Cicadas; Movement 1

2019-07-18@03:36:14,GMT

1 –  Cicadas 

I listen to the cicadas.

It is a wickedly sultry afternoon. The air is thick as thieves. 

The knaves and villains soak my shirt in sweat and vanish with every last shred of my protestant propriety. 

I have been merrily mugged.

All compulsory work ethic has been picked clean from my pockets, pores, cells, dendrites,  synapses, and my very soul. I am left but a penniless scoundrel. I must fend for myself without the niceties that once spared me the slings and arrows of abject peonage. Is it a brutal state of nature, this lowest rung of society? Perhaps it is more a humble state of nature. Definitely humble if not completely of nature. Could it perhaps be a higher state of being? 

Nonetheless, I shall not mind this turn of events. This outrageous fortune may not be so unfortunate. I feel no agony. In fact, I am quite relieved of this burden, this yoke of culture, industrial revolution, pervasive media, and late capitalism. 

“Indolence for industry!” I cry to the empty sky, “Let them be gone. Good riddance you blessed rogues!”

Their horses trample in distant woods. Treacherous cloaks flap in hasty getaway. Let them have their booty. 

May it serve them well.

I am better without it.

What good has it done me, other than work me faster toward a death without the merest morsel of dignity and grind my soul into a paste of guilt and misery, stealing every precious second it could for my servitude to the wretched machinations of a mad system gone madder with each passing day? 

No more! 

Let the devil take idle hands. He’s as good a guide as any, not that he hasn’t taken part in the fiendish work of assiduous hands. Let us exchange one demon for the other and see how this one serves human need. 

May shadows play in light. 

I hereby denounce agriculture, civilization, and the last 10,000 years of so-called progress from the comfort of my camping chair. I float away through the air, I daresay, without the least bit of care. 

And listen… to cicadas… 

As they hum..
whir…
..whine…
…click,
..crackle..
.chatter,
.. buzz….

This is what it’s all about. 

This is their life. 

This is their song..
It is a chorale,
Belly ballad,
Canticle,
Hymn,
Wafting everywhere and nowhere,
Into everything and nothing. 

Sacred mating song,

It is both demand,
And plaintive cry.  

It kvetches and cajoles,
Woos and wails. 

What an art this is,
That surrounds and,
Flows through everything…
Free concerto..
All in the course of instinct…

Why have we humans done everything we can to pummel our own instinct into a fine powder? Control, my friend. Channel the instinct into production and consumption. It benefits no one, really. Even the rich are miserable in their luxury. We feed ourselves to the machine. Why do we keep doing so? Do we lack the vision of a better way? We don’t. We know better. We just can’t stop the momentum of this runaway train, or at least fear the results of doing so. It is the transition that scares us. Who here is brave enough to pull the brakes? Who here will finally bring an end to the suicidal madness? If you do not put your mark in the books, there shall be no more story to tell. 

I wonder how many cicadas were successful..
How many of them are copulating right now,
Above me in the trees?

Their strains are hypnotic,
As is the breeze,
The sky,
The sun,
The clouds,
The trees.

Leaves in the breeze,
Where soul decrees,
Itself free from disease,
For the moment,
I am at ease. 

Senses enlivened,
Cells resonate with everything,
Individuality forgotten….
Solipsism… gone…
Ego..
Concerns..
Worries…
Obsessions…
Kant,
Rousseau,
Voltaire,
Baudelaire,
Rimbaud,
Descartes,
Newton,
Adam Smith,
Freud,
Barthes,
Derrida,
The whole canon,
All of thought, reason,
Science,
The Enlightenment,
Dusted.. Floating away…
A glorious goodbye..

Hello nature. 

Religion,
This is;
Religion regained,
Re-tied to everything,
The ligature,
A ligament to God,
The Gregorian chant of the insect world.
One with the ‘verse. 

I am quite impressed, I guess. 

If the potential mates being wooed,
Are half as enchanted as I am,
There certainly is a lot of good and proper going on,
Up there in the trees..
Amid the branches and leaves,
And over there among the bush and brush,
And grass and ground…

I’m surrounded by an orgy, methinks. 

 

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