Cyclotrons And Random Possibilities.

Faithbased and failing falls a Friday fair of face and frit of widdershins, the black dog pacing lordly round the church like smoke and deals of end of life. The mourning edges of the papers tell of single deaths in screams; contrasted with not many dead, disastering in voyeurism for the masses led to deep anxiety by all the rich and famous. Civility, they say is fading and then report like sewer rats on flaws - of skin - of character - of mind - shouting out the news of latest crackings - latest hospital admissions, latest affairs of heart and business -scream out the deaths of fifty in revenge for Government decisions and ignore the indecision killing millions. Money is a god, a deity, inactive like a beloved royal, beyond the leader columns, not to be reported on in case we slow the growth of factories that pump out misery and idleness disguised as productivity, as value added, as marketing. The ideas of children taken to our baby-timer adults, a mind to shout above the rest, to flash and grate and and scratch your way ahead by always being there, watching one way, shouting back the other through the telescreens, the slow pace gone for ever in the lack of silence.

I wait for the climb of birds this spring, the lark, an old friend, in spirals, chaotic dives against the random currents put up by sun on field. And all the rest of this world swallows the distant sounds of commerce, the hum of traffic repeating the same old routes to market and to workplace. This is a call for idleness, a call for slowing growth for sake of stable minds. And all the saints make hospitals by magic, create silence for eternity, a part of universe blocked off with research and billion dollar cyclotrons. Maybe the world will disappear into this vortex, this mass of particles annihilating in the magnets we burn our coal to power. Sum over history stops all that's gone and all that is to come from being real and turns us to observers only. All that's to come runs in.