A man who has lost his pretence, a wanderer who puts words in certain orders, he is known by many names but claims none of them, he is just a man. ___________________

Tasmania Should Be A Lesson To All Of Us (But It Won’t Be)

Cut em all down

Who needs em

These weeping trees

Are no good for the economy still standing

Breathing carbon and the toxins

Spewing forth from the pulp mill that eats their bones

To a standstill

And spits em out in bleached white sheets

For bills to be printed on

Pack em up

And stack em up on shop shelves

Where customers in gas masks can neglect em

As post offices close all over the country

Because who writes letters anymore?

And who needs the regnans, Sequoioideae, or Kauri?

The Tōtara, he mauri

When instead we can grow

Everything in plantations

Of Pinus radiata

Because it grows faster

To feed this endless need for profits

That will be useless to those that possess them

When their cans of stale air run out

And they suffocate on the decks of their luxury launches

Whichever way man may look upon the earth, he is oppressed with the suffering incident to life. It would almost seem as though the earth had been created with malignity and hatred. If we look at what we are pleased to call the lower animals, we behold a universal carnage. We speak of the seemingly peaceful woods, but we need only look beneath the surface to be horrified by the misery of that underworld. Hidden in the grass and watching for its prey is the crawling snake which swiftly darts upon the toad or mouse and gradually swallows it alive; the hapless animal is crushed by the jaws and covered with slime, to be slowly digested in furnishing a meal. The snake knows nothing about sin or pain inflicted upon another; he automatically grabs insects and mice and frogs to preserve his life. The spider carefully weaves his web to catch the unwary fly, winds him into the fatal net until paralyzed and helpless, then drinks his blood and leaves him an empty shell. The hawk swoops down and snatches a chicken and carries it to its nest to feed its young. The wolf pounces on the lamb and tears it to shreds. The cat watches at the hole of the mouse until the mouse cautiously comes out, then with seeming fiendish glee he plays with it until tired of the game, then crunches it to death in his jaws. By

Clarence Darrow (via blackestdespondency)

And yet it is only us who sees it as oppression. Life and death, death and life, nothing more than the ebb and flow of the tides. We use words like suffering, brutal, and callous, we ascribe all this meaning and overlay to something that just is. On some level these creatures understand that they are predator and they are prey, there is no fear of the end beyond the immediate moment where death finds them, and even that is swiftly over. Yet here we sit, the predator of predators, afraid of everything. We die a million deaths before our final sleep, our whole life prepares us for that moment, but still we spend our whole life trying to avoid it. If that is not the very definition of suffering, I do not know what is.

The Meaning of Death

Pop pop pop pop

The beat drops

Never stops until the moment we draw our last breath

This moment almost universally feared

That tears apart our communities

As though it hasn’t happened since always

And always will

Just as the rain fills up the ocean

And the ocean fills the sky

We will die

But it has not always been met with such fear

In yesteryear it was considered as much a part of life as birth

The only other part of our condition

That we have no say in

They say the ancient gods looks at us with envy

From their immortal thrones

As they intoned the edicts of life below

And the knowledge of our certain death gave us life

Unimaginable to those that would live forever

But aren’t we clever

We’ve devised a million ways to keep ourselves alive

Not for any other reason than to be alive

We’ve learned how to add years to our life

But not how to add life to our years

So we extend our torment ever further in the fourth dimension

Delay the inevitability that tortures us so badly

Unwilling to accept that these shells are finite

And it is that finiteness that gives us meaning

The Quiet Place

The rain falls

Like voices on an empty amphitheatre

Amplifying around my silent room

My quiet place

My space where time expands to contain all things

And slows to a trickle

Like the droplets down my window

She sings

From the hollow trees

Where bees make homes to gather

All the nectar of nature

To make their sweet wine

And sine waves illustrate the balance

Of existence

Up and down we go

Ever forward

Toward what no one knows

But ever forward

The curse of our linear experience of time

Except in my space

Where it expands to contain all things