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Easter Island Ecocide

G.I. Joe:
You know, Doc, every time I see photos of Easter Island, I feel this pit in my stomach. Those Moai staring out over a stripped land. It’s like the island is accusing us.

David Suzuki:
It should accuse us. Easter Island is a warning carved in stone. A society that cut down every tree to prove power, status, immortality. They turned a living ecosystem into monuments to ego.

G.I. Joe:
Back then it was stone heads. Today it’s glass and steel.

David Suzuki:
Exactly. Instead of Moai, we build towers. Giant towers. Trump Towers, or their cousins everywhere on Earth. Every so-called alpha male wants to own one—his name stamped into the skyline like a territorial mark.

G.I. Joe:
A vertical chest-thump.

David Suzuki:
Yes. “Look how big I am. Look how high I rise.” But underneath, it’s the same story: forests gone, water poisoned, communities displaced. The island just got bigger.

G.I. Joe:
Easter Island ran out of trees. We’re running out of everything—soil, fish, patience. But the monuments keep going up.

David Suzuki:
Because we confuse growth with progress. The Moai didn’t feed people. Towers don’t either. They don’t clean air, don’t cool cities, don’t heal ecosystems. They just symbolize dominance.

G.I. Joe:
So we’re reenacting ecocide… with better marketing.

David Suzuki:
And worse consequences. The Rapa Nui were isolated. We’re global. There’s no other island to escape to.

G.I. Joe:
Funny thing—those Moai look solemn, almost ashamed.

David Suzuki:
I think they’re asking a question: Did you learn anything?
And so far, our answer is more concrete, more steel, more towers scraping the sky while the ground beneath us collapses.

G.I. Joe:
Maybe the real alpha move now isn’t owning a tower.

David Suzuki:
It’s knowing when to stop building monuments to yourself—and start repairing the living world that keeps you alive.

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Negative Interest Nelly

Nelly:
You know what always bothered me, Joe? Money that just… sits there. Like a dragon on a pile of gold. It doesn’t sing. It doesn’t move. It just watches people starve.

Joe:
That’s because modern money is afraid of time. It pretends it can live forever. But anything that refuses to circulate turns toxic. Blood. Water. Power. Money.

Nelly:
So you give it a clock.

Joe:
Exactly. A gentle one. Five percent. Not a punishment—more like gravity.
We call it demurrage… but Canadians need poetry.

Nelly (smiling):
Magna Canada.

Joe:
Like the Magna Carta, but for people who don’t own castles.
A negative interest miracle. Five percent a year, quietly erasing the weight on the poor.

Nelly:
So if you’re drowning in debt, time becomes your ally instead of your enemy.

Joe:
Yes. The poor finally get what the rich have always had: patience.
Their debts slowly dissolve, like snow in April.

Nelly:
And the rich?

Joe:
They discover something terrifying.
Money that refuses to be hoarded.

Nelly:
So they have to do something with it.

Joe:
Spend it. Build with it. Share it. Invest in people instead of locking it in vaults and offshore ghosts.

Nelly:
No more winning by doing nothing.

Joe:
That’s the real revolution.
Under Magna Canada, laziness isn’t profitable—creativity is.

Nelly:
It’s kind of biblical, isn’t it?
No usury. No endless compounding sin. Just… circulation.

Joe:
The Jubilee, rewritten in decimals.
Every year the system whispers: Use me, or lose me.

Nelly:
And nobody’s screaming “tax the rich.”

Joe:
Because it’s not a guillotine. It’s a clock.
Five percent saying: Money is a tool, not a throne.

Nelly:
I like that.
The miracle isn’t that the poor get richer.

Joe:
It’s that the rich finally remember money is supposed to move.

Nelly (softly):
Magna Canada.
A country where time heals debt instead of sharpening it.

Joe:
Where wealth circulates like a song—
and no one’s punished for being born without a chorus.

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Revolution in Babylon

Joe and Nelly: Babylon

Night. Toronto skyline flickers like a tired circuit board. Condos glow. Sirens echo far away. Joe and Nelly sit on a fire escape, guitars between them, the city breathing below.

JOE:
People don’t believe in the ballot anymore, Nel. They line up, they vote, and nothing changes. Rent goes up. Food shrinks. Hope gets shrink-flated. Babylon just… keeps humming.

NELLY:
Babylon always hums. That’s how it lulls people to sleep. You don’t smash it, Joe. You wake people up inside it.

JOE:
That’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t want Molotovs. I want microphones. I want a song that makes people put the bricks down and pick each other up. Like Lennon—Give Peace a Chance—but for now. For Canada. For people who feel the system stopped listening.

NELLY:
Careful with Lennon comparisons. They’ll say you’re naïve. Or dangerous. Or both.

JOE:
They already do. But listen—when people stop believing voting matters, they don’t stop wanting justice. They just look for another language. Music is still legal. Love is still legal. Babylon hates that because it can’t tax it.

NELLY (smiling):
You sound like Revelation without the fire. “Come out of her, my people”—but you’re saying come out of her mindset.

JOE:
Exactly. A peaceful exodus. Jubilee thinking. Debt of the soul forgiven first, then the rest follows. If people remember they’re neighbors again, not data points, Babylon loses its spell.

NELLY:
So what’s the revolution, John?

JOE:
We refuse the script. No red team, blue team theater. No savior politicians. We build parallel dignity—food co-ops, shared songs, mutual aid, truth told gently but clearly. We make cynicism uncool again.

NELLY:
That scares power more than riots. Riots justify crackdowns. Peaceful joy spreads.

JOE:
That’s the plan. Not “imagine no countries”—more like imagine no neighbors left behind. If enough people sing it, Babylon cracks—not from force, but from forgetting how to rule.

NELLY (picks up her guitar):
Then don’t preach. Write the chorus. Let it travel faster than policy papers.

JOE:
Okay. First line: “We tried the vote, now we try the vow—no one eats alone.”

NELLY:
That’ll do, Lennon. Let’s give Canada something to hum tomorrow morning.

They start to play. Below them, the city keeps humming—but softer now, like it’s listening. 🎶