I’d been spending a quiet afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge Park when the place was suddenly mobbed with people, all of them with phones and cameras in hand to snap a sunset shot over Manhattan.
I could see none of them had a clue what they were doing: they just needed content to post on their socials.
It was a super cloudy day, and I could’ve told those two-bit photographers they were wasting their time, but people have to learn these things for themselves—and I don’t talk anyway.
As a line of solitary clout-chasers fixed their lenses on the Financial District for likes and engagement, soon to be disappointed, I watched this pair quietly engrossed in actual conversation.
It’s been another bleak and exhausting year—that seems to be the only kind we like to produce anymore.
It still helps to find joy in the small gifts of nature, which we, the destructive demons who roam and pillage the earth, have done absolutely nothing to deserve.
The beautiful yellow flowers of fall are one such gift, a welcome reminder of hope and optimism, even as the cold, dark days of winter begin breathing down our necks.
I find the flowers of purple-headed sneezeweed particularly graceful, and their presence at the moment brings me great delight.
The hot, humid days of late summer are slightly more bearable in a leafy Piedmont forest—slightly.
If you’re on the East Coast and traversing the banks of a shaded stream or some other low-lying spot, you’re likely to come across a Southern lady, of the fern variety, that is.
The hardy Southern lady fern is a ubiquitous summer sight in the forests of Georgia and the Carolinas. I found the fern shown here in a patch of woods in Atlanta.
The ferns are deciduous, dropping their leaves in the winter months, so they won’t be lush and green for too much longer.
Sori on the underside of a Southern lady fern (Athyrium asplenioides)
Your conception of God is pathetic, feeble, and small— Just like you.
Your god is a petty little narcissist, Obsessed with the titty-baby garbage of human hands: Money, politics, reputation— The same meaningless shit you’re consumed with.
Your god is abusive and controlling: A tyrant who suppresses with fear and violence, An angry judge obsessed with meting out punishment On those who don’t adhere to his arbitrary code.
Yet for some reason, the judge gives you a free pass: Your sin doesn’t matter because you’re so fucking special. “No fires of hell for you, my precious saint.” Grow up, you ignorant twat.
You have no morals of any kind, Save for the pursuit of power at all costs. The end justifies the means, your addled mind reasons, Too cowardly to acknowledge that you delight in darkness.
Even your conception of power is stupid and weak: You believe it means robbing everyone else of choice, Yet you can’t control your own foolish impulses. How arrogant can you possibly get?
You bleat about unborn babies and sexual deviants But your own leader is a liar, thief, and pedophile, And you see nothing wrong with it— You’d rather die than admit your hypocrisy.
Life is just a football game to you: You only care about your team winning, Even if they have to lie, steal, or kill to do it.
Apparently that’s how pathetic your god is: His simping foot soldiers have to break the rules And resort to cheap tricks to do his bidding— He must be an inept, bumbling cheater like you.
You scream the name of God but hold nothing sacred: Your entire existence is toxic and profane, An odious affront to all creation.
You’ve surrendered your mind to the god of your illusions And it’s rendered you passive, stupid, and addicted, Gleefully manipulated by the demons of your own hubris.
You blather nonsense and wag your finger at the world Like a tattling toddler, Blind to how you embarrass and degrade yourself, Unaware that no one is listening to your inane babble.
To worship your bitty baby god is expensive and destructive— It’s become much too costly for the rest of us to indulge. You’re accustomed to having your made-up stories validated, Insisting that everyone else believe them, too.
Your fantasies were tolerated in their time, but those days are gone. You’ve overplayed your hand and revealed your god To be a hoax and a hallucination, Formed from the dredges of your own darkness and depravity.
If that hurts your feelings, too bad. Had the flimsy god of your creation any real power, Another person’s words would mean nothing to you. But you’re too fragile to handle that, snowflake.
If only you were granted a tiny glimpse Into the vastness of the universe— If only you could find, for just one moment, The courage to rise to a higher view.
With a greater perspective, you’d recognize in an instant That you’re nothing but an insignificant speck— A tiny pissant on a planet among billions— And that frightens you to the pit of your soul.
That’s why you hold nothing in reverence: You’re a spineless little con artist Crafting a worthless god of fear and manipulation To make the world so small that you can control and manage it.
Because you—some stupid little primate Roaming this earth for a few brief moments— Should make the universe bow to your demands. Get on your knees and repent, you pompous imbecile.
If you ever had a moment’s meeting with the Divine You’d understand that you don’t know a goddamn thing, And nothing is at your command save for your own choices— But that’s just too scary for you to accept.
Stop pouting and plotting destruction because The world won’t worship the god you shat from your ass. Get over yourself, and shut the fuck up.
More like suburban life, I spotted this friendly mockingbird loitering outside a big box store during a routine shopping trip.
It’s hard to imagine a more desolate habitat for wildlife than an American shopping center, but mockingbirds are apparently resourceful little scavengers who can survive in the toughest environments.
And make no mistake: the suburbs are tough, especially on the soul. Dear God, I detest them.
