⬆️ Elon Musk’s personal bodyguard stands at the ready after his boss made a few enemies this week.
A rambling essay on space and cats and Mother Nature and the subconscious.
It wasn’t the greatest week for the world’s richest man. His reactions were mixed — from grave concern over his SpaceX program to cavalier defiance vis-a-vis the twits at Twitter.
On Monday his SpaceX super rocket for the ‘next-generation’ spaceship exploded during a test.
‘Not good,’ Musk tweeted after the 
explosion, signaling a major setback for his plan to launch Starship into orbit next year.
On Tuesday Twitter sued him for backing out of the $44-billion purchase of the social network company, setting the stage for a court battle that could drag on and interfere with his visionary plans for doomed humanity clinging to this speck of dust in a universe that, according to the new amazing see-all Webb telescope, is a zillion times bigger than we even imagined and it was already too goddamn big to wrap our heads around so why complicate matters and make it even bigger Mister Too-Big-For-Your-Britches Webb?
Let sleeping galaxies lie, I say. We’ll never ever ever ever (a quadrillion evers) get to visit even the tiniest outermost edge of it anyway, Elon’s futuristic dreams notwithstanding.
We are hapless animals, cleverly disguised as ‘human beings’ that can build horseless carriages and television sets and stupid ‘smart phones’ and nuclear missiles and spaceships to nowhere, but animals nonetheless — that eat and copulate and do those other things that animals do, and although billions of people believe that when we die we’re going to another world, dimension, God’s secret kingdom or whatever, we’re all going to the same place, the same place as my little cat who dozes on the end of the bed—
—not a thought or concern about death or life after death, just sleeping a lovely sleep, soon to wake up and have a delicious crunchy breakfast full of vitamins and minerals and drink from a bowl of cold fresh water and then go from window to window (she has eight of them in this house) and observe the outside world, to see what a backyard full of birds and squirrels and chipmunks and the occasional doe from the woods at the back are up to, to take it all in, contemplate it, what’s it all about Alfie? and then take another nap in the sun’s warmth coming through the window, “perchance to dream…”
Oh-oh, I’m wandering of into Shakespeare land, I’d better go back to bed and grab some more zzzz’s myself and wonder how the hell I went from Elon Musk to Mother Nature’s bounty in my backyard.
And, I hope, speaking of the subconscious, return again to my own private afterlife in dreams.