The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

As the merry-go-round makes another lap in perfect order, giving heed to the big nuclear fireball in the center of it all, we are less than a power bill cycle away from the end of the Mayan calendar. King K'inich Janaab' Pakal, we should've gotten a bigger stone. This might freak somebody out someday. If this is the end, rock it until the break of day, cuz I'm going to take a backseat nap before it all goes down. Nevertheless, today is today. The day with ground fowl in the oven and the diet A&W root beer chilling to celebrate the successful journey of a few hundred 17th century boat people to the promise land. And for nearly a decade now Bob Ross's happy little mountains love where they live a little more as the raccoons and old possums translate another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

The climate control kids race in the car pool lane with their hazards a blaze; rushing to sell carbon for credits in horror of the ghost of progress past. In the words of a master of words smithing; human nature is but a frail filament of incipient folly, especially fickle in the presence of prosperity. And I say this species is not of the order of physical progress of evolution. Darwin was still correct! Those pretty little island finches surely were distant cousins of just one. Natural selection minds me none. Let evolution continue to change the native terrestrial because we are of the foreigner's race; the race of Adam... Apes are friends, not ancestors!

Humans are giddy beings caught up in just being. Some spend all their life looking into sky for a speck of life on a space rock, while arguing life on this earth is a choice. Stop chasing the space yeti, the great planner designed this brief history of time to never let us see those who inhabit the rest of the celestial real estate. Thousands, tens of thousands, millions of planets inhabited by the human equivalent of Darwin's finches; all endowed with the gifts of music, art, written word, belief, creativity, death, destruction, faith, and the choice to endure and gain, or to bark at the stars. No matter the size of the rocket ship or the power of the satellite beams, we will never bridge the universe’s Galápagos Islands. That will only occur once the envelopes of time closes for good. There are no space saucers. No little green men. No alien visitors waiting for us to evolve. Just those there and us here -- all working through a plan of being more than just a being. Working to finish what started on the dawn of the mortal parade. The road is not as unfamiliar as one may believe, nor lonely as some think. Just know that we’re not alone.  

Happy Thanksgiving,

Jarvis