It’s been quiet around here, mainly because my off-line life has been anything but. Just a quick one tonight: The long-promised group shot of the intrepid trout fishermen from our trip to Colorado. From left to right, it’s Sasquatch, the Kid, Cowboy Bob, and the Buddha. Why the Buddha? Because he smiles often and says little; you rarely know what he’s thinking, but when he speaks, it’s important. Always.
Seen on the way to work this morning: An unsmiling old man seated on his front porch in a white undershirt, next to a wigless female department-store mannequin with dark eye makeup and a jagged grey chip where her nose should’ve been, wearing nothing but a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt.
Initial reaction: Visceral dread, and no idea why.
Current thinking: Maybe I dozed at a stoplight and dreamed the whole thing …
Bottom line: Jack-o-lanterns be damned!
I’m sitting stock-still in traffic – a column of bumpers and brakelights through the windshield; in the rearview, a long line of headlights stretching to the horizon. Life carries on in curves above our thick black lines. Flocks of migratory birds drop, swirl, and rise again beneath an orange sun and pale purple skies.
They ply the unseen winds, oblivious to the mesozoic rumblings of the sluggish herd below. Our concerns are not their concerns.
*****
A few weeks back, a friend and I spent a good hour (a great hour, actually) arguing about whether humanity can realistically expect to have a long-term impact on the planet, no matter what we do. I argued that the rapid spike in global temperatures we’re experiencing now appears to outpace every shift that’s come before, throughout geologic time – in short, that we appear to be having a dramatic effect right now, and if we can do anything to stop or slow this effect, we should.
He argued that even the best scientists can’t say for certain how much of global warming is directly attributable to humans (versus indirectly, e.g., the methane from cattle herds, changing the surface of the Earth to absorb more or less heat, etc., or versus “natural” cycles). Scientists admit that there’s a great deal of subtlety to the Earth’s climate that we just don’t understand – and my friend made the case that, given humanity’s relatively short tenure on this planet (and questionable longevity), our chances of accurately identifying and isolating the man-made problem, and then fixing it without screwing things up even worse, seem sketchy, at best.
I don’t think that any of this means we shouldn’t work to control consumption and burn less, emit less, pollute less. But he makes a good point: All too often, human history appears as a series of basic misunderstandings followed by tragic overreactions, as each supposed solution to a problem introduces several new (and even more poorly understood) problems.
In this respect, I am conservative: I believe that a headlong rush toward ill-defined “progress” is dangerous; that contemplation should precede every action, reflection should follow every action, and moderation should rule every action. My favorite quote in this vein comes from Jurassic Park, when Jeff Goldblum’s chaos theorist character says, “[Y]our scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.”
*****
Anyway – the connection to traffic and birds: I get the feeling sometimes that the Earth will, one morning, yawn, stretch, and slough us off like a little dead skin. And I suspect the birds won’t miss us.
The other day, another friend asked me why I like crows – which I do, of course, or she wouldn’t’ve asked. “Their call isn’t particularly pretty,” she said, “and they are scavengers.”
I replied that I like crows because they clean up after the rest of us, they’re survivors and crazy smart, and, as the poet Jane Kenyon says, “like midwives and undertakers” they “possess a weird authority.”
“You get the feeling they know something you don’t, will likely outlive you, and will note your passing but not mourn,” I said.
That exchange got me thinking about another poem, about crows I watched along a road, years ago – black-feathered, black-hearted back-stabbers …
conspiracy
opossum on the yellow line
no longer plays
a murder of crows
dark with purpose
flapping in loose succession
devour their brother
one stands watch
J. Thorp
14 Mar 01
We’re scavengers, too, I told her. We just dress it up better.
*****
In 1948, the naturalist Aldo Leopold wrote: “For one species to mourn the death of another is a new thing under the sun. The Cro-Magnon who slew the last mammoth thought only of steaks. The sportsman who shot the last [Passenger] pigeon thought only of his prowess. The sailor who clubbed the last auck thought of nothing at all. But we, who have lost our pigeons, mourn the loss. Had the funeral been ours, the pigeons would hardly have mourned us. In this fact, rather than in Mr. DuPont’s nylons or Mr. Vannevar Bush’s bombs, lies objective evidence of our superiority over the beasts.”
I agree with the sentiment, but I’m not sure superiority is the right word today. Our ability to mourn the loss of the natural world has done little to curb our appetites. Perhaps the crow won’t cry at our funeral, not because it can’t cry, but because it’s not sad.
National Public Radio did a segment Monday evening on the possibility that social conservatives could throw their support behind a third-party candidate if Rudy Guiliani becomes the Republican candidate for president.* Why? Because Guiliani supports abortion rights. (Read or listen to the piece here.)
I only caught a portion of the story yesterday, and heard the following quote: “[I]t’s not clear to me how by blowing up the Republican Party and guaranteeing the election of Hillary Clinton – it’s not clear to me how that ends up saving unborn children.”
I went back today and read the complete quote in context – and while I understand what Mr. Bauer is saying, I’m disturbed by his lack of understanding regarding the motivations of his Christian conservative peers.
“Blowing up the Republican Party” won’t save aborted babies – but neither will voting for any of the candidates that support abortion rights. This segment of the voting public – several of whom I know and love – care passionately about this issue and would rather vote their conscience than win.
The fact that such action seems foreign to people is greater reason for concern than anything on the ballot in 2008.
Former Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare John W. Gardner once said, “America’s greatness has been the greatness of a free people who share certain moral commitments. Freedom without moral commitments is aimless and promptly self-destructive.”
Interestingly (and appropriately, in my opinion), Gardner didn’t say we share religious convictions. “Moral commitments,” I hope, can transcend religion or lack thereof. But the point is that these moral commitments – and the passions and debate they inspire – help to sustain freedom by helping us divine what is to preserved and protected.
Be grateful that your adversaries are people of principle. At least you know where they stand.
——-
* Unfortunately, I don’t think the Viable Third Party fits the bill …
Here’s the first complete draft of the poem I was percolating from our trip to the mountains. I used to have a helluva imagination as a kid, and I passed it on to my oldest. I learned, on this trip, that my old fears have been replaced by new ones …
I don’t usually try so hard for consistent rhythm or rhyme, but the minutes that night were marked by his rhythmic breathing, punctuated by odd pauses, sighs, and snorts that kept me on edge every second. You parents of infants know the sensation of checking to see that your baby’s still breathing? This was sort of like that, but with a big kid.
reassurance
he’s softly snoring now, his vapor breath
between a rumble and a purr – i lie
awake to hear the elk, who, scenting death,
chirp warnings from the frosty meadows high
above his dreams
he seems
oblivious to all that crawls or flies.
he stirs; his snoring falters, stops, resumes –
the sound recalling predatory fears
he shared in fevered whispers in the gloom
as evening’s silent minutes turned to years
he sees the bear
its glare
more baleful black than night through frightened tears.
imagination is a fearsome glass
that magnifies the thought to more than real –
the never and unlikely come to pass
as blood flows less to thought and more to feel
and every noise
to boys
becomes as Death, their living breath to steal.
i reassure him – tell him his old man
is bigger and as hairy as the bear.
he laughs to think of me, my knife in hand,
against his nightmare, in my underwear
his breathing slows
he goes
to sleep with me awake, and none to share
save wary elk and creaking mountain pines,
his steady breathing, my quicksilver thoughts –
it’s cold tonight; the wind begins to whine
the tent begins to strain against the knots
i touch his hair
and stare
to find him peaceful, and me, overwrought.
throughout the night i wake and check and fret
and ask, “are you alright?” and “are you cold?”
i knew the risks, out here, of getting wet
but not the cares of young men getting old
a thumping heart,
i start –
a father’s fears writ long-hand and unrolled.
and so it goes, ’til every worry’s spent
and to the east the starry sky turns pale
and proof of life is dripping from the tent,
each drop a slow, translucent, shimmering snail …
a bear-like yawn
at dawn
he wakes fish-hungry; says, “let’s hit the trail.”
j. thorp
29 sep 07
Archangel Stomp 