There are now 8 billion people in the world. We are filled up. Like a giant box full of styrofoam packing peanuts taking up a lot of space, but containing very little of substance. Or like a giant bait ball of angry anchovies, swimming round and round jockeying for position in rush hour traffic, all struggling to avoid the next predatory event. America, especially, is a “here and now” culture where the most significant experiences, all shared on the internet, are what one ate for lunch, bought on line, or wore to work.  

I miss the “Old Days” when people worried that the Gods of the heavens might actually interfere with one’s trip to the grocery store, hurling fire and brimstone from the sky. Or where vacation travel meant more than just finding a convenient In & Out near an outlet mall. The “Age of the Gods” where one actually felt they had to keep a lookout for  roaming cyclops or a gaggle of harpies. (Maybe they didn’t exist, but who knew for sure?) “Way back when” the ends of the earth were uncharted and the creatures of myth and legend filled our imaginations with fear and wonder. Today we have the fear… of each other. But there is no Wonder. (Except for what you find on Netflix.)  

Our ability to believe in something beyond ourselves, our tiny realities, has dried up and become an empty space. We no longer participate in a universal consciousness, a shared story. ( I don’t count group discussions of Jen and Ben part 2.) To fill this void in myself I’m creating my own characters of myth and legend. I make cardboard cutouts, paint them and carry them around in the back of my car. A merry band of brothers, my personal posse, ready in an instant to pose for a photo shoot in front of a liquor store or down a graffiti splashed back alley. I create for myself. It’s a selfish practice, I know. But until I receive the gift of true belief, it will have to suffice. Maybe I’ll make a Kraken for my next Caribbean cruise.