Clouds and Water by Arthur Dove (1880-1946)

Hazy day. Courtesy of man-made flames ravaging the Indo soil.


It's like clock work this time. Same old hostile weather. Extreme flooding in one corner, blinding heat in the other.

The human creature, well, she stays indoors. Hey, let the plants and those poor animals weather the smog, why don't you? Darwinism at its most natural setting.

That thick charcoal Godzilla of a smoke should have startled someone, heck anyone. Into action. Is there an actual benefit to sheer gawking at wild forest fires? I'm afraid there isn't unless apathy has consumed our brains.

But zombies we remain, plugged exclusively into the rhythm of our little lives. Chasing papers, seeking bloody meaning and all that mental things we adore.

Let super mother earth burn just a wee bit more so we can all play out a future in our minds where everyone is practically attached to an oxygen tank. The human society in a state of grey perpetual melancholy. Exciting stuff right there just like the movies.

Now we sit and wait for old nature to reset everything back to a prior livable state. And then off we go our merry earth-plundering ways, infected by the sudden onset of insidious amnesia. After all, nature always corrects itself right?

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