Wednesday Morning Stream of Consciousness …

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

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.

Thoughts on Politics and Principles

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

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 …

On Fatherhood and Fear

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments


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

The Poetry of Falling Leaves …

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

I saw my breath on the trek across campus this morning, the first real sign that the best time of the year is upon us. The leaves have been changing, bit by bit, for a month now – more from lack of water than anything else, and now there’s no lack of that. The slip and patter of droplets from leaf to ground; the plunk! of dislodged acorns and feather-fall of the leaves themselves is music to my over-heated ears. Come frost, and fleece, and wood smoke! Come, October!

Thought I’d share some old stuff to help share the autumnal spirit. I called them poems when I wrote them; a couple I even dubbed haiku, although they’re titled and … well, they’re 17 syllables, 5-7-5, but little else. Call them what you like – I hope you enjoy them.

cornucopia
the hungry need
mornings like this –
the world no longer
black or white, but blue,
red-orange, gold and green,
deep purple, nutty brown
the trees like apples, stood
on their stems, some
like tomatos turning;
melon-ball maples, lemon
poplars, grape sumac –
crisp and abundant and
ripe for the picking

j. thorp
16 oct 02

monarch’s fall
in leaves almost lost
on swirling autumn breezes
the monarch tumbles

j. thorp
20 oct 00

crash
bloodied by the fall
the sumac’s head drips red on
shards of shattered grass

j. thorp
(some frosty october
morning, circa 2001)

I’m working on what my friend might call a real poem – one with rhyme and meter and everything – based on our recent trip to the mountains. Maybe tomorrow…

From Dwight Yoakam to Joy Division?

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments


Warning: Almost none of you will care about this.

I dig Dwight Yoakam. My first year in Connecticut, when I grew tired of police sirens and amber skies at night, I bought “If There Was a Way” on cassette, stretched out underneath an elm on Old Campus, and pretended the squirrels nibbling my shoes were actually Dad’s little pack mule, Willy.

Nobody sounds mournful like Dwight, and he’s somehow cornered the market on balding, homely cool. Plus he appeared in the balcony at the White Stripes concert in Minneapolis a few years back. So he gets bonus points. Too bad he didn’t play that night …

Dwight’s got a great old song called “Coal Miner’s Prayer,” which I’ve loved for years now. Last year, when I started digging into Mike Doughty’s back catalog, I ran across his tune, “Sweet Lord in Heaven,” which is a great little song that seems to borrow heavily from “Coal Miner’s Prayer,” right down to the “sweet Lord in heaven” line. That’s what caught my attention.

Doughty mentions Sam Cooke and Ian Curtis in that song. Cooke I’d heard of; I had to look up Curtis. Which led me to Joy Division (the band for which Curtis was singer and lyricist prior to his suicide) and the point of this ramble.

I tracked down a used copy of Joy Division’s “Unknown Pleasures” disk on eBay and just listened to it (very casually) twice. Dark, brooding, and strangely beautiful. Reminds me of the slogan on the back of an old Soundgarden T-shirt: “Uneasy Listening.”

I was in kindergarten when this record was released, but it doesn’t sound dated to me. Do you music-heads know this band? Other recommendations?