I love this time of day. It’s quiet. The sun is out. It’s starting to smell like fall.
The world, though sullied with financial sewage will most likely make it through to the other side; spinning as it does on its axis in the quiet —the death quiet of space. OHM it seems to say. Maybe the noise of space is deafening, but it’s silent in the movies so whutdeeheck?
I look back at earth as I ride out of the solar system, and hear nothing of the cries of anguish ringing up from Wall Street, haranguing off the pages of newspapers, crying up from tent cities, sidewalks, tenements, and six bedroom houses not paid for and in foreclosure. I’m not afraid.
I float ignorantly above the roiling seas, blood red from recessionary ink, the crimson sweat of crazed traders and stomach-knotting, blood-shot eyeballs of investors everywhere. How much nicer it is to see the world turning from up here, much as it always has. The distance lets me ride the river of denial — which is great because there’s not much I can do about it anyway.
© October 2008