Rain Babylon Rain

You want to know the world I see, this post-apocalyptic downstem of the post-modern love affair between the man and the money, this piranha-free wasteland where the malls are empty, the migrations of humanity to the moon craters, and the few urbanites that stick around rule with venison growing in the carpool lane of an abandoned superhighway, speak-easies with women in cowboy hats and guns under the counter, Mad Max on a chopper swinging across the desert, Elvis, King of Vegas, paupers plagued with radiation sickness living in the subway terminals, because when capitalism goes it’s gonna leave burns that’ll take millennia to fix. But they will be fixed. Nature can heal when the fires come and the wind comes and the rain comes and the sun, the sun comes while the clouds come and go, the animals and plants come and go too, and the radiation will seep into the Earth’s very soul.

But in the meantime, we can pack our bags and head to the mountains, to the woods, to the fields and push ourselves back to the dawn of time, while the moon rots in a dystopiatic-nofuture. If we can’t go forwards, as our post-everything selves have proven in their electronic laboratories and supercomputers, we made a wrong turn somewhere. Let’s retrace our steps.

So we pack our bags, and we get to foothills of our collective subconscious, gears twisting in the hearts of icebergs, and the cooking spit of simplicity will be known again.

Let me be straight: your very existence in this world is wrong.

We have, over the course of our history, spread like cancer. And we have run out of room, so we’re eating ourselves alive. And while the cancer forces its environment to adapt to it, the lion eats the antelope, and then dies to become the grass, and the antelope eats the grass.

We shall let the Age of Grass to commence, and watch ourselves be again one with balance.

Make sure that bag you pack contains the ever-changing blueprints to utopia, because it is up to us to build it if it does not exist.

Hundreds of years pass. Earthquakes remold the world and we lose history for awhile. The Fire Prometheus gave goes out.

Picture the colonies of us slowly setting themselves along banks of new rivers, putting the lid back on Pandora’s box, telling their children the dangers of the mystical skyscrapers of the ancients.

And imagine their children wandering back to the cities, experiencing the empty ghosts of the mighty Empire, global and obscene, groups of deer eating venison on that abandoned superhighway. Imagine them sharing stories about the ancients now living on the moon, astronomical migrations separating two now separate races.

Imagine the children learning their long past through primitive archeology. The dust on the chalkboards of schools, the rooms and rooms of books in libraries, the remains of taxis and manhole covers and street-signs, and then while the archeologists are digging, the moon-dwellers come back for a visit, (but do we agree that history repeats itself?) and a war between the pilgrims and the natives proves to us all that Babylon is cyclical.

Life is cyclical too, so must we carry on this rocket-ship up and out narrative charade?

Let us converge, and talk wilderness.