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March 2010
 

 
THE TWIXTIES
composed on the eve of 2010 moment
 

 
 What do we call the the years 2010 to 2012?
 What will happen to all the material about the Mayan calendar date?
 Well, what happened to all that Y2K obsessive chicken-little mania?
 Has anyone ever predicted anything that actually took place that
 wasn't  encrypted in deeply weird metaphor and Bible-speak
 numerology? Lots of people besides marketers and merchandisers,
 snake oil pitchmen and makeover product salesmen saw this coming.


 It's like sitting down to new year's dinner, having chicken quarantine,
 you know, enough herbs to mummify a plow horse, when your stomach
 is still getting the willies in wild moonlight just thinking about the future.
 Suddenly, we're one thrive-ass community of exo-planet hunters eager
 to name and claim a new earth to colonize, exploit and destroy.

 You can't shock and awe me anymore. Besides,
 I'm not the one gambling wild horses in the jade bedchamber.

 Headlines may be waiting to announce the final winter solstice
 gajigawad energy bolt from mama Hera's squirtin boob galaxy
 that turns earth into a gamma-ray rotisserie dish du jour. Ye gods.

 Like Lawrence Ferlanghetti, I wished I could meet the naked nymph 
 playing the saxophone upraised but I learned that symbols rarely
 reveal  themselves naked or otherwise. But, it doesn't hurt to keep an
 eye out for them whether Nostradamus did or didn't write it down.

 Welcome, to what I shall hereafter call, the TWIXTIES.

  Twixt nine and thirteen come the uncomfortable sci-fi numbers:
 2010's  Arthur C. Clarke monolithic star consciousness babe telling us
 where we can and can't go; 2011's well,  you know all about 11, that
 number changed us forever and put us on emergency footing,
 and 2012’s reminders of 1812's burning Whitehouse, 1912's Titanic,
 but most of all another Y2K-like disaster that only causes a sigh of
 relief the day after it doesn't happen. The Mayans may have had
 something else in mind, after all, the stars are often wrong.

 Next, it's on to the Teensters, and the Oh Teens, no name comes
 to mind, though we'll still be in the aughties right up until 12/31/2109. 

 Hypnotic music will find us 13 steppin’ to wishful teen year
 rededication  to global renewal, now that there is still a globe to renew.
 Go hippy-fying the world, putting low tech miracles to work on high tech
 problems that no one ever thought possibly could be THAT easy.

 No, doubt we'll branch into two societies, one sod busting, recycle
 mania, off grid moneyless eco-warrior group and one genetic
 tinkering, micro chip implanting, perfectionist head-tweezing group.

 After a sloppy search engine command the 'tween teeners are either
 about zit cream products or teen-porn. Maybe we're headed for the
 twittering tweenies or the twixty-tweets. There will be more people
 following you than Russia's KGB in the sixties, Nazdrovia, here's to
 sobering up from twixt and between, real or imagined global mistakes.
 

 

© Jimmy Warner Design, 2011
 

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