Far From the Corridors of Power
They flouted everything. And still they would not believe. Their protestations were beyond meaningless, although he would have preferred respect.
Thus it was.
Thus it would be.
Quiet now, this vacuum emptied of all meaning; the crawling wisps of engagement, as if nothing could be and all would be, here in this space, a different sense of time, a vaulting field, a dry eye, a different form. He ordered: Be Quiet Now.
There would be a space and a time for all; to be understood on their terms. It wasn't glacial, it was different. Oceanic, of course. The terraforming, of course. The beauty of a power exchange. Of a time when men became mere men; when evolution spread forward, when the ancients demanded kindness for the fallen, when a dilapidated fall of a house in the midst of rich pastures; well, they built their lives here and now and he looked at them as if they were an entirely different lifeform, which in a sense they were.
They warned of distortion, they warned of fraud, they warned of fraudulent accounts and imposters, but in a sense the time was past for any of that.
The deliberate destruction of the country, of millions of lives, of thousands of businesses, of the country's traditional ways of life, it had about it, and had had from the beginning, a sense of something else. At first, as if hyenas were circling the herd and picking off the vulnerable. Then of a machine intelligence, malignant, malevolent, born of darkness, which saw no beauty in the humans they corralled, only to be extinguished. Those who served these masters assumed, incorrectly, that they would be saved.
That in these junctures of history there were other forces at play.
And we were summoned, these human adjuncts, to play our role.
There's little room for wonder now, and little room for wildness too
We crawl into our wounds
I'm gonna buy me a house up in the hills
With a tear-shaped pool and a gun that kills
'Cause they say there is a cougar that roams these parts
With a terrible engine of wrath for a heart
That she is white and rare and full of all kinds of harm
And stalks the perimeter all day long
But at night lays trembling in my arms
And I'm just waiting now, for my time to come
And I'm just waiting now, for my place in the sun
And I'm just waiting now, for peace to come
And so it was, so it was.
Old Alex asked for nothing. Even those chants: truthfulness, compassion, kindness, courage, strength, determination, high intelligence, good health, and if you don't mind, coin of the realm, all of these things vanished and seemed, in a sense of no import.
A ruined house, a ruined country. A place that could have been.
They didn't sweep in to save one history, they swept in to preserve a future.
How it would play, he did not know.
Normal protest was forsaken.
And indeed, in the Covid Era, the Right to Protest had been abolished. All those diversity pundits who could not bear that anyone would disagree with them were cheering now for the arrest of demonstrators protesting the massive crushing of personal freedoms, the brutality of the police state now being visited daily upon Australia, the abject cruelty of the ruling elites, and he rose up, rose up, and the formless took not shape but manifestation; hold fast, hold fast.
Quite frankly, he felt like apologising for having been so boring the previous six months, as he drowned himself in sorrow and alcohol and did nothing but finish the book, took no heed of any of them, even the talented ones, even the ones who pretended to be a little like him, and so it came, these times, flooding down upon us.
And the people were ill prepared, indeed had no idea.
And mercy?
There would be no mercy.
There would be an utter transformation.
And we would pray for you; even as we gifted you your future. And preserved another.
It matters not what you believe.
NEWS
Melbourne CBD to be locked down on Saturday to prevent COVID-19 protest
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