It is a time of freedom and fear, of Gaia and of borders, of many paths and the widening of
a universal toll road, emptying country and swelling cities, of the public bought into
privacy and the privacy of the public sold into invisible data banks and knowing
algorithms. It is the time of the warrior's peace and the miser's charity, when the
planting of a seed is an act of conscientious objection.
These are the times when maps fade and direction is lost. Forwards is backwards now, so we glance sideways at the strange lands through which we are all passing, knowing for certain only that our destination has disappeared. We are unready to meet these times, but we proceed nonetheless, adapting as we wander, reshaping the Earth with every tread. Behind us we have left the old times, the standard times, the high times. Welcome to the irregular times. Poor Mr. Bush. He never really wanted to leave the greenhouse. Just wanted to play the role of a sucker off of dear Dad's old growth. Then, Karl the Roving Political Plantation Manager came along and cut him adrift. You could say that Mr. Bush was planted in over his head. Now he just can't get out of the little terra cotta pot, and they've moved him to the White House, where the light is all wrong and poor Mr. Bush is growing all gangly and twisted. Once perfectly suited to his environment, Mr. Bush has become the National Bonsai. Let's have some pity, and conserve Mr. Bush compassionately. It's time to return Mr. Bush to the backwoods wilds of Connecticut, where he can do no more harm. Over time, we're confident he'll return to his full, playful shape, overlooking the harbor of Kennebunkport. Return to the Irregular Times Main Page
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