The future is perhaps one of the most interesting things one can grasp upon, hence we become obsessed with legacy as we grow older, because it’s inevitable of our perpetual navel gazing; the future will last longer than us, and there’s nothing we can do other than try to affect it in some way. Hopefully in a noble way.
The notion of global cooperation is communistic in this capitalist drab we sloth about in. Gaia is suffering, as any organism does when under attack by a parasitic bacteria that remains to multiple until exhaustion. It’s natural then for the Earth to strike back and regain balance, via natural disasters, it will attempt to wash itself clean. The potential global birthrate decline can’t drop quick enough. Any real organisation to combat change will be an aberration of historic behaviour.
These death tolls we’ve seen today, yesterday and tomorrow won’t ever cease as they never have down through history. Everyday luck dances, and down comes its foot in mysterious and confounding ways we apes speculate and attach meaning to. In the end, calamity will never reach 0%. There’s little fruit to bear in Utopian thinking.
With all this in mind, our children’s children will face pitiful lives in a glance, nothing recognisable of the vivacity that is dying before us. I foresee police states, bigger death tolls from robotic wars guided from space (no hyperbole), spiraling isolation of the individual as we choose to coddle up to the groupthink hivemind on the internet than embrace real life patterns.
Screaming and kicking? Maybe one last time. After that it will be quiet acquiescence, subjugated by security of a two-tiered society; those with money and security, a part of a globe-trotting race, and those without anything, no jobs, no welfare, no nation.
The wealthiest? Who can trust those psychotics to do anything decent?
Whenever you’re stewing, and really soaking in those abysmal flavours one can concoct, where its been so long that the floor is crisping and burning, and the acridity rises in little flakes of black, you might as well say fuck it and listen to something astonishingly pretty. A great cure. I had to define ‘upbeat’ today, and in doing so it imbued me, all with a little help of the memory of this fine song placed above this rancorous post. Novos Baianos are a 1970s Brazilian freak, psych, samba, tropicana, rock band who excrete a cocktail so potent it clears workmen from the forests. Their mellifluous single ‘Preta Pretinha’ has allure in abundance. Dance. Sin. Rejoice. It’s all we can do. And no ‘sin’ was not a typo…