giving zero fox

In the midst of all of the political hemming and hawing, with hateful words and bitter accusations filling the various media, please remember that the wind still blows.

Trees stand outside, soaking up the sun, giving zero fox. Giant squid plumb the ocean’s depths, in search of ‘parm and treasure, oblivious to angry humans shouting loudly. Birds chirp, their sharp eyes spying worms and crawling critters, their beaks and talons always working; the birds don’t care which factions calls which other faction terrorist, or how many groups claim the right to pieces of ground on patches of earth.

The birds and the wind and the trees and the squids do not care about anything. We humans call ourselves smart, worthy, and civilized, but we’re none of these things, and have no right to call ourselves these things, even though we kill each other to prove otherwise.

The wind don’t care about that, either.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

bones of blog

Where will my blogs go once I stop updating them fifty years from now? And where will they go if the Interweb stops working, crashes, or is wiped out by virus or alien invasion? When elephants feel death approaching, researchers say they often remove themselves to secret areas littered with the bones of their pachyderm forebears, graveyards piled high with the massive skulls and valuable tusks of these smart, lumbering beasts. My blogs, I fear, are not much different: when their time is up and their duties have been served, they will either retreat quietly into the digital forest, randomized clusters of ones and zeros waiting to be re-born as a toddler's social media account, or they will sink forever into the shiny black carapace of some server tower humming away dutifully in the climate-controlled warrens of any one of countless South Asian server farms.

All the writing this author posted on those blogs will be gone if they themselves go: there are no hard copies of his body of work; no printed copies of the Grigovian fairy tales he composed; no tactile versions of the vituperative barbs he hurls at politicians and powerful persons alike; his legacy is 50% ethereal and 49% vacuous, and the few items that do exist for real resemble the ruined detritus of a foolish nonce who cowers in the dark shadows of the past while cursing the skies for making thunder and sending rain. No, his artistic effort will vanish when the systems crash, when the sky-brothers return for gold and human women, or upon the Singularity, whichever comes first, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Huzzah.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥