Grave New World

The two nations that have traditionally been our closest allies are now both in free fall.

The US is embarking on a new hot shooting phase of their century and a half long civil war with a demented fat orange copraphage perched on the roof of the White House like a gargoyle cheering on the carnage.

Great Britain is slowly, mutter by mumble by sneer, ripping the seams of its unity open with a dull and rusty pair of sheep shears while the Queen goes riding in the grounds of Windsor Castle on a horse named Fern.

Here at home op-ed writers in what passes for our national newspaper have decided that a pandemic and rapidly spreading global instability are a good time to throw some red meat to the Conservative Party of Canada's chapter of Canuck deplorables.

And while our climate warms and the weather gets weirder we pump more bitumen out of the Canadian north as though the survival of the planetary biosphere has nothing to do with us.

I don't know what to make of us here on Earth.

I don't know what might happen next. I won't even guess.

I'd like to be able to ignore it all.