"Ahh, the stench of the sea" intoned my brother gravely as we pulled into the grimy, pre-touristy part of Seaside, Oregon. We had been on the road for many hours, and the impact of reaching our destination didn't seem quite as impressive as it should have. Ben was mumbling something about being out of gas; Garrett put on a Sharky grin and made an obvious joke about *not* being out of gas; I had my head out the window like a a disillusioned dog; my brother Hunter was looking very uncomfortable under his extremely tight seat belt.
Headed down highway whatever out of Portland, we knew that it would be about another hour and a half before we made it to the coast. Bob Dylan's *Jokerman* emitted from the speakers on the mix tape (CD) I made. Twenty thousand thoughts raced through my mind, none of them relaxing--not like how this trip was supposed to be. Worried about the cost: none of us four were (are) rich, three of us are academics. Worried about the vehicle: Ben's car was newish compared to what he normally sports, but his unwillingness to run the AC on the miserably hot excursion made me wonder. Worried about school: PhD applications due next semester--enough said. Worried about family stuff: again, enough said. Worried about politics: would Significant Other be OK with me heading out on a vacation without her, would friend John be upset that he wasn't invited, would somebody else bother me about not being able to afford it, would Rodney and Kristin approve of my recent weight gain (likely) and beard gain (Rod: likely, Kristin: unlikely)? Worried about a plethora of other garbage, some legit, some not. Dylan faded into the Traveling Wilburys.
We passed a restaurant sign that I thought we had eaten at as children. "Oney's Hunter, Look!" I cried. "Remember when Auntie took us there?"
"Oney's," Hunter noted dryly. "More like...burned-Downey's."
I turned, somewhat startled, and saw the heaping pile of wooden wreckage that had once been "Oney's". Then I remembered: we *hadn't* eaten at that restaurant sign. I started laughing uncontrollably, my lungs heaving. The rest of lot weren't surprised, they have grown accustomed to my fathomless eccentricity. I really was laughing at the way Hunter said it. "Wait!" I wheezed. "That's the one! With Paul Bunyan!"
"Right."
My mind was a roller-coaster--way down from worry, but way high from a small quip. I can't even stop laughing now as I type. "Where am I going to be next year, what am I going to do--Oney's, more like...Burned Downey's". Headed down highway whatever, I was a mess.
There is something about the sea that I hold sacred. It's difficult to explain. Even though it had been nearly 17 years since Hunter and I were last at Seaside, and about seven years since we had been to an ocean, there is some strange connection we have with that place. Ben and Garrett have it too--Ben had been pushing for us to go for years, and Garrett just wanted to get out of landlocked prison. The four of us all grew up in Finley--next to where the Columbia and Snake Rivers intersect. I remember somebody once telling me that Pullman had a river. I still haven't found it.
Rivers are rivers, but the sea is the SEA. There is something about its expansiveness, its incomprehensible depth. It seems like the cradle of travel, of life, of everything about Earth that's unique. "Compared to what? You have never been away from Earth!"
I bet if Thoreau could have walked across the sea, we would have read about it. The four of us decided to try anyway. After mingling about town, eating elephant ears, playing arcade games, and ogling the brightly colored two-person boat things, Hunter demanded that we head out for the beach. "I want to go down to the fucking ocean! That's what I came here for."
So we went to the fucking ocean.
Waddling up the boardwalk, each of us were equipped with a unique super-hero towel: Spider-Man in black suit for Hunter (appropriate for his sardonic disposition), the Incredible Hulk for Garrett (very appropriate for his vocabulary-expanding Tourette's-style rants), Transformers for Ben (for his cool transforming sound effect that he does--cheeKhocChuckChochoCHUHCHEEK), and Iron Man for me (no good reason). Near the edge of the beach, I spotted a swing set. I subtly clued my companions in: "SWING SET SWING SET OH-MY-GOD A SWING SET ON THE BEACH! GO GO GO GO GO." I waddle-ran down the dune and jumped into the not-too-hot seat, tying my Iron Man towel at my neck like a cape.
Shocked, dismayed, and yet on some level delighted, my companions joined me and emulated my example. The youngest among us was 24, the eldest nearly 27, and yet nothing seemed terribly out of place. However, the irony was not lost on any of us. My brother started laughing uncontrollably.
Down again, but not as far. I can't swing as madly as I used to--the whole experience made me want to vomit. Immediately taking a swim didn't help either.
I really can't say what was happening to me out there. Some would say such euphoric reactions to ridiculous crap are simply a result of "being on vacation". It is true that I hadn't been "on vacation" in a very long time. My family only took three that I can remember. Always bloody expensive, and seem stressful, vacations are for people who can afford them. The four of us even joked about "being on vacation", like it wasn't something that was actually happening.
The thing that *really* happened was on our last night. Two friends that we hadn't seen in years, Rodney and Kristen, were coming down from Beaverton. Those two don't so much "show up" as they explode on the scene. It seemed as if they had called to let us know they were on their way, and only ten minutes later Hunter saw them pulling in. Of course, that's not how it happened--we had been expecting them for hours. As soon as they rolled in, the languor of the day died away, and Rodney was handing me a whiskey bottle.
"Uhh, d'you have a glass?"
Rodney stared at me, his feral ice-gaze piercing my inhibition. "Since when have *you* ever used a glass?" He didn't say it, but he was thinking it. His only response was to thrust the whiskey in my hand. I took it without further thought, pulled the cork, and took a long swig.
I remember the smell, the taste of Novocaine spice and piss. Memories of a time with less worry--a lie. No, not a lie, just reorganization. What we worry about now seems more dire. Quality of life seems better then. But why, then, does quality of life seem better in this whiskey moment? Maybe it's not the moment, but the place.
I can't tell you where I was; I can only give an approximation. The concept of place goes beyond geography, past coordinates. Who you are and who you are with must be taken into account. "Who are you?" That is a more complex question--perhaps as problematic as "place". I do not know.
Gus was grunting profusely he was so happy to see us--the last time I spoke to the little dog, we were playing with his 'Stinky', a rather mangled piggy-toy that was his constant companion. Hunter and Garrett went out for more drink; everyone was talking. More memories.
Our agenda for the evening was simple: nothing. Naturally, we wandered toward the beach in the lamp-lit dim--well, Hunter, Garrett, Ben and Rodney did. Kristin, Gus, and I took the car. I can't remember why I rode in the car. I remember being quite surly as I spied a child on my swing, but my disappointment abated at hearing the prospect of starting a fire. As we all fanned out, gathering whatever would burn, which consisted entirely of driftwood looted from other people's pits. Garrett and I, however, tenaciously dug at an enormous log buried under the sand. Our revelry was cut off by shards of glass.
As Garrett was bleeding, I noticed that the child had vacated our swing. Four of us jumped on, and I took a picture. Just look to the top of this page to see how it turned out.
"Man, you're crazy" quipped Hunter. "You'll never get a good picture!"
He was at least partially right. It was my favorite of the lot that I took, though.
"Let us go into the water" shouted Rodney. "And be as men of the sea."
"RWARAWRARWAR" replied Hunter.
"GROWGGERFOWD" shouted Garrett.
"Uh, no" stated Ben.
"Don't kill yourselves", warned Kristin.
Gus grunted.
"I don't have any swimming trunks" said I.
"No matter!" roared Rodney. "Come on!"
So the four mad idiots slammed into the sea, shouting obscenities, saluting dead soldiers, salt-water toasting everything we hold dear and getting the crap kicked out of us by Nature. We pushed further and further out, ensconced in the Pacific, riding the waves up, up, up and then crashing down again. A part of the tide, apart from the tide, kicking crabs and getting pinched back, loudly apologizing. I saw my brother far out, and called out to him, but he couldn't hear--the din of the waves and the others' shouts drowned me. I saw his arms and torso jutting out of the water, flying upwards. The wave smashed into the side of my head, knocking me completely over. I tumbled under, churned in with the silt and sand and debitage. It felt right.
I learned later that we hadn't advanced as far as we thought we had. In fact, we were pretty close to the shore, all things considered. Even better, we had a fan club. Initially confused and startled onlookers stopped to see the crazy half-naked fools shouting challenges to the sea, and apparently began cheering us on. Stupidity is contagious like that.
The next day we rode home with partial hangovers, 105 degree humidity, and bellies full of salt water. I couldn't have felt better. Despite how inane it all was, how pointlessly expensive, how ridiculously tourist-trappish, my wounds were better. Not healed completely, but better still. There on the borderlands of colonized terra, we pushed out as far as we could manage and not kill ourselves, though there was something entirely liberating about the potentiality of our deaths. The trip wasn't all fun and games mind you--I was a perfect git for part of it; randomly snappish and uncharacteristically emotional. My brother asked me if anything was wrong, and I simply answered "yes". For a significant part, I shrouded myself in administrative miscellanea--gas prices, hotel costs, food money, etc. My old boss from CBC, a very good friend of mine, happened upon us on the street, and asked if I was okay (I was not amazed to see him--every time I go to Seaside I meet someone close at random). Derek always seems to show up when I am going through some sort of internal crisis. The strange thing about it all was that every *one* was a healing component:people from my childhood--past present and future--were there to help me plug up the leaks. That trip, though last summer, seems like it happened 10 years ago.
Being a rather noted introvert, I find it strange that I was getting energy from others. Normally I need solitude, a place to hide and rest. My place at Seaside was as much defined by the geography as it was the people with me--it would not have been a refuge without them, just another tourist trap. Williams seems to define her refuge in similar ways--by the people around her. I wish I had been thinking about that when I was reading *Refuge*.
I wonder also why I have the impulse to leave out details--nothing scandalous, just things that I want to keep for myself and those there. Alex said something in his blog about being "greedy". I feel greedy, but wonder if that's just guilt at not sharing. There are some things that cannot be shared, like a joke that one "has to be there" to understand. Perhaps the experience is somehow cheapened in the retelling when others don't laugh. Maybe that's why there are so many big fish stories--they are actually attempts at being honest about one's reaction to the situation, rather than the cold recounting of simple details. In any case, it is your imaginations that now must bedeck our stories, for when the tellers are all dead, there won't be anything left *but* those embellishments.
Well, maybe those stories are better left told than written anyway.
This has been,
AWESOME THOUGHTS
Romantic Ecology, Fall 2008
Instructor: Debbie Lee
===
Jacob
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Apocalypse Now
Rachel Carson says in Silent Spring:
“The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy, a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster” (277).
That was in '62. Undoubtedly, a lot has changed since then. As a result of Carson's efforts, DDT was banned domestically. The American public--those who chose to read or heard through word of mouth Carson's message--gained an improved insight on how we poison ourselves. I can't swing a dead poet without hitting some sort of "save the environment stuff" on campus, or even in the quasi-conservative Pullman community. I hear farmers talking about salinity, mass wasting, and the depletion of loess. Even back in Finley, my own personal wasteland, I once heard my father screaming at a (hopefully) mentally challenged maintenance worker named "Earl", who was dumping volumes of old chemicals out onto the ground.
Perhaps these little islands of awareness are just that--islands. I spoke with a friend this past week who happens to work for Orkin. We discussed the types of chemicals he uses and the past impacts of DDT. Mind you, this fellow is not an academic--sharp to be sure, but not ensconced in our world by any means. Even he was familiar, to some vague degree, with Carson's work. My brother initiated the conversation, figuring that both sides would learn something new. However, there are no "sides" in this issue. Not in any meaningful sense--pollution of the environment can (will?) lead to the destruction of humans. The only argument is to what degree we can get away with our waste.
My Orkin friend and I share such an understanding. He is troubled by the use of pesticides such as DDT, and even is dubious about the crap that his current employer foists as safe.
"What's in it?" I ask.
"Probably nothing good," he responds.
How could it be good? He is an exterminator. Remove the "ex" from the word, and we are left with "Terminator", hearkening unto Arnold's cybernetic villain/hero of the '80s and '90s. Has our trust in pesticides been restored since Carson, just how we put our faith in a cybernetic organism in Terminator 2? Didn't he blow away a ton of people in the first film? No, this cyborg is different--he has been reprogrammed to help people. In fact, he is ordered not to kill them. Just like our pesticides, the Model 101 T-800 can do no harm.
I wonder if this is just the same old shit, just reprogrammed. I know virtually nothing of current pesticides, despite having spent nearly four years of my life on a farm. An ex fighter pilot, my father occasionally flew dusters up on the ranch--and this fellow is hyper sensitive about what people put in the ground. I remember something from long ago: My brother, an older relative who shall remain nameless to protect his identity from Dad, and myself were charged with cleaning up a shed riddled with decades-old pesticides, gasoline, oil, and a number of unidentified ghoulish liquids. Dad gave us specific instructions--we were to very cautiously move each type of liquid into separate, stable containers, and then take a few trips transporting them to a treatment facility of some kind. Dad left to go do something else, and the three of us collectively groaned. It would take hours to transplant the liquids, and even more time to make the trips back and forth. We had all been working for 12+ hours of hard labor, and were ready to be done with it--Dad is a taskmaster if there ever was one.
"Alright boys--don't tell your dad this, but we are going to dump it out," said older relative.
My biology-inclined brother was reticent: "Didn't he say that this stuff could get in the water table?"
"Yeah, but do you want to spend another six hours taking care of this stuff?"
None of us did. We were exhausted--physically and emotionally (Hugheses have a dark joke about family reunions: "See you at the next funeral!") You can infer what followed.
What we did was not just a sin against nature--it was a sin against ourselves. I drive by that place every so once in awhile, and just now green grass is beginning to return, well over a decade later. My family lives within a mile of that spot. Finley has a poor history of pollution--our family's primary complaint with potential dam removal had to do with the massive exposure of toxic heavy metals (and the bodies) that will result from the river falling. One used to be able to fish in the Columbia and Snake rivers and actually expect to catch something edible (or catch anything at all). I hear that the Yakima is even worse.
All of this happens post-Rachel Carson. No rational person harbors complete faith in technology any longer. We have seen too many bombs go off, too many things die from our war against nature. Carson decries the propaganda war against fire ants, against any perceived pest. I was a participant in such a war, even in the '80s and '90s. However, we had to be eco-friendly murderers. Boiling water for ant infestations (surprisingly effective), and other crude non-chemical means for other troublesome flora and fauna.
The primary problem with participating in a war of propaganda stems from when you actually start to buy into its bullshit. From a very young age, all of us were taught to shoot--perhaps a common reality in a rural community, but our father put a special point on it. His rules were intensely strict, even compared with the draconian hunter safety instructors in the area. One old fellow had the temerity to claim that "guns are only tools" in the presence of my father, a Vietnam Veteran, who snarled in retort: "the only purpose of a gun is to destroy--don't you dare tell them otherwise." Thus, my weapons education was undertaken with more than a modicum of ambivalence--a necessary evil as my father saw it. We weren't even allowed to point toy weapons at one another; even "Nerf" was forbidden for a time. Even with all of this stern training, my part in the war against the environment got the better of me. My brother was generally a more successful slayer of starlings than I; he was more persistent. Flustered by my lack of contribution, I one day trooped outside with the communal BB gun, determined to end some poor bird's life. I didn't have to wait long to acquire a target--a mass of starlings swarmed onto the tops of the cottonwoods bordering the east side of our property. As soon as I pumped the action, the mass swirled away, a black blot against tufts of blue and white. However, I spied a straggler, perhaps a sick youngling, or one unfamiliar with our murderous intent. It was in the adjacent tree, perhaps accounting for its separation from the group. No matter--it was an impossible shot anyhow. The BB gun was pathetically weak; one could spot the shot as soon as it left the barrel. Not one to give up so easily, I took aim, and squeezed the trigger. A soft "thump" resounded as the BB lazily sailed out of gun and into the cottonwood leaves. I was sure I had missed. How could I have made such a shot?
The robin tumbled down, down, down through the leaves. I turned, hearing a gentle crash and an almost imperceptible "thud". There it lie, gasping, clawing out with its legs, grasping for branches that it would never feel again. Moments later, it was still, like my heart. "This has to be a coincidence," I thought. "There is no way I could have made that shot in a million years--a heart attack for certain, terrified by the sound of the shot and the flight of the starlings."
I didn't believe that, and neither did anybody else. My parents made certain that I paid terribly. My brother was sympathetic, but held firm at my fault. My sister saw me as a monster. Robins, amongst all but three kinds of "pest" creatures, were friends. I killed a friend in hopes of killing an enemy. The want to kill the enemy was apparently stronger than my will to see a friend. I wasn't a part of the mass bombing raids or the genocide that the government attempted to undertake in regards to some of the same pests I was set against--but I was still a part of the propaganda machine, the bullshit logic. Like them, I couldn't tell friend from enemy. Unlike them, I could never bear to take a shot at another living thing again.
Maybe that's where we can be redeemed--as groups, we really suck at learning from our mistakes, but as individuals I think we are right to hope. Many would scoff at my story--a mistake that anyone could have made--and pass me off as an over-melodramatic blogger. I didn't eat the creature, so I can't claim that I didn't slaughter it without cause. However, I didn't slaughter it without meaning--I watched it die, and will never forget that crime. What right do I, or anybody else for that matter, have to demolish anything that we please? If nothing else, what if somebody loved that particular Robin--a pet, a bird-watcher's regular, a potential companion to a lonely homeless person, a mother to a nest? When we kill, we do not kill in a vacuum. We can do nothing in an ecological vacuum. Humans are just as susceptible to ecology as any other thing on this planet. We are a part of this world.
All of this from killing a Robin and talking to an Orkin guy?
Yeah.
What would Rachel Carson say, had she lived? She barely survived 18 months after her work was published. Though Domestic DDT is illegal, we still export the crap out of it. Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Isn't everything in this world interconnected? Maybe that's the rub, maybe that's where Carson can still say something to us.
"Though many Americans have an improved understanding of local ecology, the matter of global ecosystems is something that they have yet to fully appreciate."
Global ecological understanding rejects nationalism. That's where I see our apocalypse--not in sudden change, but stagnation. Humans define themselves based on others, on what they are not. As a species, we do not understand ourselves. For the span of our evolution, humans have yet to systematically turn their self-awareness outward, to an understanding of our place in the world. Our most powerful adaptation, the ability to spontaneously acquire language, may be our downfall--we have communicated shared knowledge and developed technologies whose impacts are beyond the ken of our foresight, and we have yet to linguistically situate ourselves as an integrated part of the environment, speceistically, instead espousing to a "man against nature" outlook.
We shouldn't be worried about a post-apocalyptic reality. We should be worried about the absence of one.
“The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy, a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster” (277).
That was in '62. Undoubtedly, a lot has changed since then. As a result of Carson's efforts, DDT was banned domestically. The American public--those who chose to read or heard through word of mouth Carson's message--gained an improved insight on how we poison ourselves. I can't swing a dead poet without hitting some sort of "save the environment stuff" on campus, or even in the quasi-conservative Pullman community. I hear farmers talking about salinity, mass wasting, and the depletion of loess. Even back in Finley, my own personal wasteland, I once heard my father screaming at a (hopefully) mentally challenged maintenance worker named "Earl", who was dumping volumes of old chemicals out onto the ground.
Perhaps these little islands of awareness are just that--islands. I spoke with a friend this past week who happens to work for Orkin. We discussed the types of chemicals he uses and the past impacts of DDT. Mind you, this fellow is not an academic--sharp to be sure, but not ensconced in our world by any means. Even he was familiar, to some vague degree, with Carson's work. My brother initiated the conversation, figuring that both sides would learn something new. However, there are no "sides" in this issue. Not in any meaningful sense--pollution of the environment can (will?) lead to the destruction of humans. The only argument is to what degree we can get away with our waste.
My Orkin friend and I share such an understanding. He is troubled by the use of pesticides such as DDT, and even is dubious about the crap that his current employer foists as safe.
"What's in it?" I ask.
"Probably nothing good," he responds.
How could it be good? He is an exterminator. Remove the "ex" from the word, and we are left with "Terminator", hearkening unto Arnold's cybernetic villain/hero of the '80s and '90s. Has our trust in pesticides been restored since Carson, just how we put our faith in a cybernetic organism in Terminator 2? Didn't he blow away a ton of people in the first film? No, this cyborg is different--he has been reprogrammed to help people. In fact, he is ordered not to kill them. Just like our pesticides, the Model 101 T-800 can do no harm.
I wonder if this is just the same old shit, just reprogrammed. I know virtually nothing of current pesticides, despite having spent nearly four years of my life on a farm. An ex fighter pilot, my father occasionally flew dusters up on the ranch--and this fellow is hyper sensitive about what people put in the ground. I remember something from long ago: My brother, an older relative who shall remain nameless to protect his identity from Dad, and myself were charged with cleaning up a shed riddled with decades-old pesticides, gasoline, oil, and a number of unidentified ghoulish liquids. Dad gave us specific instructions--we were to very cautiously move each type of liquid into separate, stable containers, and then take a few trips transporting them to a treatment facility of some kind. Dad left to go do something else, and the three of us collectively groaned. It would take hours to transplant the liquids, and even more time to make the trips back and forth. We had all been working for 12+ hours of hard labor, and were ready to be done with it--Dad is a taskmaster if there ever was one.
"Alright boys--don't tell your dad this, but we are going to dump it out," said older relative.
My biology-inclined brother was reticent: "Didn't he say that this stuff could get in the water table?"
"Yeah, but do you want to spend another six hours taking care of this stuff?"
None of us did. We were exhausted--physically and emotionally (Hugheses have a dark joke about family reunions: "See you at the next funeral!") You can infer what followed.
What we did was not just a sin against nature--it was a sin against ourselves. I drive by that place every so once in awhile, and just now green grass is beginning to return, well over a decade later. My family lives within a mile of that spot. Finley has a poor history of pollution--our family's primary complaint with potential dam removal had to do with the massive exposure of toxic heavy metals (and the bodies) that will result from the river falling. One used to be able to fish in the Columbia and Snake rivers and actually expect to catch something edible (or catch anything at all). I hear that the Yakima is even worse.
All of this happens post-Rachel Carson. No rational person harbors complete faith in technology any longer. We have seen too many bombs go off, too many things die from our war against nature. Carson decries the propaganda war against fire ants, against any perceived pest. I was a participant in such a war, even in the '80s and '90s. However, we had to be eco-friendly murderers. Boiling water for ant infestations (surprisingly effective), and other crude non-chemical means for other troublesome flora and fauna.
The primary problem with participating in a war of propaganda stems from when you actually start to buy into its bullshit. From a very young age, all of us were taught to shoot--perhaps a common reality in a rural community, but our father put a special point on it. His rules were intensely strict, even compared with the draconian hunter safety instructors in the area. One old fellow had the temerity to claim that "guns are only tools" in the presence of my father, a Vietnam Veteran, who snarled in retort: "the only purpose of a gun is to destroy--don't you dare tell them otherwise." Thus, my weapons education was undertaken with more than a modicum of ambivalence--a necessary evil as my father saw it. We weren't even allowed to point toy weapons at one another; even "Nerf" was forbidden for a time. Even with all of this stern training, my part in the war against the environment got the better of me. My brother was generally a more successful slayer of starlings than I; he was more persistent. Flustered by my lack of contribution, I one day trooped outside with the communal BB gun, determined to end some poor bird's life. I didn't have to wait long to acquire a target--a mass of starlings swarmed onto the tops of the cottonwoods bordering the east side of our property. As soon as I pumped the action, the mass swirled away, a black blot against tufts of blue and white. However, I spied a straggler, perhaps a sick youngling, or one unfamiliar with our murderous intent. It was in the adjacent tree, perhaps accounting for its separation from the group. No matter--it was an impossible shot anyhow. The BB gun was pathetically weak; one could spot the shot as soon as it left the barrel. Not one to give up so easily, I took aim, and squeezed the trigger. A soft "thump" resounded as the BB lazily sailed out of gun and into the cottonwood leaves. I was sure I had missed. How could I have made such a shot?
The robin tumbled down, down, down through the leaves. I turned, hearing a gentle crash and an almost imperceptible "thud". There it lie, gasping, clawing out with its legs, grasping for branches that it would never feel again. Moments later, it was still, like my heart. "This has to be a coincidence," I thought. "There is no way I could have made that shot in a million years--a heart attack for certain, terrified by the sound of the shot and the flight of the starlings."
I didn't believe that, and neither did anybody else. My parents made certain that I paid terribly. My brother was sympathetic, but held firm at my fault. My sister saw me as a monster. Robins, amongst all but three kinds of "pest" creatures, were friends. I killed a friend in hopes of killing an enemy. The want to kill the enemy was apparently stronger than my will to see a friend. I wasn't a part of the mass bombing raids or the genocide that the government attempted to undertake in regards to some of the same pests I was set against--but I was still a part of the propaganda machine, the bullshit logic. Like them, I couldn't tell friend from enemy. Unlike them, I could never bear to take a shot at another living thing again.
Maybe that's where we can be redeemed--as groups, we really suck at learning from our mistakes, but as individuals I think we are right to hope. Many would scoff at my story--a mistake that anyone could have made--and pass me off as an over-melodramatic blogger. I didn't eat the creature, so I can't claim that I didn't slaughter it without cause. However, I didn't slaughter it without meaning--I watched it die, and will never forget that crime. What right do I, or anybody else for that matter, have to demolish anything that we please? If nothing else, what if somebody loved that particular Robin--a pet, a bird-watcher's regular, a potential companion to a lonely homeless person, a mother to a nest? When we kill, we do not kill in a vacuum. We can do nothing in an ecological vacuum. Humans are just as susceptible to ecology as any other thing on this planet. We are a part of this world.
All of this from killing a Robin and talking to an Orkin guy?
Yeah.
What would Rachel Carson say, had she lived? She barely survived 18 months after her work was published. Though Domestic DDT is illegal, we still export the crap out of it. Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Isn't everything in this world interconnected? Maybe that's the rub, maybe that's where Carson can still say something to us.
"Though many Americans have an improved understanding of local ecology, the matter of global ecosystems is something that they have yet to fully appreciate."
Global ecological understanding rejects nationalism. That's where I see our apocalypse--not in sudden change, but stagnation. Humans define themselves based on others, on what they are not. As a species, we do not understand ourselves. For the span of our evolution, humans have yet to systematically turn their self-awareness outward, to an understanding of our place in the world. Our most powerful adaptation, the ability to spontaneously acquire language, may be our downfall--we have communicated shared knowledge and developed technologies whose impacts are beyond the ken of our foresight, and we have yet to linguistically situate ourselves as an integrated part of the environment, speceistically, instead espousing to a "man against nature" outlook.
We shouldn't be worried about a post-apocalyptic reality. We should be worried about the absence of one.
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