A Silent Spring Revisited

No warbling awake
The deafening hush tuneless
Our world out of tune




In 1962 Rachel Carson published her seminal work, Silent Spring, which pointed out the dangers of indiscriminate use of pesticides, with a particular emphasis on dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, better known as DDT, a type of synthetic pesticide which works by attacking the nerves of pests. Although Ms. Carson was demonized by the chemical companies as a bogus female quasi-scientist alarmist, her well-researched study of our pest eradication methods at that time was convincing enough to get a nod from President Kennedy, had the public feeling uneasy about the practice of aerial spraying of pesticides and eventually led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency, established during Richard Nixon's tenure. Quite an accomplishment for one lone woman in a wilderness of money, machismo and corporate machinations. While Ms. Carson died prior to much of the hooplah and banning of DDT, still she saw that her carefully drawn work did hit a nerve and did get a conversation going from the urban centers to the rural hamlets. Environmental awareness was outed and our citizenry became interested and some progress was made. Then suddenly something happened. That something was NOTHING. We got lazy and content with not knowing nor caring and started trusting the fox in the henhouse, the corporations and government to have our best interests at stake. Now the henhouse is in a shambles, the hens are dying and the foxes are fat. It's time to pick up A Silent Spring and give it another look before we are all forced to fly the coop.

Honoring Martha

Martha died alone
 Never testing wing to breeze
Extinction’s last blink.



This day marks the centennial of the final death throes of the All-American Passenger Pigeon. Once numbering in the billions this beautiful, social and apparently very tasty bird faced the ravages of unbridled extermination. When there is so much in the land of plenty it may seem unfathomable that a few hundred here or a few hundred there slaughtered for supping could ever make a difference, but that's how the extinction mindset works. With no thought to the regulation of this gentle species they were plundered at their breeding grounds and annihilated every time they flocked across our wide open skies. Astonishingly, it took its toll in a rather compressed timeline. From an estimate of 5 billion plus in the mid-1800's, the Passenger Pigeon's last blink came in 1914 from a 29-year old beauty named Martha, who spent her solitary life in the Cincinnati Zoo as the only representative of this once bountiful species. The lesson should be clear that this mindset of a never ending bounty that exists just to service our needs and wants is folly. However, we see this happening over and over again with the over-fishing of our waterways and oceans. I have always held the belief that history is important to study, not just to learn about our forefathers and their lives and times but to learn from their pitfalls and blunders, how to behave smarter. Apparently not. We choke on excess and look at history as quaint.

Carpe Diem

The last thing that touched Robin Williams was his belt. It was also the thing that killed him. I'm thinking it was probably a black belt, since he so frequently seemed to wear various shades of black, grey and earth tones. He was probably wearing the belt that day and had it on when he said good night to his wife, if he said good night to her. Did he plan on taking the black belt off and hanging it in his closet or against his chair? Perhaps he removed it from the belt loops on his jeans, if he was wearing jeans, and while placing his pants on the edge of his bed and holding his black belt in his hands, running it through his fingers, he came up with the idea of how to orchestrate his demise. The thought of the stagnation of routine: taking off his clothes, turning on the light next to the bed, brushing the teeth, flossing, opening the novel up to the bookmarked spot. It all seemed so tedious, so beside the point, so useless. The sounds of anguish were inescapable, deafening,a ringing in the brain; laughter the distracter. Sleep was not his friend because there was no hiding from the noise, the voices, the rollicking insanity of a civilization out of control. And the cruelty. It made his smile stiff, verging on fakery. He had to be funny. It was expected, it was his responsibility to bring a light heart and let it glow. They wanted it, they needed it. And what did he want and need? For it to end. The disappointment of it all, the precious things wasted. He could no longer bear witness to the unraveling of a species bent on destroying itself and everything else in its path. The laughter no longer worked. It changed nothing. So, the belt became his friend and set him free.The ultimate "Carpe Diem".

Touching Base

I’m of a mind to start saying things without editing. Just let it rip. I took a test run in retrospect with a memo I emailed last week at work to a nice woman, Jane, who helps me stage an annual event down at the beach, an ancillary part of my job in that I started this event for fun and now it’s a tradition that has turned into a must do. “Jane – Just wanted to touch base, although I don't know what touch base even means nonetheless I use it because everyone seems to know what it means without really knowing what it means…” At that point I continued with my memo, as if none of the nonsensical jargon came between the commas. When Jane replied, a few days later, she made no reference to my “touch base” antics and played it straight, simply answering the meat of my memo with a short and friendly reply. I didn’t know whether to feel silly or to conclude that Jane didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Although, maybe her humor sense is different than mine which doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one but just means she has one all her own. I could throw out another cliché here, “well, be that as it may,” which I believe was included in my DNA strands I received from my mother along with a parcel of others just as mundane, but instead I want to explore the matter of “touch base”. Best I can tell from the etymology giants, which means just some nerdy on-line Joes who think about this stuff, the phrase derives from baseball and deals with re-establishing contact on the base or “tagging up” following a fly ball being caught. I guess that makes sense in a sort of Americana way. So, back to the issue of letting it rip, I realize at this point that this isn’t about letting it rip at all and has turned into something else entirely, which if I continued fumbling along I might discover. But, I’m done.

Easter Sunday Musings

It’s Easter today, which means the flock is flocking to various services, sunrise or otherwise, the Shroud of Turin is being pranced around once again with the purported image of a suffering Christ on a piece of cloth dated back to the 1200’s but claimed to be the shroud that held his dead body. Obviously, still mired in controversy, that one. And I ponder just how this resurrection business works, as I sip coffee in a café now lightly populated and far more enjoyable since the pious are in church. So, it seems to work like this: Jesus is crucified, dies on the cross, is buried in some hillside, rises from the dead following three days of entombment, saunters around for 40 days seen by a few townspeople or passers-by, drunk or otherwise and disappears forever, presumably off in the netherworld with his holy father to sit by his right hand. At this point the fable seems to end and I’m not aware that Jesus, the son, has any other role after having played out the “dying for our sins” card, which I’ve never really understood. Then there is the issue of who did or did not anoint the crucified and dead son. Did Joseph not ask Pilate for Jesus’ body, wrapping it in spices and oils and that crazy shroud? So, why the visit from Mary Magdalene to the tomb in order to anoint the already anointed body? She’s the one who discovered Jesus was missing and must have concluded he was resurrected, an obvious conclusion for the local harlot and prostitute to come to. Of course, back in those days who really believed a whore such as the likes of Mary Magdalene? Apparently everyone, since her report of the tomb’s stone out of place and the hero gone from sight is the cornerstone core concept of Christian belief. Without the resurrection gig there is no Christianity. I could go on and on with more ridiculous absurdities that populate this tale, there being far more holes in this story than in Jesus’ purportedly crucified body. But, I would much rather spend Easter Sunday at the coffee shop sticking to my book of short stories by Lydia Davis, whose tales are much more creative, original and thoughtful. I shouldn't need to identify who's who between Mary Magdalene and Lydia Davis.

The Essence of Life

I just happened across the essence of life. I wasn’t really looking for it but it found me. I was on the first leg of my usual round trip shuttle junket to work, minding my own business, reading a tiny book entitled, “Lying”, by an avowed atheist, Sam Harris. Harris seems to be on a quest to show that humanity can hold a sense of ethics and values and morals without the guidance of a religiously set gyroscope. I’ve always felt that way. In fact, it always seemed to me that religion gave people a free pass to misbehave in the most violent and despicable ways. In reading this book, dealing with truth telling, honesty and integrity, the triumvirate of goodness, my headspace was available to pull out from the tangle of intellectual musings, an epiphany. I love epiphanies because they are so spontaneous and travel in and out of one’s brain like some runaway train. But this train wasn’t just filled with the freight of my usual noodlings with no real destination. This one had application and was headed somewhere in my brain. Before exiting it left me with this: To live a fulfilling and worthwhile life there are two elements necessary and they work together as partners; we must learn all we can and with that knowledge we must make the world a better and more beautiful place. That’s it. Simple really. What constitutes learning is everything we bump into as we stray through life: school, friends, relatives, marriage, child bearing, guitar playing, book reading, sailing, science, Darwin, Beethoven, spelunking, beekeeping, job, career, beer drinking, homelessness, butterflies… It’s all out there and we breathe it all in and learn about ourselves, those around us, what constitutes love, how to share, how to care about things outside of ourselves, how to observe, how to think and problem solve, how to be impeccable and question authority and get along and be a good citizen and discover. What we do with all of this knowledge makes all the difference. The point of this exercise of learning as we are being is to gift it to the world. It doesn’t belong to us, not to covet nor hoard. Our unique intellects, shaped by our unique learning experiences need to be released into the world to make it a more beautiful and lasting place. It’s that simple. To do less is to simply take up breathing space.

Paradise by M.C. Escher

What Would John Muir Do?

I get it. I will have very little impact on this big, all-encompassing world, the one I fret about so. But, then there's my world, the world of getting up and getting ready for work, stopping by Peet's for a tea and discussing conspiracy theories with Daniel, hopping on the shuttle, walking from Gilman and Myers to my office, popping my head through all thresholds with an a.m. "hello, I'm here", firing up my computer, waiting for it to bring me the start of my work day via unfettered email flow. I can do things in this world of mine, this closed eco and ego sytem that I reverberate through like some low-intensity electrical charge. This is why the planned conversion of Muir Field from a grass field to a synthetic turf field is such a sticking point for me. Out there in the big bad world, decisions that reflect industry greed and laziness are so deep and wide that I know I'm not even six degrees of separation from having a seat at the trough. But, here in my own backyard is a different story. Sort of. A local action, some local screaming to local ears could make a difference. At least a path is visible. A compelling argument might resonate, some grains of truth might raise an eyebrow or two, or more; perhaps enough to jettison the idea of a synthetic turf field altogether. So, why all the fuss about this field? Here's how I see it. There is an athletic field made of real grass that resides in a central spot on campus and doubles as a campus park. The field's perimeter is marked by stately eucalyptus trees and is adjacent to an indoor pool and outdoor tennis, basketball and sand volleyball courts. When not in use by organized athletic teams this pristine space is used by university citizens as a pass through while walking to bus stops, housing, the beach, parking and also affords campus workers and dwellers a little open space to walk dogs, throw a frisbee, eat lunch, play croquet, take a nap, conduct children's fun and games. The field is known as Muir Field, part of the Muir campus whose namesake, John Muir, is honored as one of this country's earliest environmental pioneers. Because the powers that be wish to turn this field into a 24/7 workhorse that can accommodate constant on-campus use and off-campus rentals for some quick cash, its natural grass days are numbered. Instead, this living and breathing organism that plays host to worms, bugs, birds, dandelions, us and CO2 sequestration will be replaced by a bed of 40,000 crushed tires, a.k.a. tire crumb, topped by blades of plastic grass fashioned to look like the real thing. But, it's not the real thing. It is one hot mess. The plastic blades don't breathe the way grass does and in the summer under a searing San Diego sun temperatures can climb upwards of 120 to 130 degrees. Not exactly conducive to playing ball or picnicking. The tire rubber, used to simulate the dirt and claimed to be "safer" by industry proponents, due to the sponginess of the rubber bed, is a pile of toxic dust that contains carbon black, found to be a cancer causing agent. Although the synthetic turf industry would have us believe that theirs is a "green" and eco-friendly industry that saves our landfills and conserves water, their half-truths or outright lies are as thick as the tire debris they are tracking across the playgrounds of America. So, back to my world. Is anyone listening? Does anyone care that their kids will be running and jumping on a bed of toxic chemicals? Does anyone know? The answer is a resounding "NO". At least not yet. Shall I continue my opposition openly? Or strike out subversively? What would John Muir do?

Dinosaur on Dinosaurs

I've been working on a poem entitled, "Dinosaur", which I'm trying to cleverly craft into a statement about aging but found myself drifting along on a tangent examining the latest chapter of scientific skullduggery referred to as "revive and restore". So, the original idea of Dinosaur, being the act of pushing away older people before they somehow infect the culture with slow and outmoded systems and ideas, let's call it Dinosauration, morphed suddenly into an interest in examining the ethics and morality of bringing back extinct species. Rife with controversy yet so out-of-this-world fascinating in an almost Jules Verne sense, I argued in its favor recently, in theory, with a young friend who is an avowed environmentalist. When I asked what her thoughts were concerning revival of the woolly mammoth, which I only used as an example because I love saying "woolly mammoth" and had just seen a picture of one with its enormous curved tusks, she responded negatively, immediately citing the well-used "playing God" as an example of the conceit of such an endeavor. Now, she is an atheist, as am I, and immediately took back the idea of "playing God" since any red-blooded atheist would see the folly of using that phrase. However, the tinkering with the natural order of things was the real issue here and she felt that the scientific community's efforts, energies and monies would be better spent trying to save the species not yet extinct; the critters that are still just barely wining and dining, and choking and grasping and tenuously existing in a world they can still call their own. Which begs the question, what is the purpose of science and what should it pursue? Should it only "fix" things in this world with a myopic gaze on practical solutions for self-created problems or might that carefully adjusted focus limit the depth of sight and narrow all peripheral possibilities? In other words, if we shield our gaze from the stars and sun and moon, looking only at Mother Earth, is it possible we could become burrowers, digging in and unable to see the light outside of our tunnels? I'm not sure what motivation should power scientific inquiry but I feel certain that if a real Jurassic-like park appears in the outlands of Siberia containing a cast of characters from the Pleistocene Age, including the Woolly Mammoth, the motivation will be money. There's no money in gnat catchers. Said by a true dinosaur.

Impact

I am fitted with disaster. It shapes every curve, every cell of the brain, contours of my body, gait of each step. Clip, clop, I trod through it each day winding my way through short spits of headlines that gut punch and tighten the chest just enough to lead me to the baby aspirin bottle, just in case. I am at once a polar bear, clawing at a piece of ice no longer able to bear my weight; I am a butterfly searching for the milkweed no longer there; I am a wolf witnessing the massacre of my pups; the rivers, the ocean, the glaciers, the reefs, the critters, the everything touches me and I feel it, deeply. If my head could explode it would. Another run to the pantry for ibuprofen. I am spent, both witness and participant to a self-serving, grab and go civilization, nonsensically cock-eyed and lurching toward burn-out. My RSS feed keeps me abreast of every new ecological disaster or heartbreaking tragedy involving beaks and fur and horns and antlers and stripes and shells and wings and fins and the mommies and the babies, oh how the mommies and the babies can cut clean through to the amygdala. And the drip, drip, drip of the oil and the 350 parts per million and the Keystone, the pipelines, the pipedreams, the pied piper of planetary madness, the corporation suckling its stock holders on a tasteless teet. It's all so disappointing. If I had a tail I would be chasing it around and around trying to find a grip, a steady state. No tail, no grip, no steady state, no steady gait. So, I plant milkweed and fuss over Monarch caterpillars. That's the only kind of impact I have. A few caterpillars, a few butterflies, a few more eggs laid, many more caterpillars, many more butterflies, many more eggs. It's not enough, but it's something. I'm sorry I can't do more. But, it's something, some kind of impact.