Gaia Ga Ga and the Kojos of Rhythm

Fly with me. Past the din of this city. The cold night air wrapped in errant streetlamp glows, vibrant with dissafectancies. Up, like a bird over the edge of all this land in the valley, all these boxes sheltering slumbering lives, curled in comfort and dreaming.

To the moon, her pallid crescent waning against the shadow of all the light that slips past Japan across this lolling mass of earth. See how tiny she is? See how large this continent, spinning? Americans, pressed to the breast of the Pacific crest, shrouded in the conundrums of evenshade and glowing at the hope of safety these tiny white dots assure us. The moon, so small, so slow to roll about in its eternal descent. Lovers colliding in the paradoxical gravitation of the sublime. And that light, that light that draws its lines across her brow and shows us so clearly the sure azures of the ocean on the other side of our blue ball earth, coming from the sun so far away. So massive, a burning wall of fire and heat and radiation. The warm happy center we are all trying to reach, trying to shy from.

From this distance it doesn't matter who loves you. It doesn't matter who fathers your children or who goes to work on time. It doesn't matter what your carbon footprint is. What car you drive. What you buy for breakfast. What you write in your memoirs or who gives a damn. We are all reduced to a speckle. Life. One word. Our planet has it and you are part of it and at a greater black distance we shall fly and see that it is nothing but a dot. Nothing but the memory of a dot.

"The Milky Way," our ancestors will explain to their children's children's children, casting a finger toward the heavens and lowering their voice in that manner which bespeaks great mysteries afoot. "There, those are stars, and in olden times it was thought that like a stream of milk cried over a black floor, they were the bringers of life, the sustanence of the mother Gods whose love for us is a question we may spend our lifetimes answering, as a child knowing it must suckle upon the juicy breast but why? Where does this glutonous goodness come from? That soothing voice, singing a song without words, that heartbeat pounding warmth and stability and comfort. We nuzzle to it. We drink and we are filled."

It makes you want to cry.

But instead you grow. We grow until we understand that on this squirming surface life clings like a fragile lichen. Leaves fall in a mountain stream and winds blow without understanding, and night and day overlap each other until it makes you want to vomit at the sadness of the speed of it all but you do not. Instead you fly.

Fly with me now.
We are more than our thoughts. More than our heads full of ideas and more than these frowning faces, bent into the light.
Tell me we are more.
And we will fly.