I see, as in I understand, said the Judges daughter, I see with my eyes of crystal. I see, hewn in clay tablets beneath my feet of clay.
Now in those days there came a man, a woman, a beast, a child, a continent whose upsetting had unsettled the applecart, apples everywhere. Born on the capricious storms off the Atlantic and the bright panels of sunlight found in those northern latitudes, the pieces, cut by mountain range, river and blood ties, circled each other for an era.
Facing off across the no man’s land, where the bomb craters still sprout poppies in autumn or is it a natural spring, don’t fall in, there is mud at the bottom that will not scrub off. Bristling with invisible animosity. We all play along, all is well except the conflict beneath the surface, between the nice and the nasty.
I see, as in look over there, said the Judges Daughter, I see
Europa in resplendent turmoil, in vestments of gold and blue, standing mid-stream, the current strong about her waist, holding the arguments above the water so that the words will not be washed away, folded close about itself in leathern document case of fire. She gathers the fretting children in her arms and calls for quiet. She sips her coffee and is assaulted on all sides by the instruments and instigators of chaos whose only goal is disruption, that they may reap the rewards of boot production for the weary soldiers, drone manufacturing millionaires funding the opposition. Funding the obfuscation of truths immortal.
I see, said the Judge’s daughter, A line drawn on the page, in the air, in space from here to, a line to hold and defend, where chaos meets itself rebounding back from the wall of rationalism, part built of solar panels and the invention of roman concrete, suffering in cacophony and dealing in second hand electric vehicles.
I see the refuse in piles surrounding the city, where robotic arms search for lost hard drives replenished with Spitcoin, dividing the spoils of rare earths and precious metals in abundance requisitioned. Making a monument of children’s toys and burnt-out teddy bears by default as they sort through and section off the unwanted. A cliff of white goods and a libation to the gods of oil.
And when the tide gets tired and finally goes out, satisfied that its work is complete, all traces of castles erased, and rivulets of sand carefully positioned to create todays magical display. Will the tide will leave us the broken parts and titbits for the sea birds to plunder and gorge. Will we sleep peacefully on top of our redundant duvets? Will we yearn for a view past the barricaded windows? Will we block our ears to the whining and grumbling of the generator, coughing in its housing? Will we pass notes of secret stashes to our best enemies? The rival gangs on scooters fuelled by gin and derision.
Will the tide leave us intact, families and friends, terraced and single storey. Will the receding tide of chaos grant us the mercy of civil society, the Olympics, cheese and onion crisps. Or are we destined to languish through a digital stone age where billionaires build pyramids to mark the passing of their favourite dog. Choose which private jet, have relations with each other in zero gravity and take dangerous substances that we can only dream of.
Perhaps we should beseech the moon, in her untarnished light, to hold back the tides of chaos and misinformed, ask her to hold tight for a moment in time, a day, a week, a month, a century. Whatever she can spare in her eternal vigil, so that we may write our letters in the sand unchallenged and photograph the evidence before us for someone to behold in awe, pin the photographs on the school wall and call out, Go on then, send in your tide, release the bats and rats, gather up the soldiers boots at the edge of the bomb crater and fashion them into undersea cables and umbrellas! The next onslaught may be in the form of digital rain or the parting of the mined seabed.
If it attacks, hold up your flag of parley and suggest conflict resolution by Scissor, Paper, Stone. This the tide of chaos may accept, in any, the moments hiatus will bless the innocent in their beds and studios with an instant of peace that will never return. This may buy us a precious moment to contemplate what might have been, had not the princes of untruth been gifted the keys to the playground while the grownups were chatting about the weather.
One two three Fist! One two three Palm! One two three Fingers!
We keep chaos interested, best of three, best of five, best of three hundred and twenty-one. It can’t resist, could never resist a dare, a bet, a throw of the dice across the gambling table
The tide pauses in mid flow, and a million of innocents escape through the tunnel, unnoticed by the banks of guards who are straining their cctvs to monitor the outcome of ours gamble. The tides hesitate and a dozen truths are writ in stone that, even though they be engulfed by the waves latter, will remain writ beneath, held forever true like the legendary kilo of platinum.
