Bottling Egos

(Photo by Anastasiia Ornarin on Unsplash)

I know, I know. I hear your charge. 
It's not my place to be alarmed
By matters of ecology
That’s not what I’m supposed to be.
A charlatan, you say? A fake?
Well listen up and hear my case
All you ”good” people gathered here today.

Your Honour, are we not a part of this world, as much as you or any other? Is it not our duty - nay, our honour – if we have the knack, to drag it back from the brink? Dr Lovelock put it best, I think: we're all a part of everything: living; non-living; half-living; extinct.

Evidence, we hear you say? Well, what more do you need? If you'll excuse a moment of conceit, both literally and metaphorically, we've seen the turning of the tide: the areas of wildlife blasted; land subsiding into sea. We need it all perpetually. Not an inch can we concede. But now, you see, it's running out: our coal; our oil; our time; our peace.

Our patience. 

So should we go without, M’Lud? Resign ourselves to ancient ways? Return to hunting? Live in caves? Whittle tools and forage grains? No, we say - we can do more. Our species always finds a way. It’s no time for complacency.

We offer a solution, sir. Our way of life preserved. A means to solve this crisis, and keep us in the manner we deserve. Your Honour, it’s the ego, or the bottling thereof. Simply siphon off the hubris all across the land, and store it in gigantic vats to harness on demand. That arrogance, that energy. It’s powerful. Kinetic, see? Our wilful sense of purpose and our bloody-minded industry.

But still you ask for evidence, so I’ll bow to your decree.

That one in the corner there, you call Exhibit A? Well, he was Peter Stonehill. Father (of five); lawyer (of course); and dedicated slave to all the manly ways. The cars, the boats, the global flights. And now he’ll live forever, see? Cast immemorial, a monument to his heroic deeds - in the courtroom; on the markets; all his noble work for charity.

We simply plug this pipe in here, and turn that tap on there… Now watch: the bottle simply sloshes with the stuff. Push the stopper in, m’Lud, and quick. We mustn’t lose a single drop. It truly is the nectar of the gods.

And who’s that hiding in the dark? Why, Righteous Reverend Mary Thaw! TV celeb, nationally renowned, and pillar of her community. All communities, she might believe. She’s sure to last forever - she communes with God so earnestly and honestly. Extremely self-indulgently. Watch the stuff ooze from every pore of her humble skin. She alone can keep us going, when the final mine has been filled in.

And this one here, in all these photos? You know him very well, M’Lud. It’s Dr Richard Frankle, neurosurgeon unsurpassed. Father of none and, ’til last month, unwavering believer in the merit of his skill, saving everyone on the sharp end of his therapeutic knife. But then he hit upon a secret, deeply hidden in the brain. Freud's metaphoric concept, as clear and real as night.

So who are we to make such claims? Well, Richard Frankle was our name, though now I think we’re something else. Something quite remarkable. We openly confess your crimes, and hear your concerns quite genuinely.

But one man's crime is another's way of life. Would you blame the bees for stinging or the snakes for biting back? We all have our sense of being; the issue of our minds. What is crime but social ordering? And now society’s lost its head, without it there can be no crime. Quod erat demonstrandum, if I might use the language of the dead.

Fact is if you condemn us, sir, you will forever rue the day. When you and all your family - how are they, by the way? Colleen, Suzanne, and little Jermaine? - are living in some cardboard box, scraping meals up from the pavement, you'll think back on what we said and regret the life you might have led. If only you had listened. If only you had bent.

You see it's not as simple as you think, or how your experts here assert. The human mind’s a complex thing. More complex than the universe. It holds the universe; expands beyond; and even has been said – by our fellow neurosurgeon David Walsh, no less (yes, that’s him on the trolley there) - to contain every universe there ever was, while creating its own continually. An infinitely grinding drone. Perpetual, powerful, and wasted on most. That is until now, thanks to your modest hosts.

Don't believe us? Need another point of view? Well, ask our friend here, William Pettigrew, esteemed Professor of quantum physics, now staring blankly at the void. He knows I'm right, but won't admit it. Not in the presence of his peers. He simply could not stand the shame. The perfect guineapig, in many ways.

Because the mind needs training, you can be sure, but all of us have failed that test. We're each as guilty as the rest. Doth not your Bible teach us this, oh Holy Reverend Thaw? Or does it simply not apply to things outside of humankind?

Whatever you decree, M’Lud, you’ll no doubt want to know: how was it we achieved this feat? This grand world-changing scheme? How does all this complicated science-stuff work? How do we isolate the networks that produce this legendary source of pride? Harness the electrochemical reactions that make us who we are inside?

Or think we are. We think, we are. We think, we AAARGH.

Heh, heh. I trust you will forgive our joke. No, it’s not as funny as we’d hoped.

But neither’s yours. Your constant drive. Your determination to survive. This pernicious progress of the rake. You think we will repent? And why? So you can stuff us in some cell? Trade our work to governments? Or military contractors? The grasping hands of Daddy Pharma? For them to use - more likely misuse - on others you judge are misbehaving too?

Well, tough bananas.

A world without us isn’t worth saving. A hypocrit, you say? Perhaps - but at least I take my oath seriously. Your secrets are all safe with me. And a world without Stonehills, Thaws and Pettigrews… even you yourself, M’Lud? Well, a world like that, it might just work. It might survive quite happily, and peacefully. Perpetually in motion around a dying sun. (One death, I must admit, that even we cannot outrun.)

So lie still sir and settle down. You'll soon be part of a better plan. More substantial. Less corrupt. Renewable too, without caveats. A part that simply does its job, with no more grim desires and pains.

Jab this needle here, and stick this tube there, then...  Cut, cut, cut, and drain.

Cut, cut, cut and drain
Cut, cut, cut and drain
We'll drain the bloody lot of you
To make our lovely wonder-fuel
So we can save our fragile Earth
With all the hurting, undeserving
Egos that we bottle, freshly churned.