Oh, what a specious species are we! Given a vacuous veneer of civilization and an illusion
that, “That won’t happen to me,” we just keep on, keeping on,
collectively oblivious to the portent of ominous handwriting on the walls, in a delusion
of our leaders’ … collective … wisdom.
For that reason Arthur dreams nightly, along with a ragtag band of intergalactic misfits.
They’ve undertaken to see through … an impossible mission;
the magnificent obsession of tweeting to blog, to author, an epic poem, in the hope that it
tweets (wo)mankind … into submission.
The gist of it is that new breed leaders must step up; courageous but pragmatic leaders that
realize this nation-state fixation is taking us down. Some
day hence, it won’t be sunny; black ground and gray skies contrast at
somber horizons; nuclear skies … blot … the sun.
Notwithstanding that, unprecedented capabilities await what transcendental empowerment
offers. ‘Paradise Lost’ and ‘The Divine Comedy’
inspired this letter to all from Art and his Crew. Its call: for prescient
wisdom … and action … to forge … a collective destiny.
‘Miracles’ is intended to be more than just a howdy-doody to his brethren.
As ontology, it’s a self-help book. As sorry
apology, anecdotes from the co-authors’ lives are confessions
of gross ignorance … and … sad apologies …
… to all, especially those injured along Art’s tortuous and torturous way.
Furthermore, it purports to weave the Crew’s subjective
observations into contexts of world and cosmological history to lay
out a bigger picture than often we’ve …
… generally been able to appreciate, much less those generations that have
preceded us. The world is in a sense much smaller
and in a sense we know more than we ever have. Yet, we yet behave
in accord with the ways of forefathers …
… long gone. They and theirs, make it evident that we are the legatees
of ever more aggressive and, moreover, horrific
conduct, set over ages of competing for a stranger’s or neighbors’ free
use of his water, his kill, his saltlick …
… his camp-fire, cave, women, children, slaves, pelts, horses, livestock,
tools, land, currency, gold, oil, ideas and more.
Conditioned to behave selfishly, we act accordingly. Yet we’re shocked
as successive generations’ box-scores …
… set lower standards for truth, tolerance, and social justice, furthering
us from His Grace. There’s little doubt to some we’re near done;
a cosmic train wreck just waiting to happen. Ever better equipping
ourselves to just reach out and touch someone …
… Ma Bell would’ve been so proud of us. Would that the Crew were
only literally referencing telephones and the plethora of devices
to appear these past two decades. But drones, lasers
and, not incidentally, reliable nuclear devices …
… permit cleanly remote, bloody physical contact with perceived
antagonists, placing her ad-line of reaching out
and touching someone in a ghastly new light. Like lemmings to the sea,
headlong … we blindly follow … round about …
… our leaders of every ilk; for all leadership is but illusorily real.
Sargon, Hammurabi, Vladimir and Barack share with all
the rest of us the human frailty of reactivity to a very great deal.
Thus it … and fickle circumstance ‘oft call …
… if your fate’s to die young, eke an existence, or succeed in life.
But whether it’s the loss of many innocent lives
such as Hiroshima or at Twin Towers, or the loss of a single life,
as when the Arch-Duke was assassinated, loss of lives …
… increasingly ripple far and wide, so any single event all by itself, or
more likely, a series of events or confluence of
events shall likely trigger a conflagration unlike any ever before
imagined … much less seen …. Trumpets above …
… shall eventually signal the righting of things. But we digress; for
eschatological scenarios are many,
unknowable, un-probative and not subject to scientific inquiry before
the real McCoy … besets us. Any …
… purported intervention at that late date may be but a fanning of flames.
Consider the increasingly illusoriness
of American presidential power. It has eroded since atomic shames
cast over Japan … a pall of darkness.
Little Boy and Fat Man evolved into their vastly more powerful hydrogen kin
and a new kind of clock was invented, a Doomsday
Clock. For all its movement, the 11 p.m. hour that’s never been
likely … shall ne’er be; nor may …
… be approached, notwithstanding close proximity to a twelve o’clock hour.
Humanity’s spacecraft nears and is drawn into
a black hole of its own making. Its inhabitants sense it but sense no power
to avert … a black hole … being … sucked into.
Ergo, a magnificent obsession. Why epic poetry and not prose as the means of transmission?
It is because poetry is more lyrical than its prosaic cousin.
It better emotes, finding in motion and emotion, music to soothe the savage beast within
us all; it better evokes hindsight, foresight … and insight … in this epic … din.