Cassandra's Curse

Listening to winds roar across the valley below I think of the winds of change sweeping the world. Winds of war, winds of discord, singing a mournful melody like a tuneless woodwind in the hands of a child.

And at times like these I am reminded of a dog sampling the wind, nose lifted high to taste the flavors in the breeze, twitching one way then the other to sniff out prey, or danger, or the scent of things to come.

All the signs are here. The end days of an empire too large to defend; striding across the globe as its self-appointed policeman, as if we are the sole arbiters of moral authority when we are as bankrupt as any we seek to punish. Lead by a fool who’s in service to a tyrant – all pushing us inexorably toward another version of feudalism.

Nothing is so frustrating as being able to discern the shadows of the twists of fate yet being powerless to guide its journey. Like Cassandra in Greek mythology of old, blessed with foresight yet cursed so that none would believe her.

At such moments in history, when the shape of things to come is clear to many but obscured from most, what’s to be done but call the clarion cry and try to prepare for the coming storm.