Here we are, folks, all of us – in the closing scene of Planet of the Primates – nations of Charleton Hestons aka astronaut George Taylor, with our knees to the sand, man, looking upward at our fallen icons, our respective Lady Liberties and we’re thinking (I know I am), “You finally really did it, you maniacs, you blew it up! ”
Now, right now, in 2020, this is what the other animals would say if they could Doctor Doolittle us: It would be an ape in the sand, raging, “WTF, you damn dirty man!” Or an extinct western black rhino in posthumous wail. They, unable to build spaceships to get away, can’t say, “Don’t worry, we’ve still got Mars if we screw this one up”.
Listen to the words beneath their tusk tusk while we self-anthropomorphise and fly o’er head, shoot them dead, mount their heads and plasticise their sea beds. And how a-moosed they must be how we treat each other with similar misuse and disposability: Shoot to kill, watch rape to thrill, cause the pain for to sell the pill. Swipe left, swipe right. The moment we learned to make fire, we started to set fires. Hey Lady Liberty, with renewed respect, keep yours alight while we are paused for reset.
You are amazing with words. Last paragraph should be a song. Looking forward to your next post.
Thank you, that’s high praise and music to my ears. I look forward to your continued thoughts, in whichever direction they take you.