And this, in turn, brings the onset of Divine Laughter. Or is it the other way around?
I’ve had this phrase: “Monkeys riding bicycles”, going around in my pea-brain for a couple of days now.
This evening, on the way home from work, I looked around and saw Us:
Monkeys (well, a species of great ape – a form of chimpanzee to be more accurate) riding bicycles.
With helmets on.
Monkeys driving reciprocating petrol engines in metal boxes.
Monkeys swerving and crashing into each others’ metal-reciprocating-engine-driven-boxes.
Monkeys taking pictures of themselves and posting them on poles to advertise their television programs.
Monkeys wearing clothes –oh, so proudly – with indefensibly highly prized labels on them.
Monkeys in lethal competition with one another, chasing little green slips of paper around the planet.
Monkeys rending other monkeys, and other animals, limb from limb.
Monkeys grubbing in the soil for fossilized pieces of vegetation and sunlight with which to power their metal-reciprocating engined-boxes.
At some point in my gathering of visions of Ourselves, I felt a huge urge to laugh and laugh and laugh.
The mirth just bubbled up out of my chest area. At first dark and sluggish, then an outpouring of pure, clean glee. Like an oil-capped spring finally freeing itself.
And some more visions presented themselves to my imagination:
Monkeys stuffing themselves into tin cans and shooting them into space.
Monkeys writing poetry and prose from the deep anguish of their souls.
Monkeys starving themselves to fit a delusional perfect figure.
Monkeys singing, monkeys dancing, monkeys making up religions.
I thanked my mother silently, for this was one of her greatest gifts to me – an ability to, sooner or later, see the ludicrous in what others consider a vale of tears, and, accessing it, to dissolve into helpless giggles.
When you realize (that you are) god, you will just laugh and laugh and…
Update: Monkeys making online museums.Very nice.
Update Squared:…and monkeys, of course, standing on rainy cold balconies setting fire to dried plant matter rolled up in paper, inhaling the fumes. Where’s my Coltsfoot?