Chopper in the sky, how low can you fly?

May we take an adventure into our futile search for heaven on earth, happily playing frisbee in the park while in the next neighbourhood waging war on crime and anarchistic thoughts? Our present economic system and the values it encourages, and the policing needed to maintain the laws which sanction this, have only encouraged a split in our society between those who who thrive within it's framework and those who do not (or do they?)

Our little adventure is my nightly sojourn after my blessed wife with a touch of dementia is cozied in for the night with her three cats (I'm sure she has nine but then who's to argue) to evanesce away from restlessness into the peace induced by the Golden Girls. So out the door I stumble from our Deathrock Apartments into a world of not so distant gun shots and sirens screaming and the bicycle brigadiers delivering their vile substances with enhooded noggins all over the hood and beyond. Off I wander to my quiet nightingly abandoned semi-industrial side streets to soak in the peace and tranquillity with the local rabbits and the indigenous feline colony. But woe to me, Timmy's caffeine in hand, that damnable helicopter circling, ever circling, blades pounding air, spotlight glitzing relentlessly seeking out the nooks and crannies where the heisters adumbrate.

Rituals. Our human species has accomplished it's lucidity with all these extra brain cells through a reliance on the observance of rites in our daily routines. Possibly a mammalian trait, we once had a hamster who would make her nightly pilgrimage around our house when released from her little cage, to explore the same intriguing smells, the same drawers and cupboards and dressers, and come back to be put in her freshly cleaned home. We waken in the morning to have our ration of coffee, no more and no less else or we don't function, and off we venture to work. It makes little matter what geophysical postulates we decipher, or whose fur we may dander, so long as our routine is unblemished and our self esteem for simply showing up and doing more than our share is maintained.

When these rituals become bombarded with forces beyond our control we rebel. Be it a religious community confronted with outside ideologies, or the teen age initiate unable to obtain that liturgical car which will propel him into adulthood, bad shit happens. So we've put drones in the sky, we've put noisy helicopters in the sky, we've declared war on ourselves, to keep us safe from ourselves.

Heaven on earth. That concept sponsored by our unconscious deceptions of an omnipotent saviour whom we spawn in our own image, and then emulate in our justifications to control the masses, creating utopia for all to enjoy. Or is it really a facade to decry those who object to domination by those who have kept civilizations flourishing for two million years?

We adventure on. These indigenous felines don't know the first thing about frisbee. That chopper wonders why I sit on this company's picnic table. If he gets low enough I'll try to play with him.  I wonder if he'll throw it back?