Why do we play when the skies are falling - from the upcoming book: 'Our Earth's Pleasure'
Why I’m offended by Halloween.
We are meant to be great. We aren’t meant to live in dead-end jobs. To pay meaningless debts until we die. We are meant to fly with our creations, whatever they might be. Not to drudge over another man’s dream. Or to sob in depression for what could have been. We are meant to heal the world, our world, this planet, the only one we have. And each other. We are meant to share our writing, our art, our songs, our music, our movies, our hearts, our souls, our secrets and our wisdom. We are meant to live in peace with nature, not fight her until we break her back. Only to wake up and find we broke our own. We are meant to sing and dance, not dress in costumes of darkness and celebrate evil and demons… we should be dressing in costumes of lightness and joy, of angelic wisdom, not applauding torture, blood and death. What on earth went wrong? When did we think it was clever to kill and desecrate. To hang pelts upon our walls, to create a holocaust for the earth, the animals and each other? When did we decide it was okay to be suppressed, and allow it? Or to be oppressors, suppressors of other creatures, each other and our home? When did it become okay to sit and watch pretend lives called reality when each day the sun sets and rises outside in a show of pure sensation as the earth calls to us in her dying throes and the creatures show us by their very actions that life is itself; that we have not invented the rules? Do you awake and greet each new day with dread, to pay the debts, instead of joy to see what life reveals? Who told us life wasn’t meant to be easy? It that the truth? Or are we living someone else’s construct; their dark dream? The one we can’t remember from childhood before we were told about the bills? When did we allow ourselves to become old before our time, in a battle of fear about ageing and death? As if worrying about that and the early purchase of our death-plot could keep it all at bay. Did you ever think that everything we think is right might actually be wrong, and what we think is impossible might be right? Like the Parable of the Cave, do we stare at the dark side of a rock and call it life? And why? Because someone told us that it was? Then chained us there long enough, just like those in the cave, until habit made it right and so darn right that to remove us would incite hatred, anger, dire distress, as if freedom was our enemy, not our birth right. We don’t have mental health, depression and disease. We have rock bottom. A world where the human race has, like a drunken liar, almost drunk the last drop of the last bottle of the last pint of wine and soon, with nothing left to dull our senses, we will begin to withdraw, shudder and convulse, see the truth with horror, the rose-tint of indulgence and cowardice, blood lust, money and delusions slowly evaporate and leave us with the rubbish tip of our attitudes, of our creation, alone with all the other creatures gone.
Where then, our silly customs of horror and our attitudes of hate to one another? If horror is what you’re seeking, please, there are wars spread all over our planet, real dead bodies, real corpses, real blood. Real hands lying in the road that was once a part of a person, someone like your child or your mother. More corpses for your pleasure? Please, be my guest, spend the day helping, do it for free, in a slaughterhouse for those raised and bred for the palate of you and me, and then bring home the spoils and ingest them and feed them to your loved ones, more blood, more gore. Why not? As you lie safe and sound, in your nice bed with clean linen in your nice white, spotless nightgown, did you kneel and pray, to your personal god, the one you own, you know the one, the one who is not like theirs, those others, the people from the other lands.
As if we have a planet that is all nice and clean, pristine and pure, loving and loved, kind and secure, we frolic and play and don’t give one thought, not by night or day to those we show no love or cleanliness, or kindness or purity of spirit, as if we are not one human being but segregated, cut in sections and of which to this here we give our best and to this here we give our worst and to those there we cut off their heads.
If love can’t show the way now, then when will it? When the lands seen from outer space are bare and brown and the once-known blue planet is no longer watery and vast but a brittle crust cut in chips, the ground brown with rust. Who will forgive us our grave injustice then?
Deby Adair
In writing - 'Our Earth's Pleasure' Copyrighted Material © 2014.
We are meant to be great. We aren’t meant to live in dead-end jobs. To pay meaningless debts until we die. We are meant to fly with our creations, whatever they might be. Not to drudge over another man’s dream. Or to sob in depression for what could have been. We are meant to heal the world, our world, this planet, the only one we have. And each other. We are meant to share our writing, our art, our songs, our music, our movies, our hearts, our souls, our secrets and our wisdom. We are meant to live in peace with nature, not fight her until we break her back. Only to wake up and find we broke our own. We are meant to sing and dance, not dress in costumes of darkness and celebrate evil and demons… we should be dressing in costumes of lightness and joy, of angelic wisdom, not applauding torture, blood and death. What on earth went wrong? When did we think it was clever to kill and desecrate. To hang pelts upon our walls, to create a holocaust for the earth, the animals and each other? When did we decide it was okay to be suppressed, and allow it? Or to be oppressors, suppressors of other creatures, each other and our home? When did it become okay to sit and watch pretend lives called reality when each day the sun sets and rises outside in a show of pure sensation as the earth calls to us in her dying throes and the creatures show us by their very actions that life is itself; that we have not invented the rules? Do you awake and greet each new day with dread, to pay the debts, instead of joy to see what life reveals? Who told us life wasn’t meant to be easy? It that the truth? Or are we living someone else’s construct; their dark dream? The one we can’t remember from childhood before we were told about the bills? When did we allow ourselves to become old before our time, in a battle of fear about ageing and death? As if worrying about that and the early purchase of our death-plot could keep it all at bay. Did you ever think that everything we think is right might actually be wrong, and what we think is impossible might be right? Like the Parable of the Cave, do we stare at the dark side of a rock and call it life? And why? Because someone told us that it was? Then chained us there long enough, just like those in the cave, until habit made it right and so darn right that to remove us would incite hatred, anger, dire distress, as if freedom was our enemy, not our birth right. We don’t have mental health, depression and disease. We have rock bottom. A world where the human race has, like a drunken liar, almost drunk the last drop of the last bottle of the last pint of wine and soon, with nothing left to dull our senses, we will begin to withdraw, shudder and convulse, see the truth with horror, the rose-tint of indulgence and cowardice, blood lust, money and delusions slowly evaporate and leave us with the rubbish tip of our attitudes, of our creation, alone with all the other creatures gone.
Where then, our silly customs of horror and our attitudes of hate to one another? If horror is what you’re seeking, please, there are wars spread all over our planet, real dead bodies, real corpses, real blood. Real hands lying in the road that was once a part of a person, someone like your child or your mother. More corpses for your pleasure? Please, be my guest, spend the day helping, do it for free, in a slaughterhouse for those raised and bred for the palate of you and me, and then bring home the spoils and ingest them and feed them to your loved ones, more blood, more gore. Why not? As you lie safe and sound, in your nice bed with clean linen in your nice white, spotless nightgown, did you kneel and pray, to your personal god, the one you own, you know the one, the one who is not like theirs, those others, the people from the other lands.
As if we have a planet that is all nice and clean, pristine and pure, loving and loved, kind and secure, we frolic and play and don’t give one thought, not by night or day to those we show no love or cleanliness, or kindness or purity of spirit, as if we are not one human being but segregated, cut in sections and of which to this here we give our best and to this here we give our worst and to those there we cut off their heads.
If love can’t show the way now, then when will it? When the lands seen from outer space are bare and brown and the once-known blue planet is no longer watery and vast but a brittle crust cut in chips, the ground brown with rust. Who will forgive us our grave injustice then?
Deby Adair
In writing - 'Our Earth's Pleasure' Copyrighted Material © 2014.
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