Monday, 15 August 2011
The bland hell of tomorrows children
the fences have dissappeared, replaced by lots and white square wooden pegs with pink ribbons on them, lots for lot the fences to one side still remain, cows munch cud on and on untill the time comes. The brick stretches up the steady rises and upon the brick is the mostly black rooves, the modern australian lives here, amid the sprawl, amid the dark earth and upon the village of sameness, of holdens and fords and of backyards with overgrown grass and well manicured greenish yellow bushes. Built fast with money in mind and a hand on the pocket and a finger on the pulse of the pulsating economy. They are all the same it seems, they are the new middle class or the developing masses. Coagulating out here in the country a short drive from the city's beating heart. but there is something beneath this surface, something about the way all things come so quickly here, and how the money is too fast to be true and the houses are too proper to be real, paper thin and fragile, and the galloping economy is too tangled in it's own race, champing the bit and frothing. the big men with their full wallets can probably see what i feel, that the end of this is at hand, the world is beginning to shake and we are steadily waking up to this. I had and still have hope for us but the hope now is in teaching some people the skills of survival and opening our eyes to the wrongs we have wrought, as a society and as humans, grasping for money and ignoring the truths we know to be. that there truly is no end to suffering if we pursure money, and that the dream of having two cars and three kids is a not happiness either or that a healthy culture is one like ours. my optimism is shaking like a leaf but it is truly relentless and i just hope that most of us find some truth in this foolish race before we meet our ends. Mum is coming down soon, with her stormy hair and her dry lips with her power and her balance, but still the ball rolls on. you can only build a sand castle so high. When you burn all your paper you are left with just ashes and smoke and maybe burnt hands. If you put too many pigs in a pen they will eat each other. Humans will be extinct before the last tree is gone from de ter. The new sprititualism is in the now, to accepting life and it's death and that we must slow down our chasing other wise we will reach the end of the road where it rolls over rocky gravel and dust and then back. Into the wild.