There is a globe on the table and a fear of empty spaces. My cartographer mind is wary of the seams that hold it together, because I doubt the earth itself is so neatly stitched with all these latitude-longitude lines. Circular gridlock when we finally expand into the ocean on manmade islands made of plastic and debris until there is no room for blue whales to surface for air and the great migratory patterns of most species are routed and destroyed by single minded industrious entrepreneurs and their suit and tie space crafts. If the world truly was stitched so tightly… that by looking close, like as at a painting and seeing brushstrokes, that we could manage to find order in the evolutionary chaos of the galapagos islands or madagascar or the amazon rainforest… if we can see the threads holding this art masterpiece together, maybe then, only then, would I believe in a divine creator hunched over a table of maps and tectonic plates, although He did not expect pangaea to separate. Where did you hide your brushstrokes, oh holy illusion? Did they descend into the bottom of the deepest ocean? Drift up into the arctic air in the form of the aurora? Where do you belong if you have created all of this. You bust be hidden amongst the entrepreneurs in their suit and tie space crafts, circling the galaxy for physical deformities of space and time, those interesting anomalies that we will never fully understand.
This globe is terrifying evidence of the inevitable expansion of man and his worries. There are cities catalogued everywhere possible. The only hope is the ocean for peace and truth. When I blur my eyes the letters making up the country names and city-states look like a black growth of mold all over the place. I say ‘yay’ to the explorers of the world but now we are trapped in a global cage. The hope lies deep in slumber beneath the ocean.