Evening Bog Standard Media Whore

by Cynthia Vacant         

The Sky's the Limit

As proposals to reduce nuclear capacity abound, there has been talk in the world of media about manipulation of satellites, redundant from cold war or past mission. The possibility exists, of beaming images from orbit, into the atmosphere, to create a brave new world of advertising in the sky.

When we look up to contemplate the celestial, when we consider the mythical, when we ask where thousands of years of civilisation have led; when we feel so trivial in the vast emptiness and ask ourselves how we can make our footprint more compassionate upon a dying, spinning rock; when we ask these questions we will see that finally, Ronald MacDonald is god.

Last night a helicopter circled a thunderous route above my flat for two hours. I imagined running feet caught in its search beam far below. The interruption by turning rotas was meant to make my world a safer place. But now it feels like a lesser archangel of Ronald's clown dominion.

It reminds me somehow, that we are not significant.

You have the right to remain meaningful.

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