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Deus Et Natura No Faciunt Frusta
Raikes Hodson -Sooner or later God and nature will always win

Measurements slice the sky, ripping and re-wrapping, dicing everything up into its component parts. No more the breathless taste of wonder; just numbers. Out in the star fields wide eyes stare towards heaven and imagine. Down here in the mire we count our fingers and strive for ignorance, grubbing around in the half-light clutching as much as we can carry to our chest. Building walls, straightjackets and pigeon holes, our greatest achievement to dissect, desecrate and digitise. Even our words kill. Once the sky was sacred, now it’s a dumping ground and when we are not dumping we are strangling, suffocating and smothering. The moon, face of a Goddess, now reduced to silent rock hurtling through the abyss, splayed on a flag and left for dead. A deity as ancient as life itself, now a scrap yard for mans deathless curiosity. A small step for mankind murdered the Mother of eternity. But it’s not all gloom, non-stick frying pans will perhaps one day save mankind from their own psychosis.

Perhaps that is the answer, to break arrogant heads on Teflon, slide some sense into sterile brains and deluded imaginations. Take hold of the feeble minds and bang them together, no sense no feeling, it may even spark a moment of clarity, instead of which we feed spinal cords to herbivores, cross breed fish and tomatoes for a frost resistant crop, we envelope ourselves with static electric and invisible digital messages, pervading every cell in our body, all the time, every time. No black death for us, but annihilation by numbers as slowly they chip away our defences, twisting our cells into new and vibrant dimensions. Sooner or later God and nature will always win; 'Deus Et Natura No Faciunt Frusta; Naturam Expelas Furca Tamen Usqo Recurret’

Not content to sit and watch, to take the beauty of a place in our mind, we must own it, we must have it, we must see how it works by killing it and cutting it into tiny pieces. What glory is there in butterflies nailed in a box, a rare bird’s egg emptied and lost? I remember as a child hunting fossils on a beach, along the cliffs men with hammers ripped out their prey, destroying much of the cliff face. They put their finds in bags and pockets to be stored in boxes in dusty cupboards. Those I had in my pocket I put back, saddened at the rock falls, the sound of steel on mother earth, who gives us the right to rip out her heart, suck on her spirit, murder and kidnap her children. Some say a God given right, I hope their devil comes for them in the night.

© Raikes Hodson September 2002


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