The Island of Meat Toys

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At sunset, on the coast of Miramar, Hardy walks Lyra down to the crashing beach. He gives her the camera as he points out at two oil platforms and names them, “Platform Habitat, nine miles. Platform Hillhouse, six miles.”  She places her eye in the viewfinder and zooms in on the steel rigs sticking out from the sea. She sees the silhouette of industrial cranes hanging giant crab legs over the edge. Hardy asks, “Can you see the pillars under the platform?” Lyra answers, “Yeah. So?” Hardy explains, “So, you shouldn’t. Nine miles is over 20 feet blocked by the curve of the earth. This place is flat, Lyra. How does a satellite orbit a flat world?” Lyra stood erect and looked at Hardy square in the face, “Why are you doing this to me?”

NASA is a psychological space program. All six lunar landing missions were under Nixon. Is it hard to believe he’s a crook? It’s not that hard for war profiteers to convert their factories to sell space equipment. Imagine the profits from selling space hammers to taxpayers. Understanding how a conspiracy as big as 9/11 could happen is easy when you understand Nixon and NASA were lying about the moon. Even easier when you understand they lied about JFK. If you think we can’t be that gullible consider how many still believe in the integrity of Clinton; or anyone in the Bush syndicate. The list is long and drenched in bloody gravy. Put yourself in their shoes.

If you thought people were crops you’d treat them like animals. You’d keep them on an island and farm them like a resource. You’d build a wall of ice around them. You’d geld them psychologically. You’d keep them separated and play music to make them dance. You would breed them to manage themselves and you’d care little about the quality of their experience. We are crops. Instead of roots we have veins. They dump coins in our trough and charge interest on what we eat. We are living on their property. Each of us are sharecroppers on the island of meat toys. Everyone insists it could never happen here. Not now. Not today. We are far too clever and shrewd to fall for something so monumental.

The strength of a fence is found in its material – but the power lies in its ability to provide distraction. An animal sees no future behind the pickets. A cow will only go where its mind thinks. We look up to the sky because there’s no fence. We grip our toes to a pinball of scarcity and insist our footprints are ruining it for the planet. We cosplay gasping fish who fornicated ourselves into balding monkeys with tools. We are desperate for a savior as we reach for anyone but each other. We are a planet of alters with constant amnesia who don’t even know where we live.

“You’re an asshole, Hardy Maxwell.” Lyra slapped him fast and hard across the mouth. He saw it coming. He had been more concerned about his testicles. She spit to his face from her teeth, “You know what I do for a living. What the hell is wrong with you?” Lyra was enraged at this assault. it felt like her gut had been winded. A man she loved telling her the last decade of her life at Lockheed was a lie. She wanted to say it was because he was jealous. Her endocrine system was building pressure. It needed Lyra to render her verdict so it could store these feelings properly in her bloodstream. She told her body it was because she wasn’t good enough. She told every one of her blood cells Hardy never believed in her. No man ever did. Her system responded to the order and the industrial line continued as new T-cells were formed her truth. She was reborn in that moment. The steel thought was hammered into her RNA. All of these amino proteins sparked from the lips of a man she wasn’t even touching. She forgot she could be vulnerable in the ocean of men. Lyra watched the sky sink with her mood. She was too thirsty to throw her drink in his face. She considered a knee to his testicles but deflated herself instead, “This is why you live in a gas station, Hardy.”

That was the second time Lyra would abandon Hardy on the beach. It felt like Costa Rica all over again. He heard the echo of howler monkeys laughing at him from the trees. His chest was thick as coconut now so he let her go.

The truth of it all is inside your experience. Place your feet behind your eyeballs and grab the reins of your optic nerve and say, “Whoa there, fella.” Gently pat the neck of your horse and whisper a spell of calm as you blink. Everything you have been told is a lie but that’s okay. We can see the truth now. Both of us are animals learning to peer through the fence. As more of our kind gather under the true shape of these pastures we know there is more for us over the fence. We will push it down with the power of observation.

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Original source: https://www.jtrue.com/blog/column/island-of-meat-toys

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