We humans are born of earth.  Our existence can not be separated grown as we are from this planet, its very stones our ancestors, molten life up from the core.  Our precious mortal bodies energy in a physical form netted from the mostlyvoid in a miraculous transformation of rock into the fast burn ethyl of (semi, sub or un)consciousness.

We are responsible to earth and to ourselves in ways we have previously sublimated, externalized and displaced onto G(g)od(s). We do this through Story, a realizing fundamental to us, to our why and reach to become “a part of something entire”.   How we untangle the chaos.  Give reason to the day. 

Narrative, the viewpoint and structure of Story, is its DNA.  Like all that’s organic, it mutates. In a marvelous symbiosis our narratives literally form our ever changing cognitive organ, the brain, which gathers these sensory perceptions into meanings. We think of this gathering as a solid, naming it reality to help us get our heads around this privilege life. This chance in no chance.

The struggle and opportunity in our time of crumbling scree is to whose advantage play the large shelter narratives of firsts and lasts and their ripples through our roofless individual dramas.

To our treasured inheritance of the MaleNarrative we feel indebted and often fond of its familiar oh so familiar stories. They've kept us company, named much on our epic, yes, heroic trek from back there, before memory. But its DNA, rupturing from pursuit of the absolute is able to carry less meaning with each replication. Its default theme of destruction in atomic proportions pushes apocalyptic threats tumbling us backwards into darkcaves. Underlying quakes terror slung out as addiction to violence, weakened by the sickness alienation and deeprooted in ancient axioms that only blood and sex turn boys into men, with abuse of nature taken as a right.  An old story of raging spectaculars. 

An explanation of why we are at the end of the MaleNarrative.