Perhaps this will feel like a non-sequitur. To me, it fits the mood of the cartoon.
Are we sad because we humans have exploited our niche and perhaps reached the zenith of our manifestation here on Earth? What of it? Earth shakes us off.
And we shake the past off - like an infestation of fleas. We cut the umbilical cord. We leave home, sometimes via a black hole.
The mantra I always hear in response to a tragedy is: never forget. But dwelling in the trauma prevents healing.
The Innuit people refuse to name children after anyone. At least one letter/sound of the name must be changed. Let the dead continue their path, right? The living have their own mistakes to make...
When has remembering history and its injuries ever prevented its repetition? It's the lesson that needs to be learned.
We must change at least one letter/sound. Create a metaphor. Invent a fairy tale. But let the trauma continue on its journey to healing. And let each of us be present in our own moment.
The following poem points the way. A midwife delivering the child from grief...
I was raised by Rock and Roll America, Those are the wolves and the coyotes that showed me how to run. Big Brother rock and Roll America , the heart of the North Continent. The forests , the drug stores the games of my tribe. I am still being raised by Rock and Roll my true parents and their Grand parents of the Great lion hearted British continent and the Emerald isle , Amen.
7 comments:
I often think of Humans as parasites, but honestly it's not a thought that brings alot fo hope or self esteem.
it's better to focus on our potential, and what we can do to make things better.
love the cartoon though
here's the new me
Perhaps this will feel like a non-sequitur. To me, it fits the mood of the cartoon.
Are we sad because we humans have exploited our niche and perhaps reached the zenith of our manifestation here on Earth? What of it? Earth shakes us off.
And we shake the past off - like an infestation of fleas. We cut the umbilical cord. We leave home, sometimes via a black hole.
The mantra I always hear in response to a tragedy is: never forget. But dwelling in the trauma prevents healing.
The Innuit people refuse to name children after anyone. At least one letter/sound of the name must be changed. Let the dead continue their path, right? The living have their own mistakes to make...
When has remembering history and its injuries ever prevented its repetition? It's the lesson that needs to be learned.
We must change at least one letter/sound. Create a metaphor. Invent a fairy tale. But let the trauma continue on its journey to healing. And let each of us be present in our own moment.
The following poem points the way. A midwife delivering the child from grief...
Confederates
by Neal Bowers
My father was only two in 1915
when he sat on Walter Denton's lap
and heard the old man dragging in
his heavy chain of breath, each link
stuttering down the back of his throat.
"Floyd," he whispered, saying the baby's name
like a question, "look yere,"
and he placed my father's hand
on a scar the color of moonlight,
a shrapnel wound from the Yankee boats
that shelled Ft. Donelson.
Then both of them began to cry,
there in the ladderback chair
someone had dragged into elm shade,
away from the stifling house,
until a woman came and saved them
from each other, leaving one
to go into the past and disappear,
the other to follow by way of the future.
"Confederates" by Neal Bowers from Out of the South. © Louisiana State University Press, 2007
Chris - I like your self-actualization!
Wow. thank you both!
Yeah, i guess this was the perfect place to manifest as the Divine Destroyer!
Thanks for the insights and the poem
I was raised by Rock and Roll America, Those are the wolves and the coyotes that showed me how to run.
Big Brother rock and Roll America , the heart of the North Continent. The forests , the drug stores the games of my tribe.
I am still being raised by Rock and Roll my true parents and their Grand parents of the Great lion hearted British continent and the Emerald isle , Amen.
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