Onamatopea pandem… onia!
Photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash
Listen. Big reveal….Everyone dies. I know. It’s crazy, right? Thousands of years of civilisation and we still believe in Santa. See the latest news?
Crazed, alcoholic, cynical news reporter: What did ya see?
Ordinary Joe in the street: Oh, it was awful!
Crazed, alcoholic etc: Tell me, make it big, lay it on!
Ordinary etc: There were people…
Crazed: Yeah? Real people?
Ordinary: Yeah and they were, like…
Crazed: What, what, what!
O: They were walking around.
C: OMG! Tell me, more!
O: They were like, walking and stuff.
Great. I love it. Print it. Roll it. Shove it. Send it. Sell it. Whatever you do, just do it.
‘Shane! Come back, Shane!’
We, the people.
If you sit one day in the park somewhere and it’s warm and sunny and there are some ants doing their thing and flies are buzzing and you’re easy and the sky is so beautiful, the sort of blue that makes everything Walt Disney and you’re waiting for Jimny to pop up and start singing: ‘When you wish upon a star…’
Watch the ants. They go here and they go there. They stop and sniff one another and move on. They have purpose and know what they're doing. They come and go and are busy. They don’t mess around. Sure, one or two might go off on a tangent and you wonder what’s happened. Have they lost radar connection, ant wifi gone down? Anyway, after a while, they join the flock, the gang, the group, the herd (A herd of ants?) and they are in business, dude.
There’s some that work hard and some that are bossy and there’s some that just have fun, moseying here and there and exploring. It sure is great to be one of the team, the organisation, the community!
We the People.
High in the mountains of ant Hollywood, the ants have started to feel something is wrong. There was a smell in their ant antennae that made them twitch. It came every half hour, on the hour and went away again without warning. It lasted only a few minutes, seconds. Was it just ant imagination? Was it ant malaise? What the hell was it?
It was the dreaded Bricka Brack disease. The one thing in ant mythology that no ant ever dared to sss about. (That’s how ants ssspeak). It was written in the ant annals, handed down from ant to ant down the ant millennia. The Bricka Brack!
It made ants feel horny. Real horny. It made them watch sexy ant movies on AntTube and download pirated ant porn. It made them take naughty ant selfies and post them on FaceAnt and join ant swingers and phone up ant horny buddies and no matter what they did, it was awful and they felt so ashamed afterwards and pretended that it never happened. Only it did and it would come back again and round and round the poor ants would go.
We the People.
In other places, there were ants that were dying by the gazillions. Those poor suckers didn’t have a measly ant thing to eat and were being dropped on with all sorts of anti-ant stuff that vaporised the little critters. In someplace over there 400,000 ants were blanked and about three million were told to move on. Get out, ants. You’re not wanted.
Back home, Big Boss ants are worried about the Bricka Brack. They’re throwing every ant idea of ant civilisation against the dreaded BB to no avail. They have so much stuff to throw at the BB now that the BB is coming down hard and about to blank everyone, eventually, but it’s not working. All the ants are going ant insane. They’ve stopped doing stuff. They don’t have purpose and are sitting around moping, depressed, suicidal. Ant suicides have skyrocketed. Millions and billions of ants are staying at home in their little ant holes and staring blankly at one another.
Child Ant: Mom?
Ant Mom: What?
Child Ant: I’m bored.
Ant Mom: Like, what’s new?
We the People.
The Earth is beautiful. It is a cosmic principle. It is a diamond in the mind of the unfathomable Mystery.
There is no other Earth in the universe. No other planet that is populated by humans. We are the only people in this universe. We are the glory. The children of the Earth. We are the intelligence of the Earth.
Life is beautiful. It is immortal. Eternal. It knows of no suffering, no pain, no death.
Death is an illusion created by the ignorance of the Mystery that we are. Death happens only to awaken the dreamer.
I am the dreamer. I in this body writing this and I in the body reading this. (I know the curates won’t pass this jive.).
A curate is a priest. A priest is a medium between the people and God. The curate has no knowledge of the Mystery and hides behind the knowledge of the originator, the Master, the Author.
Only the author is authentic. The curate is a conduit. A passage like the intestines that carry the food to its ultimate expulsion.
Meanwhile, business as usual.
Things are getting better. There’s been a breakthrough in the fight against the Bricka Brack. It’s being ant seminated via the ant wifi system to all ants everywhere, except to the really poor ants over there, you know, the ones that don’t have zilch and are better off…
We the People.
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