The deep areas of our earth consciousness are ruptured. Hardening of the arteries forced to put out the essence of the crust through a tiny opening with no liner. Drilling with no casing. Almost a metaphor for having unsefe sex in an unsafe region and now denying this is harmful or that it might have been prevented by us. We want it all. About three planets worth. This big blue marble is also ruptured and so the fingers get wagged asses are threatened and who is to blame? The last great generation who fought and died and invented all the methods of our ingenuity were deeply invested in this enterprise. Now no one can say, "what the f*ck? Grandma, what did you do?"
BP probing the outer shelf with our uncircumcised drill-bit the metaphorical penis of the once virile British Empire. What happens when the crust fractures and cracks? We are soon to find out. Literally or metaphorically.
We just didn't want to have to pick cotton anymore. (It looks like we may have one more chance.) The earth gave it to us. The means. Here is what happens when we trust the next thing as the solution. The post modern solution. We asked for a reliable source of heat and luxury. What did we get? Planet with dead zones all over it. Gotta clean house and then dump the dustpan in the river/ocean earth.
We are connected to this, yet each new threat of mass extinction leaves us still asleep or heavily drugged. How else could we be here? So the outer planets work on us and we reckon how we used our one wild and precious life and by design our planet. Or are we culpable for what we did?
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