#39032

18:26 3/9/2019

From the book "World on Fire", by Michael Brownstein:



Because it's a mistake to think this culture will last much longer.

Walking on eggshells, out on a limb, state of denial.

Western white noise powered by psychotic episodes dressed up as healthy ambition.

Western white noise, how I long to hear the silence behind your posturing.

But, unlike me, nature's not impatient.

She waits, compassionate, all-knowing.

Time means nothing to her.

She doesn't care if a million years go by before life's balance is restored.

She laughs—you can't hear her laugh but it's everywhere, in the crowding and acceleration, in the epidemics and famines, in the ruined lives—she laughs at the desperate compulsions spewing out of Western white noise's mouth.

She laughs at the very disasters which are destroying her.

Yes, even my clairvoyant glimpses of revenge, of oil industry meltdown, she views with a trickster gleam in her eye, indifferent to any outcome.

She smiles at those working tirelessly for her benefit because she knows their egos are involved in what they say and do.

Whereas her power is beyond ego, beyond name and form, beyond individual identity, beyond striving.

The great detachment of the Goddess, breathtaking and fearful.

The terrible distance from which she churns out and ingests all life—good and bad, beautiful and ugly, vital and sickly, just and monstrous.

The indifference of the stars, the galaxies which come and go without explanation, without bias, without a sound.

The silence of the Goddess making any witness—even the bravest of all—crumple in awe, "go blind in her presence," as the ancient texts averred.

Because she doesn't care the way "you" and "I" care. No matter how bad things get, she knows her survival is beyond influence.

No matter the polar ice caps melt, no matter the half-life of nuclear stockpiles leaking into everyone's tomorrow, no matter the disappearance of her precious creatures, her trees and flowers, no matter the poisoning of her air and water, no matter the end times.

End times for us is nothing to her, literally nothing at all.

Looking us in the eye—her glance that burns our retinas—she reaches under her gown and fingers herself, making herself wet, making herself come, over and over again.

Out of her moaning mouth spill unending life-forms, forever taking the place of what disappears.

That's all she does, from here to eternity.

And we can't believe it, we refuse to accept it, the knowledge of our insignificance pulverizes us.



