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Monday, April 02, 2012
LAUNCHED as turtles paddling through lake strewn with biomatter, as hurtling space junk, which Voyager One will become in a dozen years, as Tibetan monks immolating themselves toward an afterlife, the big empty, as they burn by the dozens, we don’t notice anymore as a burning, as a speeding outward and interplanetary, as a golden record the probe carries with baby cries and whale songs, as the monks drink kerosene as an internal accelerant, exploding in protest, literally, and we are cheap gas and unlimited condiments and all-you-can-eat and two-for-one and Happy Hour and T-minus fifteen seconds and made for T.V., reality T.V., as long as reality isn’t burning monks or whales driven insane by Navy sonar and beaching themselves, or unloosed sewage streaming into the ponds of our unfertile crescent. We are engage, ignition, liftoff of the Titan III, pushing ourselves toward the heliosphere as a crying newborn rocketing from the womb. |