Across
time, proto-Genesis screams. He screams in horror, he screams in
disgust. In warning. Across time, that terrified man, eternally
youthful. As long as the recording exists. That record of a sliver
that was once called magick. We listen now, sitting or standing.
Sometimes driving a car or a truck or even a bus full of tired
musicians, or children, or elderly gamblers, occasionally even alone.
The cassette deck, or the CD player, or the MP3 player, or possibly
even the radio—analog or digital—is the channel. The trees
continue their quiet communications in the hills around us, through
the air we call dirt, or earth. It's not for us to say, at least not
yet. Give us time, though. We have consistently gotten there
eventually. Tiny, ant-like population untying our own rootball.
Undoing what it has taken the globe hundreds of centuries to create.
And all for ourselves. But for now, on this sunny afternoon, in this
sunny room, windows opened to comfortable vent sizes, man-made carpet
beneath my soles and toes, sunlight modulated by machine-painted and
-produced aluminum blinds, monitors going full-blast, music from the
plastic composite and paper and circuitry of the desktop computer
speakers, across time proto-Genesis screams. He screams out from the
first jagged ridge of the 1980s. He screams a warning, a reminder:
"Subhuman! Subhuman!"
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