The first quaint old fashioned fistfight, unless it was the second, no kicking, no weapons, nothing below the belt, which roiled the initial shaky distance in the tricky triangular entanglement between humans, robots, and the mass of selfless animals on the surface of the planet, turned into a dirty brawl that was caught on numerous speedy cameras, because it would not become certifiable otherwise, and proceeded to ascend into freaky chaos. There were not only multiple episodes of kicking and clawing to consider, but lying, biting, cheating, sneaking, guilt, guile, denial, and criminal aptitude and proficiency. Yes, ascend. It sounded as if Sun Ra was coming in loud and clear from another planet. That’s what happens when particles of cosmic dust become simultaneously trapped and released like sewer rats rising up from sludge.
Those above it all, the graceful raptors, especially those affiliated with the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness soaring above a majestic redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, along with the deepest, most expansive thinkers below the superficial level of snot, dirt, and innuendo, the humpback whales, observed with not only fear, good humor, loathing, caution, and trepidation, but cocky assurance that where there is, was, and will be no beginning or end, as in the multiverse, a light bending parabola was rounding into shape. Enough was becoming just about enough. Lines were forming against lines to be crossed. The chorus trilling, “Sayonara, douche bags,” was rehearsing for the extravagant song and dance routine featuring a cast of billions to close the show.
I was walking at the same time in the same way on the familiar edge of western civilization pondering the same old same as always when I stumbled across evidence of crimes by tourists against the permanent residents of the planet. There was a plastic cup, a paper cup, a plastic shoe, a training bra, a religious tract. I had started out seeking to merely hit my mark in the sand until high tide arrived on Monterey Bay to shoo me away like a pesky flea. Nothing wrong with that. It had to somewhere around here. I had to be somewhere, too. If not for ebb and flow where else would I end up wandering? New grains of sand were arriving under the new moonlight to take my place. Magnificent sand had traveled far, deep, often wide. Dust, too. It was too late to stop now. But, I’d be back. I can’t be toppled that easily. Nothing wrong with that. Doesn’t that make me automatically innocent of all charges trumped up against me? It should be as least as automatic as a medicated boner with a high rate of effectiveness. Or a law of symbolic logic. Something was barreling hard around the next blind curve but I could not see. If I can’t see how do I get it? Nothing new there. Nothing wrong with that. Caught smack dab in the middle with the vision of Ray Charles. Sort of.
Though it would be no surprise to find out at a later date via crackerjack reporting on the infallible Internet that it had been more cutting edge douche bags barreling blindly ahead of the curve, it may have turned out to be no more or less than more of the same doing whatever. Like, duh. Why ask why, and especially why not? Good doggies were getting petted. Gulls choked and swallowed more trash. Cute shit was picked up by party size scoopers. Chains were pulled tight. Tangled messes needed undoing.
The earthy minerals extracted to lube the cute tubes feeding one tight chain ended up greasing the hide of another long haul flying goose straying too close. A phenom peaked over corrosive air space in northern Alberta to start the engine. Panties were getting pulled tighter below in expectation. Then, a classic boomerang effect gummed up the clear passageways. There’s a lesson there for all geese. Lambs, lemmings, and all sheep and sows, too. Keep a safe distance until the all clear sign appears in the night sky.
With the perspective from fifty million years of experience tucked under his wings, HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl remains a master practitioner of patience in silent flight as long as he continues to laugh his ass off daily. Most high flying raptors stay cool and lofty like that. But the lovely wife of the tawny owl, Thee Mrs., who is able to replicate every voice in the history of rhythm & blues since Clyde MacPhatter, often became torn out of sorts when encountering obstacles across tangential planes at obtuse angles. More than most raptors, she possessed a remorseless disdain for any scavenging bird that could not catch a decent meal without assistance.
Later that night, before beginning to carouse as usual on the top of Mt. Umunhum, the lovely Thee Mrs. chased down a pair of trash eating gulls scanning for repugnant pellets in the parking lot of the Seabreeze Tavern at Rio Del Mr Beach. At silent but deadly close range, she scared those sicko birds shitless, not once, but twice each. The icky shit of the day contained near lethal levels of sticky white sugary ooze. It defiled the faux luster of a sleek roadster technically driven by a flustered douche bag on the prowl, who proceeded to ram it into a stiff pole while checking for his known whereabouts on his GPS.
Unintended consequences as we all know by now are either the third or the fourth most basic building block of the multiverse, depending. Unless, it’s both. The abject douche bag appeared to not only cry real tears, but mar the repellent surface of his carnivorous upholstery, also twice. The lovely Thee Mrs. tipped her wings and laughed her fucking ass off, but good. She never learned how to fake it. Humans are the only animals who ever did, and do. She began to belt out a classic tune in the big voice of Margie Hendricks, the former Raylette who Brother Ray sort of married, sort of let get away, and sort of later lived to regret, “Hit the road, Jack.”
As a wildly erratic observer and unreliable witness, I paused to consider my angle and distance from the disturbance. My closest commitments tend to shift every day in which the sand blows from west to east, which is every day. Once bombardments of debris begin to fall in parking lots at the beach, my best advice is watch out for your soft and sensitive head that might explode. Or implode. Including mine.
According to what I have gleaned from my studies at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute, the glut of unintended consequences that make up human history are due mostly to a lack of wings that would allow the fittest of the species to rise above and congregate with others at the heights of higher consciousness. Like, duh.
“Then what,” I asked the tawny owl?
“Then the goons stuck below go and take all their frustrations out on whatever is handy, air, water, trees.”
“That’s not good.”
“What if you just stood up and told the whole gang of them to stop?”
I gulped, “Me?”
“What else you going to do with all this hoity-toity language you dream don’t smell bad?”
I said, “Uh…”
He said, “Just as I thought.”
“You mean, it might all really be all about me after all?”
Before, he finished laughing his ass off, the tawny owl managed to sputter, “How could it be about you when flying right high above your head where you’re stuck, is me?”