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Channel / Source:
Caitlin Johnstone
Published: 2018-03-06
Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y09bhuYcuxI
Come dusk. Come dusk a frumpy woman, well past the age of societal worth emerges from wherever we've been hiding her to watch the fire imps frolic on the telephone wires. She sits unassumingly the only way she knows how and listens to the screech bats awakening. We are always dancing on the grave of the past. She says to no one in particular, in a voice long since
punished into whorceness. They pull you into this world and teach you all their best guesses. And it's like one of those awkward social situations where you knock watch all what to do with your hands except to last a lot longer and instead of your hands, it's everything. You get a porridge of words made up by dead men and a jumble of dead ideas and they toss
them into a pink Barbie doll lunchbox and say, here, pretend to be a person. There may be one though, if you're lucky. After they've squeezed you for all the sex and children you're worth, maybe you catch a breath and you learn to feel your feet on the floor. And to listen to the screech bats and to smile and nod as the mind tells its stories without
believing a word of it. Time becomes a fairytale you indulge like a child telling you about Santa and ideas become like tools you can pick up when needed and sit down when you're through. Life happens like the growing of the weeds and the silent explosions of the stars and you are launched by each dying moment into a new dying moment as naked and stupid as the
day you were born. She kicks off her shoes and puts her feet and lights the biggest cigar you've ever seen. Yes, she says, we are all dancing on the grave the past. A bright white disc silently appears over the trees and shines a blue cone of light upon her. Well, it's about a time she mumbles. So gasmoke wafting from her mouth.
