow too close to the outer spines but the core plant, the densely packed frills of foliage, is always safe. No matter how much of itself it loses, the plant can renew itself over and over again.

Women are a lot like this plant. In the center of every woman burns an ember of the original fire that created the universe. This ember endows them with the innate and unconscious need to bloom and grow much as the little lacy desert plant grows. The days get long, the snow melts, the earth warms, sending signals to the plant to grow, or in women, the drive quickens to find something or someone to love.

Men, like the deer and the rabbits, think this is an invitation to graze. The leaf is there so it must be eaten, right? In this, men and rabbits are no different. Does the deer love the plant? Does a man say please and thank you every time he sucks the fire from his partner’s soul? He should. If it is freely given, as a woman who wants to nurture the fragile thing called human relationship is wont to do, he should bless the Divine Spark every time she opens herself to him.

When she is spent and needs to retreat, her man should respect that, just as the rabbit knows better than to stick its nose too far into the halo of thorns.

The Earth, your Mother, is not unlike that desert plant. She is Life and Life will always find a way. But our relationship with our Mother has taken a horrible turn for the worse.

There is a sickness among men. It is the sickness of taking. Toxic teachings have induced them to hate their daughters and their wives and their Mother. They take until they destroy. It is as if someone gave the rabbits machetes and taught them how to hack the halo of thorns apart so that they might eat the plant down to its heart. It is holy communion turned into cannibalism.

The women of these toxic cultures have perfected the art of passive aggressive silence. They know that what fuel is poured upon the Divine Spark ordains its harvest. Give the Divine Spark pain and torture and hate and you will create a maelstrom of destruction that will sear the earth black and make barren any hope of creating beauty or joy or Divine Harmony.

These women do not fight. It is not their job to fight. No. They sit quietly, their eyes downcast, their smiles hidden behind the veil of their hands as their men destroy the world, taking secret delight as the world crumbles around them. They are even complicit in this destruction, passing a thousand generations of memories down to their daughters but letting their sons go, to be raised by men who, without the wisdom of women, are no better than children themselves. These women are content, thinking in a twisted form of logic unique to the downtrodden, that since they have ceded all control then none of this is their fault.

Small consolation, but in the end, extinct is still dead and the dead have nothing to feel self righteous about. The dead only feel regret.

The Earth, your Mother, is much like the little desert plant. The rabbits have machetes and have eaten far to close to the sweet core. Things hang in the balance. But do not fear. The little plant cannot seek revenge against its tormentors but your Mother is not so passive. She is not limited by space/time nor does she have qualms about eating her young.

Imagine rabbit’s surprise in the not so distant future, when something made of lacy green leaves covered in lethal spines crawls down rabbit’s burrow and demands retribution.

Thorn Monster

Thorn Monster

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Guardians at the Portals

Guardians at the Portals

Life is not like a box of choc’lits, as much as we adore that kind of folksy wisdom.

If you want a truer analogy, one could say Life is very much like Harry Potter’s TriWizard Tournament maze. You are on a path with high walls that keep you from seeing the way forward or the way back. The possibility of something nasty jumping out at you around every corner is very real.

So, there are choices to be made.

How do you avoid the traps?

You can refuse to play the game. That is one choice. But you are human. This means you chose to play the game else you would not have walked though the Veil. Or you could stop and refuse to advance any further. Here again, the rules of the game make this an unpleasant choice for there is only two ways out of the maze, death and the big doorway marked “EXIT”. The way is littered with those who stopped and let the life seep out of them until the only thing left was the mummified husks.

Let’s assume you are playing to win. You turn each corner cautiously, your weapons ready in case the next surprise is something that means to eat you. When something jumps out at you, you have choices. Run or Fight. Easy enough. You defeat it and move on or it defeats you and you must find another route through the maze.

Sometimes you come around the corner and there stands a Sphinx. Damn. 

You have three choices, Fight, Flee or solve the Riddle.

I do not recommend fighting a Sphinx. They are magical creatures of a kind that cannot be defeated by even the most powerful wizards.

Going back to the next turn does not appeal since it has taken you so long to get this far and each trap has been progressively harder and more brutal. The maze does not want to be solved and resists you at every turn and eventually there is no going backwards.

OK, we can do this, you think. Just solve the Riddle. But be careful. The Sphinx will eat you and suck you into its alternate reality. But you are clever. How hard can it be, this riddle solving thing?

The Sphinx is an old hand at this game. It wants you to win but it does not want it to be an easy win. It is immortal and bored and ever wishing for a challenge, after all.

It asks the riddle.

It is then that you realize how clever this game is. The riddle is a paradox with no solution. Damn. Double Damn.

That is when you cheat.

Oh, come on. You knew there were cheats. Every game has them.

The Sphinx exists on multiple levels in multiple dimensions. One must merely find an alternate reality and then, standing within this place, you rephrase the the question so that the riddle is solvable.

Der? you might say.

Think about it. In the center of every paradox, at the heart of the reality in which all possibilities exist as truth, simultaneously and in opposition, there is a place perfectly balanced between the thousands and thousands of true answers. Standing in this place you face the Sphinx and deny any version of its truth but that which lives in the Heart of the Oneverse.

The Sphinx will smile and bow, letting you pass. It might even follow you, guarding your back as you finish the game. It is not often that the Sphinx is bested at its own game. It follows you because you are not boring.

Damn. Triple Damn. How the hell do you explain the Sphinx when it follows you home like a stray puppy?

the paradox Riddle

the paradox Riddle

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imagining perfection

imagining perfection

Science fiction is the tool used by those who wish to reinvent our history or imagine the future. Once upon a time, the historical philosopher might say. What if, the futurists ask.

What if our future was not so apocalyptic as some like to imagine.  Perhaps in all those possible timelines, in all those possible futures, there is a bright hope that does not involve zombies or the collapse of civilization or the ultimate apocalypse of species extinction.

The Nox was the concept of the writers of Stargate SG-1. They needed a perfect race. Someone who had figured out how to live in harmony with all things but who still had a sophisticated technological society. They needed a race that had figured out how to cheat death with the power of their will and their minds.

A lovely idea. But, one wonders, how did they get that way? Surely they were like humans of the present day.  What steps, what choices did they make that took them down the path to ascendance and a higher sentience?

Ascendance would only be a natural consequence of being a warlike and bloody minded people for it would take knowing the extremes of Darkness in order to appreciate the Light. Evolution is a pendulum swing that requires great forces to create great changes, after all.

Here is an amazingly transforming game. Imagine becoming the Nox. Then act as if this evolution had already happened. Now look around at the world and see it with your Nox eyes.

Something curious happens.

Hidden, amid all the seemingly random bits of chaos that is our modern life, there are seeds and nuggets of the beginning transformation into a species that fully intends to not only survive but thrive in harmony with each other and the planet we live on. You will not find it on the evening news or in the frenetic attention whoring of the news aggregating sites nor on the social networking sites.

Right now, there is a quiet revolution taking place as people stop waiting for things to change and begin making things change. Humans are at there best when they are solving problems and inventing solutions. What they are inventing is the future and it is the future that will put us on the path to becomging the Nox.

What does this future look like? It looks like urban villages. It looks like community gardens. It looks like non-profit health care co-ops. It looks like Critical Mass. It looks like the gradual abolishing of the Drug Wars. It looks like awareness and education and social consciousness through the transparent lens of the internet. It looks like networking circles and barter groups. It looks like the movement to live simple and simply live. It looks like shinning the spot light of public awareness into every little nook and cranny of our lives and stirring up the Shadows that still lurk in the cracks and crevices.

Once long ago it is said that the goddess Durga, in order to defeat the demon Raktabija, drank its blood to keep it from regenerating. It worked but Durga went mad as a result and turned into the goddess of destruction, Kali. It is only when her husband and lover, Shiva, stepped in front of her blade that her rage was quenched and she returned to being her true self.

This, if you think about it, is a very good analogy for the evolution of the human species. There was a time when it was needful and right for us to be Kali but one cannot stay Kali forever. There is no love or intimacy in Kali’s heart. The only cure for Kali’s loneliness is to put down the sword and remember that she is the Divine Mother.

Perhaps the Nox came to that same conclusion. Perhaps it is time to leave off carving a place for ourselves in the Universe and begin nurturing that which we have created. Let us hope we are on the right path.

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forgotten stones

forgotten stones

 

They say there would be no gods if man did not worship them. Where have the deities of the Egyptians and the Greeks and the Romans gone? They are ghosts, forgotten and grown silent in our neglect. This is the nature of sentience in a consensus reality. A thing only has power when we grant it that power by believing in it. The more believers a thing has, the more powerful and autonomous its sentience.

Man has invented, embraced and then discarded more organizing systems in the last ten thousand years than can be counted.

This is the nature of humanity, that he never stagnates. What we believe today is not what we believed yesterday and it will certainly not be what we will think tomorrow.

Some say that if you are unhappy with the current socio-ecomonic-political climate then you should be patient because it is bound to change.

I say your unhappiness is a sign that you have already moved on.

Look around. You are not alone in your unhappiness. No one ever is. We are a social animal with a shared Hive Mind. Someone, somewhere, out of sheer necessity, has invented The Next Thing. One by one, we will discover our new path and change direction. We call this phenomenon the Wave of the Future. It is a tsunami that will wash over all of us, eventually. Change is inevitable.

The temper tantrums of the fading systems become more violent, more bizarre, more laughably, ludicrously insane as their believers stop believing in them. Can you blame them? Even mindless, soulless sentient systems recognize the act of dying. They are living things with no higher self so dying is a terrible and terrifying process. The irony is that their death struggles only drive their believers away faster, thereby speeding their demise.

You know the end is near when the systems begin to rot from the inside out. People like Bradly Manning and Edward Snowden are symptoms of a particular kind of cancer that afflicts organizations that have long since ceased to serve a purpose. How bad can it be when the very people who depend upon a system for their livelihood would much rather take a suicidal leap into the unknown abyss than continue to align themselves with energies so out of sync with reality that they seem to create a vacuum filled dissonance around themselves as a protective barrier.

Soon the Hive Mind will shake itself free of the constraints of the old systems and move on. It has happened thousands of times before and it will happen a thousand more before man is done and gone. Like a snake shedding its old skin, we will scratch the itch until the vacuum between the new us and the old us is broken open and the old us falls away.

Now is not the time to be sleepwalking through life.  The last thing you want is to be caught on the wrong side, clinging to detritus while the rest of the world moves on with Life.

the ruins of history

the ruins of history

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