Every culture has its outward sign or symbol. The Winged Nike, the Imperial Eagle, the Cathedral, with its spires soaring to heaven. Even the golden glass tower dedicated to the demon idol Mammon. And the sign of our present moment?
Perhaps a skull would suit. Think of the millions of children killed in the womb, or the hundreds of thousands killed by our foreign policy in Iraq, Syria, Libya and Afghanistan, or the constant, incessant, deathly way of life in the hollowed out shells of once great cities. Think Detroit, Baltimore, St. Louis, and on.
Not so happy, is it. Imagine all of the dead and the stratospherically rich insiders that rule what’s left of our culture. The very same people who are working to destroy it for their own gain regardless of the will of the people.
The stench of their corruption reaches to heaven and we’ve seen a little bit of it thanks to the Assange Publishing House in Ecuador. And what about our economy or money? Hint, it’s all debt! Hedge on that.
Now the person who represents all of the above, its unashamed ambassador, has flies landing and resting on her face. Ask yourself what that means.
I must go, there are funerals to attend to.
Your Cheery Old Pal,