Golden Calves & People who Listen to Butterflies
A word makes an appeal
It’s hard not to fall into panic or despair, upon hearing words that oppose who you are… voices that deny your existence. The thousands that have died and are dying. The millions extinguished. An exchange of lives. Deals. Grand applause. To death. Cheers.
‘You better stand up, son. Raise your arms to the one god has chosen to do his bidding.’
A bringer of Peace.
If I were peace, I would file for libel.
If I were god, I would resign.
O, poor old peace… Bastardised.
Salam … hé- min teezi.
Look to the holy land of hell: the word has lost its meaning long ago.
A beautiful thing it once was …
Hijacked words. Stolen symbols. Broken worlds. We claim the emblem of Kings. We wage a war on words. A war on meaning. A war on humanity. A war on animality.
It’s not the first time. We’ve been here before, always failing at the ultimate moment. Why would this round be different?
Because it’s time.
There are many who have woken up and are waking…
How do we reclaim -to words- their meaning?
First came the word, then came a load of bullshit.
If I were god, I would quit. I would admit the failure of my experiment—but that’s not an option when you’re everything and all. Where can you go after all? (Hawaii might be nice….)
If I were god, I might curse—but god is merciful.
If I were god, I might drown every town, start fires in every home—but god is just and wise. Man is not. Striking matches in his bed, flooding his fields.
I wash my hands from this blood.
If I were god… I would cry. I would sob.
The tears of Ra fell on desert sands and birthed the bees
I am not god, so I may curse or blow up or burst in tears—
I retreat into my cocoon instead:
A butterfly hangs to the edge of the closed window. It’s below freezing outside. I cup my hands around it and breath some warmth. It walks into my hand. I bring my cupped hands to my head and it flickers at my eye. We sit together. It walks to my index finger and shows me its colors. Een dagpauwoog. Time passes in silent commune. Butterfly flies into the room, setting in the light of a lamp by olive branches in a glass vase. This reality exists too.
Meanwhile:
Ra’s tears have dried
David ascends the mountain-exiled
Moses descends to find his people worshipping the golden calf
Again
But oh, if it were to El of the Canaanites we kneel…
The bling-bling bulls of today are… what shall I say….
Buy:Dig:Consume:
What will we be leaving behind?
Will we leave anything behind?
Will we deplete this beautiful gift of a planet and launch ourselves into space?
There are no butterflies on Mars
But here… Butterfly flutters against my ear with a whisper of what can be…
In another dimension, an other realm - a future to dream:
The people are celebrating the inauguration of the Counsel of Elders that will lead the Nation. One nation under god and goddess - connected to all nations. The counsel is representative of the people inhabiting that land: Natives, implanted, imported, ghetto-d, slaved, smuggled-in… all colours faiths and non-s. People who live and work there. Not a democracy of numbers and votes, but of reaching consensus. It is not impossible. The bees do it all the time. The indigenous peoples of America did too, they knew:
The good of one is in the good of all - and in the good of this planet.
And vice versa x 3
Their ways were wise, making their decisions and forming their actions with the seventh generation in mind. In harmony with nature. It takes that much time to heal. To let heal… Mother Earth - upon which we dance or kneel. Raising our songs to Father Sky. We do not need to go far or re-create the wheel, it’s right here.
The turning of wheels turns into music. The counsel is blessed by prayers of several faiths in many tongues - saluting the four directions with drums. The people rise as one.
A new age has begun.
Butterfly is still here...
