We lose flow when distracted away from the natural path. We become selfish, drive others batty, and can’t enjoy life for what it is. Estranged from nature, melancholy forces us to reconsider our Beach Babylon netherworld. Our material attachment has us mired in a confining job, misled by false notions and false gold prophets, thinking we have no choice in the matter. And in our faux rebellion against tedium we take the path of least resistance, turning and running from ourselves. We can’t escape from between the rock and a hard place. Our concrete slab of inexorable excess and surfeit here on Turtle Island is hell on earth, a perfidious place of the living dead. What once smelled of exuberance amid the rot is city air three or 4,000 times more polluted than sea air, with toxins in our waters, and in our bodies, which can no longer be ignored. With more we have less.
