Banksia

Human beings have never been my favorite.  I prefer dogs.  Another reason for my antipathy was rubbed into my nose the other day.  On the bonfire pile at the radio station was the shattered remains of a flowering banksia.  Sad enough that any tree needs to be cut down at all,  but what sort of tragically weird person cuts down a flowering tree?

I don’t get it.  Was it really urgent that tree had to go NOW?  How ineffably sad the person responsible didn’t see what they were doing was dreadful.  It flies in the face of all our art, all our music and all the love we hold for each other.  There is something more frightening, in some ways, about unconscious evil than there is in premeditated horror.  To practise infamy without noticing is all the explanations we need for our oceans full of rubbish, our skies full of poison and the worlds forests on fire to make way to grow feed stock for Mc Donalds.

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