Thursday, June 11, 2015

Lesson Number One

Glass breaks. Trembling, coffee-stained hands reach for a dry towel. A black pool spreads out from my bare feet, filling the cracks in my mind with dread. It is morning again. 
I thought.
It's hard to know anything when you are not awake and little more when you are awake. Staring at the ceiling, sweating from another dream about not sleeping. The ceiling is black, pulling away like a lid on a box and a swirl of stars fire up and move into place. It is impossible to sleep when looking at the night sky. The awful noise. Millions of hydrogen bombs, coils of wrath expelling iron planets, sending ionic fire that carpets the north pole. 
I wake up and the stars are fading in and out of view, dodging the focal point like like an electron, altered by the act of observation. I cannot see anything I want to see.
There is a lion in the night, just out of the firelight, hunting, his eyes glowing like the coals in the fire and a shimmering red dot appears on my forehead and moves down to my throat. How does a lion know how to kill?
For that matter, how does a human? The morning spreads too, out from the long cracks forming in the night sky and across my room, the shifting light defined by the dust in the air. It's a night sky backlit by the laboratory behind it all, cadres of scientists fiddling with the math, scribbling with technical pencils on graph paper, gesturing wildly before chalkboards. They have given birth to a hypothesis, a scaly, squirming, wailing hypothesis: If we raise the mass of an electron by one trillionths of a kilogram we just might be able to solve the problem of fear and insecurity. Theory: We believe that the effects of an added trillionth of a kilogram will be negligible and will not contribute to any measurable decline in the quality of life. Prediction: We haven't calculated where we will get the extra mass but we are confident that further study will provide a satisfying scientific basis for confidence in further study.
Experiment. So this light, this hot blue light that comes through the rip in the window curtain each morning, it is leaving a spot on my forehead. Like a welder's burn, a red spot, like the spot on Jupiter, slowly rotating at 384 mile per hour. I wake up dizzy. How far will they go? This light is not welcome, not after a night like this. I tossed and turned like a hog on the spit, a fish flipping in a skillet, a man rolling in his grave, all the while the white canvas curtains blew in the night framing a black ocean and a half of a moon on the horizon, tipping like a glass, pouring cold silver onto the tops of swelling clouds, clouds flashing with jolts of orange from within, firelight, camping in the clouds. Storms are out there, yes, pushing wooden ships filled with shivering, skeletal men toward this black sand shore. For a moment, I dreamed that I stood on the shore barefoot with food and blankets, waiting for the men clinging to timbers to appear in the breaking waves, watching the kegs, masts, and canvas washing up to my feet, but no men. Just their voices, carried on the breeze. Frail words piling up on the sand: don't, don't, don't. That's all I can hear. I can't stop hearing don't. 
I know that voice. But I shrug. There are no more wooden ships. We have giant men in white lab coats passing behind the night sky, brilliant like angels. I can see them through the cracks, chalk dust on their hands, destroying exponents, creating fractions. Move one millionth of a kilogram, one billionth of a volt, one micrometer of distance they say and there is another jolt of electricity and the room lights up that bluish white again and I sit up and this time I can see everything in the night. The whole valley lights up, the cottonwoods and green ash meandering alongside the cream-and-coffee-brown creek that overflows its banks, chokecherry and prairie plum in bloom tossing white petals like confetti, powdery perfumed air. Birds burst from the trees, laughing like schoolchildren, and Yellow-headed Blackbirds and Bobolinks singing like children's toys. The shamrock green hillsides, swaths of purple locoweeds, dripping sandstone caprocks and red shale banks, tumbling cascades of muddy water pulling away stones and clumps of sod armed with cactus. Bison fill the valley, immense herds all the way to the horizon and beyond, mingling with elk, antelope, and mule deer, the herds tended by wolves. I do not think I exaggerate when I estimate the number of Buffaloe which could be comprehended at one view to amount to 3000. It took three days for the herd to pass. I did not sleep at all. Who could when it looked like this?   
I always was a night person and this is why.
Another billionth of a degree and another blue flash and by God, they did it, this time the cottonwoods and green ash ignite and the winds sweep them up, carry burning logs in the air, dropping them on villages downwind, 13 miles to the east at the next railroad town where the flames leap from paper house to paper house, cooking secure families in their sleep. This happened to 67 cities across the country. Only four cities escaped the fires. So the men in lab coats did what men in lab coats do and did some more math and split the seconds atomically and suddenly a horrific blue flash as bright as a blue star boils the river, explodes rocks, sucks the oxygen out of the air, and leaves shadows of human beings on the stone walls of buildings 70 miles distant. Family photos on granite, hot daguerreotypes, mom and dad posing with the kids, burned into our memory.
The black sand turns to glass. The blue flash fades to a faint red glow, then nothing. Momentary darkness. The last towns are gone. The few survivors emerge from cellars to begin a short life begging for rice, filled with envy of the dead. Now I don't want to sleep. Get up, I must get up. 
It's morning again, but I don't want to face it. The light is pouring through the night sky now, my whole head is hot, throbbing, I can't think, I haven't slept in who knows how long because I think they moved something an hour ahead or I have been taking too many airplane flights or it's another dream about time. I see another giant man tampering with one nucleotide base, one out of 3 billion. Chalk on his hands too. I see another blue flash and this time the whole planet bursts into flames, hotter than the sun, roasting everything I ever knew. He reaches toward my smoldering head and removes the wires. 
If his hypothesis is correct, I will gain confidence, lose fear, and gain security. Results will be replicated through repeated testing proving I had no idea I was right. I can't remember what I was going to say and I no longer care. 

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Can't Get the Sound of Fish out of My Head

Legend has it that fish will fall occasionally from the sky. Singapore 1861. Saskatchewan 1903. Louisiana 1947. 
Fish, fresh fallen fish. People stood on their steps holding skillets waiting for a meal from heaven. I saw this when I was young. I asked my mother, who was holding the black, cast-iron frying pan beneath the pregnant sky, why the fish were falling from the clouds. She maintained her focus on a spiraling northern pike and replied, "Gravity." I asked my father, who was cleaning a nice large-mouth bass, about six pounds, and he nodded, "Because they can't fly."
So, they gravitated toward the easy answers, that fish will fall once they are airborne, just like people. I saw a man shot out of a cannon at the circus. He fell just like those fish, flopping around on the straw in center ring, only the audience did not rush toward him with filet knives. I asked my father why we didn't eat the man in the cannon and he barked, "You can't filet a man!" They carried him off on a stretcher. The next night he did it again, with a cast on his leg. That was the hardest working fish I had ever seen.
Here 2014. Today, I am standing on the sidewalk below a seventy-story office building, watching a man running in circles yelling that the sky is falling. "The sky is falling," he says. He has long, matted grey hair, a nine-o'clock shadow, a thicket of eyebrows, sky-blue eyes, and a quilted flannel shirt. The buttons don't match up with the correct buttonholes, leaving one tail longer than the other. He holds a bottle in his hand and waves it at the sky. Sky pirate, I think. He fell overboard, floated down here, and he wants to swim back up there to be with his mates. 
Avast. 
I was up up there in that tower last night, on the 58th floor and I heard banging on the windows. Who in their right mind would want to come in through the window late at night? Of course, I didn't open the window, I just kept typing, typing, typing, typing this thing you are supposedly reading, typing, don't look up, I can't look up. Who would want to come in through the window late at night? I won't look. Maybe it was this guy. So he drifted back to earth in the dark and swims in circles on the sidewalk, talking about himself.   
I have read that thunderstorms breed when a mass of cold air meets a mass of warm moist air. At the boundary, water condenses, energy is released, winds and clouds build, and it begins to rain and hail. Storms. So in the course of a day, they start by raging toward the sun and they end in a free-fall back to earth, gassed, exhausted, paintbrushes of rain, a mist the color of salmon, so tired they evaporate before they reach the ground, inhaled by hungry clouds. The hard part it getting those fish up into the sky. It's not a problem getting them to fall. Look at this man, flopping on the sidewalk. 
The problem presented itself: How do fish get up into the sky? A few decades ago a study was conducted on the phenomenon of falling fish. A cadre of hardened scientists at the Groveland Institute of Physics were captivated by the notion. For years, they had been hearing stories about falling fish from one of the women on the staff. She was lame in her left arm, being so injured by a falling fish when she was a young child. She couldn't recall the event, being so young, but her parents retold the story every year on her birthday. She certainly despised fish. She wore a necklace with a Allenypterus skeleton. Extinction brought her deep joy; she would weep when reading that another fish species vanished. Ameca shiner, blackfin cisco, gravenche, New Zealand grayling, Parras pupfish, Utah Lake sculpin, thicktail chub, yellowfin cutthroat trout. Ah, the transcendent bliss! Tears like rivers, flowing into the deep, black, oxygen-starved sea.  
By the way, Groveland Institute is located in a sleepy, backwater town in east-central Minnesota, situated in a second story laboratory, above a plankton-based, high-protein, nutritious snack wafer processing plant. The employees take their lunch break at the plant. They get free wafers. 
So while I have been talking, the fellow on the sidewalk started gasping for air and someone called an ambulance and paramedics arrived, they pulled right up alongside of him and now they are attending to him. In distress. Combative. One of them is standing on his shirt tail to hold him still. The other is putting a metal device in his mouth and a couple of other guys are cutting away his flannel shirt. He should be loaded into the van soon enough. They brought out some bags of ice. Poor fella. I think I know him from somewhere. I wish they would turn off that siren. It makes me tense.   
Acting on reports, rumors, and anecdotes, the Groveland research team flew to Bangkok, Beijing, Mumbai, and Lagos to interview locals and to collect eyewitness testimony, photographs and fish specimens. They were out of the country for six months; they got hung up in Lagos for a month scraping together the money to pay the seventeen distinct, ineffectual, and redundant layers of bureaucracy their requisite bribes. On the return flight, at about 38,000 feet, they hit a line of strong thunderstorms in the southeastern United States. The the violent air pressure changes caused the cargo doors to burst open, right over the heart of Mobile, Alabama, sending tens of thousands of frozen Bonga Shad, Pla Sawai, Crucian Carp, and Pomfret slicing toward the earth.
Well, I was happening through the town that stormy afternoon, on my way to a gaudy theater production of Reap the Whirlwind. A musical. To the east, I could see the muskmelon-orange rain capture the sunset, the water on the streets and sidewalks reflecting the sky like fresh varnish. Everything was orange. The air was clear, cool. Distant thunder. Someone was whistling from an upstairs window, but I couldn't tell which house. What was that song? No, it wasn't a song, it was a tea kettle boiling. Big kettle, must be for a mob of relatives. Then it got so loud I wondered if it was an ambulance on the way. Where is that pirate? My grandfather used to talk about the terrifying whistling noise made by the Stuka dive bombers during WW2. That's what made me look up. At first, I thought it was a flock of Peregrine Falcons in a power dive chasing their prey. But Peregrines aren't starlings. This was no murmuration. It was the fish, tens of thousand of them, froze stiff as stones, shad, carp, sawai, pomfret, whistling toward the earth like the London Blitz. I barely had the time to cover my head with my arms. At once, the fish crashed through street lamps, car windows, punched holes in roofs, broke tree limbs. The screaming fish, the din of breaking glass, the shattering frozen fish clattering down the alley, street signs shredding, the clanging of garbage cans, crackling of tree limbs, and shrieks and prayers of terrified residents running for protection was so loud that I had to cover my ears. That's when a two-pound pomfret rocked me alongside my head, dropping me to the sidewalk, where, they say, I staggered about dazed like a prizefighter groping for the ropes.
At least I can still hear. Thousands of birds were killed, probably thousands of mammals. All told, about 200 people were hospitalized for head injuries and lacerations. They told me that an ambulance took me to the hospital. I guess I was a handful; they had to tie me to the stretcher. They say I wanted to get up there where the fish were coming from.
The nurses told me that at the height of the fish storm, as the sky was darkened by their mass, some of the aged residents hobbled out into the streets facing the volley with outstretched arms, frying pans in hand. One old timer crowed, "By golly, those are fish alright, just like Kansas 1922." That's what he said. Good thing it wasn't whales.
Here, in my room high up in the sky, the nurses are whistling. I can hear that banging on the windows again.

Monday, March 19, 2012

The Wisdom of Children

Down the sidewalk, a little boy held his mother's hand and pointed up at the store window and asked,"Mommy, where do all the mannequins go?"
She paused and her eyebrows crossed. "Them?" She pointed at the window.
I raised my hand slightly. "Ma'am, I -" But she pulled him away from me. I really think I could have helped her out. I had been wondering the same thing earlier that day, after noticing that nobody in this city was making eye contact.
You see, there is this landform in North America called The Landfill. It's everywhere, ubiquitous, like landslides, sand dunes, floodplains. The largest such formation known is 2200 acres, in Fresh Kills, New York, but most are less than one acre. They are most often associated with sand or gravel deposits but may be found in quarries and abandoned shipping canals. A great many of the small landfills tend to arise in the rear of residential properties in a shallow ravine hidden by woods. Recently a theory has been advanced that most urban landscapes are actually large landfill provinces, or "Megalandfills", a term coined by Groveland University geophysicist L. Melton Harbinginer in a paper published in 1997 in Waste Street Journal. If true, then the largest Landfill on earth is well over 5.5 million acres, some 2525 times larger than the formation at Fresh Kills. This discovery has led to a new discipline in the field of restoration ecology called Landfill Conservation and Management or LCM for short. Groveland leads the way, producing hundreds of graduates of the Ecology Program that serve on collaborative multi-tiered strategic goal-oriented integrated resource and structure planning committees (CMTSGOIRSPC) in major urban zones across North America. Recently, Europe has shown interest in this model and have incorporated the curriculum in universities in Germany and Austria. The LCM movement has already seen some impressive results, being credited with the preservation of dozens of imperiled urban landfills in the Western Hemisphere. Carefully selected, these protected sites contain a broad diversity of the unique and significant environmental characteristics inherent in urban landforms, characteristics including disenfranchisement, abandonment, structural decay, waste hardening, community fragmentation, maintenance glut, gentrification, desolation, criminality, depersonalization, and air and water degradation. Oh, and stress.
I am having a hard time typing right now because my left eyelid is ticking like crazy.
Megalandfill Theory is supported by three lines of evidence: 1) The landfill debris field deposition has been episodic, occurring in spasms over the course of several hundred years, 2) The landfills occur over a thin and unstable structural base, and 3) The fragile base leads to an increasingly fractured infrastructure that releases tremendous amounts of toxic gasses, foremost of which are hydrogen sulfide, carbon monoxide, and chlorinated carbons. Normally these provinces are biologically dead zones and most are in an expansive phase, invading surrounding landscapes by producing synthetic allelotoxins that inhibit the growth, reproduction and survival of biota in the invaded landscape. Exceptions are found in several urban zones along the eastern seaboard that have robust and broad-scale populations of antibiotic-resistant microorganisms. These exceptions have been cited by critics of the expansive phase theory as evidence that the dead zones are actually in contraction. Hence, a captive breeding program of antibiotic-resistant microorganisms is being developed with the goal of inoculating 25 major urban areas in North America by the year 2020. Progress is well underway.
Well, the mother set her son up straight and looked him in the eye. I could see that she didn't know what to say to her little son, so she just said, "The garbage man takes him away." And so the boy started to cry. "If you don't keep quiet, he will come for you too." And he cried louder and she whisked him down the street, his feet dragging behind him.
Ah, parenting. Let me in there and show this kid the meaning of life. Here's what I would say: I would tell that child that a Landfill, why son, that's a term, a euphemism really, meaning "Your neighbor's yard where you dump your trash." See, kid, these things are found everywhere - everyone dumps his trash in his neighbor's yard. It has become a civil right, an inalienable, self-evident, inborn property of the individual, and by the way you are behaving son, you well know that the individual is the Supreme Being. So go ahead, indulge yourself. My house is your house? No, it's better than that: Everybody's house is your house and you just handed us eviction papers.
That's a fact: Any child today is well aware of the meaning of Property Rights. Don't let that cherubic face fool you. This they can understand. Landfills are produced directly and indirectly; toss it out the window of a speeding car, overboard into the ocean, or wash your hands of the deed by hiring some palooka wearing a hazardous materials suit to take your sealed containers from the curbside and transport them to some big hole in the ground that glows with the Will-O-The-Wisp at night. High school kids park there cars there at night and drink by the light. The girls think it is romantic. See, if that kid was around I would tell him that the only reason people dig holes is to fill them; we create headaches so we can sell aspirin; isn't that what they mean by recycling nowadays? I'm pretty sure. Remember, that child knows that the ditch, the ocean, the big hole, it's all his property. It is manifestly plain to himself just as clear as he is a boy. I think one of his lawyers just called and said that if land were yours, you would have a deed. And what's it matter anyhow, they put a lien on everything you own.
Something else every kid knows is Magical Forces. Listen to his explanations for some of the mysteries of life: If it is raining at his house it is raining all over the earth. If you repeat something enough times it comes true. If you say something loud enough you are right. If you close your eyes the monster goes away. If you forget something it never existed. This latter one is actually the Fifth Law of Thermodynamics, something Isaac Newton discovered when he was old, daft, and penniless, languishing in an alley off Jermyn Street in London: Matter is destroyed when we delete it from our memory. Thus, forget it and we can believe with all sincerity that it never existed in the first place. Thus, we gain absolution from guilt, absence of responsibility, knowledge of nothing - ah, true freedom, the life of a child!
This confounded twitch. I can hardly see the typewriter.
So give him the answers, lady. Steer him right. Who hasn't wondered what becomes of the storefront mannequins when they get old and feeble? I mean, every decade sees a different style, a different species of mannequin. First they were made of wood, carved by tradesmen in the Mannequin Guild. Then the plaster version was introduced, fashioned in molds by artisans in Europe. These were the ones I knew as a young child. There was an explosion of these during the great post-war economic metastasis, filling in shops, stores and malls, like a wave of immigrants fleeing famine. Most were chipped from handling, exposing the white subdural space. The men had blonde, cornrow hair, sort of like those old Soviet Propaganda posters. Mannequin Factory Workers Unite! The women were all bald, but so were all the women in the neighborhood I grew up in, so it was nothing strange.
Later, they introduced plastic versions, mass produced on assembly lines in three-story, red brick factory buildings with broken windows set along stagnant, algae-choked waterways filled with old refrigerators, tires, dead fish, and iridescent blue foam. These looked like giant Barbie Dolls. But then, Barbie Dolls looked like miniature mannequins, so I don't know which came first. I can hear the child blurt out, "Both! It's convergent development."
That is so cute.
Lately, they are still made of plastic but are chromed and are missing limbs, even headless. Sort of like medieval armor, like a Brigandine. This is our cue, fellow worker/consumers; don't be left behind. It could be that next year's Paris Fashion Shows will feature chain mail. Yes, the Great Helm makes a return, and the Cuirass and Vambrace and Greave. Urban armor, for the world of full-contact business. Shop competitively, shop in security.
Any child also knows about Natural Selection. He would assert that the mannequins had families and that the children grow up to have mannequins of their own. So, it logically follows that the unregulated market forces that bring economic growth would ensure that the children would be more prosperous than their parents. A fitter form. In which case, it is a natural progression, an improvement for the species to ascend from wood to plaster to plastic to chrome, from fully-limbed mannequins to limbless ones. The appendages outlived their usefulness, and they atrophied through disuse until all that remained were tiny vestiges embedded deep within the torso. Like whales, the modern mannequin does not need to walk or climb trees. Like, yes, like office workers, hands numbed by repetitive typing and filing motions, moving around on wheeled office chairs, rolling from the file cabinet to the wastebasket, back and forth, back and forth for eight hours a day, sitting in meetings to talk about meetings, sitting in taxis, stalled in traffic, standing motionless on elevators staring vacantly at the mirrored walls, avoiding eye contact, even with themselves.
Huh.
Now the left side of my face is twitching.
Why is it that, with the profusion of mannequins, decades of rigorous archaeological excavations in the urban landfill strata have failed to produce more than a few fragmentary remains of the species? Why is there a near total absence of mannequins in landfills? Where are the transition species, with diminished cranial size, mixtures of plaster and wood, arms without hands? Archaeologists are "shocked at the silence of the fossil record" and "yawning gaps in the sequence" and so are we. What few discoveries they have made are fragmentary and inconclusive and subject of heated debates. Where did they all go? Habeus corpus; show me the body.
This is where the child starts to cry again. And my master parenting skills are on display. I stoop down and look him in the eye. I pour a little honey on the words and say it sweetly: "Now don't cry, I am just being a little sarcastic, boy," but he doesn't know that word yet. "Aah, you see kid, sarcasm, it's a defense mechanism, a quasi-dissociative response to the grim reality, the sardonic truth that the odds one faces in life are ultimately insurmountable, you can't beat them, I mean, the reality is, little man, it only gets worse. So face it: This is the best day of the rest of your life - " and he rears back and and socks me in the eye.
I watch him running down the sidewalk with my good eye. Impressive. The kid knows about denial too.

Friday, March 16, 2012

The Legend of Tsar Bomba

Once upon a time there was a volcano.
There are many legends surrounding volcanoes and they are all very sad. This elevated valley is lined by fourteen volcanoes, each of which comes with a pre-Columbian legend, fanciful stories about forlorn lovers, lonely hearts, unrequited love, lost children, the agony of being deeply in love and forever apart, separated by earth-shaking tragedy. These are not Harlequin Romances; archaeologists confirm that the earliest romance-genre novel was excavated in a vacant lot in the Bronx and was carbon-dated to the late 20th century (I saw some myself in quaternary deposits behind a beauty salon in Nebraska. Alleys and gutters are full of quaternary deposits.). In any event, the stories always end up with one or the other protagonist throwing a ton of rocks and dust then exploding in rage. Somebody always dies, usually by decapitation. The doom! This is very sad. One gets very sad looking at volcanoes. I do not want to be a volcano.
Then there is the volcano legend about the lonely, wandering seafloor that meets a dark, defiant, and stubborn continental plate and subducts it, yes, subducts it, plunging itself into the hot asthenosphere - suicide! - its hydrous materials releasing water which, in turn, lowers the melting point of the overlying asthenospheric mantle which, when melted, upwells, pushing its way toward the earth's surface. Ultimately, so much pressure builds that the jilted volcanic lover buys a high powered rifle and enters a brokerage firm and holds an officefull of commodities traders hostage for days until his demands are met. Bring in his girlfriend or everyone dies. But she, of course, is miles and miles away and as cold as ice. She won't budge. He might as well be asking to move a mountain. So, we know the rest of the story: he blows his top, tips over the office furniture, throws chairs and desks out the windows, sets fire to wastebaskets and file cabinets and fires his gun into the air. This goes on for days, maybe weeks.
Well, I will have you know that those chairs and desks fell on the quaint villages in the valley below the volcano, burying them beneath a pyroclastic cloud of fine Corinthian leather and walnut veneer. The villagers never saw it coming. They ran into the center of the village, shouting that the gods were angry. Too late to offer up maidens from the tribe next door. But the good news was that the debris did improve the soil for the next generation. Too bad they weren't around to see it. Never did live happily ever after.
Another legend is that there is a bathtub on the side of one of those volcanoes to the southeast of where I sit. It's about 25 miles away, named Cayambe. Actually, the story is that there are are two bathtubs, one on either side of the equator and they have water swirling down the drain in opposite directions. That's what they say. I suppose that those tiny schoolchildren running down the streets in their green, parochial, catechismic uniforms know this one by heart as well. What are they running from?
Another legend is that the only place on earth that you can balance a chicken egg is on the equator. I suppose it's like walking east or west from the North Pole. Do not try it. Attempting that first step to the east, or be it west, has paralyzed many a polar expedition, as they spiraled into bitter disputes. How many of the explorers returned to tell the story? Can you name one? This too, is sad. What should have been a North Pole celebration descended into self-loathing. Hey, there go more schoolchildren.
The problem is this: If these legends were true, the nature of matter would not be as it is thought to be. For example, it would be possible that the distinctly North American phenomenon where a man standing a hundred yards away is so tiny that he can fit in your hand - this has been photographed thousands of times - is real, he is actually that small in comparison to the outstretched hand. This suggests that objects inflate in size as they approach the observer. I need to research this, perhaps get a badly needed doctorate in the process.
Objects Increase in Mass as They Approach Observer - Observer Loses Point of Reference.
Now all bets are off. Another commonly held belief exposed as a myth, a ruse, an ecclesiastical cudgel used to subjugate indigenous populations. Foreshortening is a lie! Millions held in bondage to fables are now free. You can be bigger than your neighbor, just drive him away. Objects do cease to exist when they disappear from sight.
Man, those kids are noisy.
Another one: Where I sit at this exact moment, sometime in March, at approximately 0.031415926535 degrees north, is the purported result of the exercise of free will that deflects random events, controlling destiny. But I am sitting on top of a thousand feet of volcanic ash and a thousand graves of people who were willing to travel to where it was I came from. Trading one set of random numbers for another. Like winning at cards. Eventually, everyone will have won 50% of the games they play. There is no advantage under the sun or beneath the shadow of this volcano, for that matter. There, that's another PhD dissertation:
Man That Abdicates Free Will is Subject to Absolutely Random Events and Dies Just the Same as Man That Exercises Free Will at All Times.
By the way, they sell these doctorates at the Pirated Music Store in this little village for a few dollars. I might pick up a couple. I want one in Shortsightedness. I think could get some credits for life experience. I think someone prints them in a boat offshore, in international waters, and sells them everywhere. Maybe that's why the call them Universities. Anyway, I think this dissertation will find that abdicants experience the illusion of immortality as the result. Something like: I wish to live, therefore I will live. In which case all those romance novels are objective reality; the power of free will is as powerful as the power of love to change another person's free will. I don't have the heart to break the bad news.
Now I see rain and hear thunder.
But it's only the Legend of the Doctoral Thesis. That's the Nobel Prize ceremony playing in my head; thunderous roar of the crowd and sustained applause, thousands on their feet, and one fat, solid gold medal hanging around my neck - for my visionary doctoral work in Unintended and Unanticipated Consequences. The following is a summary of the accomplishments:

"It was assumed that only the lithium-6 isotope would be reactive, absorbing a neutron from fissioning plutonium, emitting an alpha particle and tritium. Deuterium would fuse with tritium. It was assumed that The lithium-7 isotope would be inert. The lithium-6 performed as expected. The lithium-7 did not perform as expected. Unexpectedly, it captured a neutron, then released tritium and the neutron. Hence more tritium and neutrons were released than expected. The resulting atomic blast was 15 megatons, two-and-one-half-times greater than anticipated or intended."

And not only that, I can only assume what I know. I don't know what it is that I don't know but I assume I know all that I need to know. That's should be on the label. That should be on the medal. That's not such a big deal if you are just baking a loaf of bread. But 15 megatons?
I look down at the medal. It's gold. Maybe it was silver before it was bombarded by all this unanticipated yet refreshing radiation that is helping me to develop so many advantageous genetic traits - one of which had better be foresight. Look, I am developing gills! The medal has Mr. Nobel's relief on the front. I recall that Mr. Nobel once did some research and development of his own. He said regarding his dynamite factories:

“Perhaps my factories will put an end to war even sooner than your congresses. On the day when two army camps may mutually annihilate each other in a second, all civilized nations will probably recoil with horror and disband their troops.”

Wait a minute. That's not thunder. That's not rain. This is really sad. I guess none of us saw it coming.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Big Three-Headed River

A single dusty lamp lights a long hallway in an old woman's mansion.
She sits in the living room by the firelight in the evening, knitting a sweater for someone with knobby fingers, but the neck doesn't look quite right. You wonder if it's poor lighting or maybe your eyesight or your mind, but you look closer and no, your mind has not slipped and it’s not the light or your eyes; the sweater has three holes for three heads. You want to put your hand on her delicate shoulder and reassure her, but you fear that whatever it is that she contracted is highly contagious and you pull your hand back and put it in your pocket. “Nice fire.”
Jack walked out of the living room and shook his head. He took off his bifocals and held them up to the lamp. "I swear I saw the fellow who wears that sweater in a temple in India. Had a cup of rice in front of him." He rolled up his sleeves. "Poor fella didn't touch it. Didn't move a muscle. People had to carry him around on poles."
I always liked listening to Jack. He was like an old leather suitcase with decals from faraway lands, a walking travel brochure, and he had an easy way of conversation. You could ignore him for a while as he exhumed tales of colonnades and big game and tribes and fever and then jump into the conversation for a while and then ignore him again as he described man-eating reptiles and jungle kings and he never seemed to notice or care. "I thought the sweater would have six arms."
"That's probably right. Maybe I saw the guy at the state fair. Or up front in a cathedral. That’s right." He held his glasses at arm’s length and swiped a lens with his right thumb. "It must be this. All I see is dust."
The flooring creaked beneath my feet. "Which state fair?"
"I can’t recall." He blew on his glasses. "Oops. That dust was the original owner of the house and there, away he goes, off into the air, maybe all the way to heaven. I must show proper respect." The old woman started to cough.
“I think the original owner is everywhere.”
He did a slight bow before his glasses. “That’s what you call omnipresence, my boy.” He looked at the firelight down the hall, "I'll go stoke the fire," and walked into the living room.
As he walked away, I thought about the forgotten state and wondered why it would be such a likely place for three-headed people. Jack always had the appearance of being hot on the trail of something, even if he wasn’t; sort of like a toothless old Labrador retriever barking up a tree full of abandoned squirrel nests. But if there were more triune people in that state why would they be considered such an oddity as to display to gawking mobs at the fair? Maybe there were fewer three-headed people there than the average; they were a vanishing species, a real rarity. I read about a gated community once where everyone had recessive genes dangling from their mortal shell in fantastic ways. So I wondered which states were surrounded by gates. I knew some city-states had moats. Out here they used levees. But they didn’t stop anything; just as soon as we built them, the river cut across a gooseneck upstream and changed course and ambled about the land behind the levee, filling up Main Street so many times we renamed the town Venice. I felt the urge to move wherever that state was and find out for myself. Maybe I would get a job as a freakish one-headed man housed behind glass in the front of a cathedral, chained next to the marble man with three heads and six arms, fed balls sweet rice on banana leaves by pilgrims bearing candles. This is when I began to wonder if there was such thing as a phantom head.
The noise of Jack rattling the fireplace utensils interrupted my deep thoughts. This was Jack's first time in this house in twenty years, since he was in college studying liquor. The old woman muttered something about the fireplace and Jack replied loudly, "Destroyer. The destroyer." He must have been talking about his days with the Merchant Marines off the Atlantic coast. I could see the fire reflecting off of the walls of the living room, bright enough to signal planes flying overhead. "Hey!” I shouted. "Save some light for tomorrow." A few hours later he fell asleep on the sofa in front of the fire, which had retired as well, reduced to a few shy embers, winking like red stars on a summer night.
The following morning crept into the sky slowly, no sudden, bright, sunny fanfare as one would hope, more gradual, like the way color fades from a fish washed up on a beach. Jack was standing in the back yard. "Where is the light? Is it cloudy here all the time? You forget to pay the electric bill?"
I shrugged. My shoulders felt heavy, both of them.
Rubbing his hands together, he surveyed the skies. "Man, it looks like a burial shroud, clouds from horizon to horizon. Nothing can see out and nothing can see in." He looked down at his feet, old deck shoes decorated with grass clippings, like parsley flakes on two cod filets. "As much as I want to see what might be up there, I can't imagine anyone wanting to see what was going on down here."
I thought about the old woman knitting. "Like the door to her basement."
"Yeah. We just think that there’s something valuable in there."
“I don’t want to know.” The old woman had lived in that house all her life, the daughter of the first owner, Mr. Shaunheunessey, who ran a lumber mill down by the river. She never married. I could see her sitting at her window knitting ever since I could remember. Sweaters and more sweaters and socks, hats, mittens, and scarves, I suppose. She must have made thousands of them over the decades, but nobody knew what she did with them. There were as many rumors as there were mouths. She gave them to charity, she sent them to orphanages, she clothed the monks at the monastery on the hill. She had relatives back in Europe. Maybe they were peasants and would have nothing but stiff, black rags to wrap around their feet and hands were it not for the package of woolens they received every fall. That wasn’t a house, it was a textile mill. The windows reflected the grey skies like cataracts.
The smoke rising from the chimney caught Jack’s attention. "Maybe the clouds are coming from us."
Something splashed in the river down below and we both turned. Nothing.
He put his hands in his pockets. "Or someone just closed the lid on us. How would I know?" We plodded across the front lawn toward the river.
He stopped. His face tightened. His open hand swept from right to left. "There!"
I followed the sweep of his hand and my eyes drifted to the river. Bleach bottles collected in an eddy. I started thinking about bleach bottles and I wondered what would happen if they were given enough time and given ideal conditions - an ammonia atmosphere with electrical discharges and some giant, strong, benevolent, philanthropic scientist hovering over the whole affair making sure that random events wouldn’t interfere with the rigorously controlled experiment and send it spinning out of control, destroying the atmosphere and engulfing the scientist in a superheated ball of ionized ammonia gas - I wondered if they would replicate. Bleach bottles laying eggs in the muck at the bottom of the river, laced with heavy metals. Prime habitat. The bleach bottle eggs would feed on the heavy metals and grow into nymph stage, then emerge from the primordial soap and shed their brittle, UV-degraded casing and float downstream. Adulthood is reached in two to three months and the males accumulate on the banks of the river in the stiff, phosphate foam, displaying for the females, expanding and contracting their cylindrical bodies, emitting hypochlorites, drawing the timid females out from the overhanging brush and tires and rusting cables and washing machines and -
Jack broke in. "Over here. The Lilliputian Forest, the industrial lawn, the engineered turf, managed for sustained yields, millions of dollhouse board feet, harvested every week by pale, flabby suburban farmers on toy tractors, a cheery, iridescent-green, like the felt on a pool table, an Irish festival, thatched with battle-hardened European and Asian strains, bathed in surplus chemicals produced in the last Great War." He pointed at the lawn.
Now I was looking at the lawn.
"This chemistry of war has a long history - in fact, you can quote me, it was conceived exactly twelve minutes after the discovery of fire, just enough time to finish the roast leg of auroch."
I squinted and for a second I thought I saw many small aurochs munching in the grass. "There!"
I don’t think he heard me, he was on the scent of something. "I suppose two men discovered fire but each one wanted the discovery for himself. Here, my friend, was the birth of the marketplace: First, a new and exciting product - Fire! But then, who would be the producer and who would be the consumer? Thus, the need for another product, one which determined market positions. And the market does not disappoint! The second new and exciting product - The Fire-throwing Device! After working out the glitches with a few trial runs, the market moves again! Now we have but one producer, and the consumer, well, he -he was, shall we say, consumed...but! The producer would have many, many children. And the marketplace grew and grew and lived on and on." Jack smiled broadly.
"Hey, Jack,” I asked, “Did you ever invent something?" We were at the river's edge.
Jack shook his head. "Nope. But I worked in a patent office in England once." He picked up a head-sized piece of concrete and heaved it into the river, sending up a fountain of greenish-grey.
"Maybe we can - "
"I think, if there was a patent office back when fire was introduced into the market, the proliferation of fire would have been prevented." Two fish surfaced near the splash, dark grey backbones rolling along like knobby tires. "I mean, I know that there was a day not too long ago when enemy assaults on castles and walled cities were repelled by dumping boiling oil from positions above the gates. Then naval battles were won by the feared Greek Fire; fountains of burning pine resin and sulfur vomiting from the mouths of brass lions on the prow of the ship. Terrifying. But consumer demands were strong, so naturally the markets produced new and improved terror: Jellied gasoline raining down from clear, blue skies, the Devil’s Thunderstorm, liquid fire that consumed palm-leaf villages and paper houses and their sleepy inhabitants. It's a growth market, this destruction business."
I looked out across the water, sudsy, like pureed avocado. "They always come up with something." I thought about a one-headed job opening in Indiana and traveling the byways in a circus caravan jammed with one-headed freaks, the eighth wonder of the world, arms dangling out the air holes, and then I thought about fishing from a boat that burns the surface of the water away leaving the fish on the hot lakebed roasted and ready to eat. We would have to use olive oil for the fuel, pressurize it and spray it across the glassy surface, light it with a torch, maybe before we spray it we mix it with some capers and salt and pepper, then heat it to about 450 degrees and sprinkle with crushed flat leaf parsley, and bake the lake for about 30 minutes until the skin is golden brown, but you could lay them on a banana leaf in which case you rub the fish in a mixture of lime juice and salt and then serve on a bed of rice and coconut milk. This is naval war on the low seas and it has no Geneva Convention rules, as far as I know, but it does require a license and the ability to keep a secret under torture because once your friends smell those fish they will twist you like a dishrag and bend you so hard you enter four dimensions in three pieces until you confess the name of the lake that you were burning away. I was getting hungry and I swallowed at the sight of the salad of lawn clippings, the loaves of firewood in the woodshed by the old woman’s gingerbread house, all the while rubbing the hams of my hand, prodding the sugar sand, my hands shaking at the sight of the beer-colored foam. I wondered if they had food detoxification centers; I was ready for a relapse.
"Here?" Jack laughed. "Are you kidding? Not 'till we burn everything in sight."
I frowned. "You did that last night."
“No, not there." As he scanned the skies, the deck shoes sank into the green mud. "If you could see far away, up there beyond the scattered, brilliant, blue light that lettered men tell me lies above the endless clouds in this dreary, stratus opacus gloomscape you call home, they say that large stars will burn through sequences of fuel, starting with hydrogen, then, in succession, helium, carbon, neon, and oxygen." Two fish surfaced again. Or was it three. "In the last, they will burn silicon."
"And?" I watched the low clouds slink across the treetops like a grey cat.
"Silicon is last," he continued. "It takes about a day and it is gone. Once that is burned up, nothing can be fused, and within a second” – snapping his finger - “the star collapses. Just like that. Sometimes it explodes - a supernova." He scanned the skies again. "Out there. It's pretty, bright, and short-lived."
Like a fight, I thought, when the fist hits your temple and the whole world turns bright white.
"There is where is next."
"You say where? There?" I pointed at the grass.
"Right. At our feet are tiny palm-leaf villages with paper thin homes and sleeping inhabitants, the sly nematodes, brave arachnids, honorable springtails, dutiful dung beetles, cheery sowbugs, and millipedes, centipedes, slugs, and snails - regiments of hardy exoskeletal creatures which, were we reduced to their scale, would exterminate the whole race of us – revenge killings - each and every soft, pliable man, woman and child, using our gelatinous remains to grow bales of fungi that they would feed to their fertile queens."
That was no auroch I saw in the grass; it might have been a giant scarab beetle. I stroked my throat with my fingers. "I want to fight back."
"Sure." Jack gave me a nod. "We all do. They go about their day unaware, oblivious to what positions itself above them. And then we ambush them, dropping out of thin air. We attack these things with the same ruthlessness that we attacked enemy infantries of old as they marched across pastures and farmlands beneath happy, blue skies. The heavens opened up and we rained down vats of hot chemicals like brimstone and boiling oil and napalm." He kicked the grass. "Today, innovation and efficiency have created yet another superior product: we open the bomb bay doors on the enemy and unload a witch’s brew of hydrodynamic fronts, electromagnetic pulse, ionizing radiation and thermal flash." He paused. "The sky is the limit, son. If you can't compete in this marketplace, you have no place to be and no place being." He folded his arms and glared at the lawn.
A splash. There were those two fish – no three fish - again. They were fighting over something. But back to the lawn. "The lawn?"
“All my life this world has been a playground, my backyard. But there are only so many things to burn. We have gone through pine tar, saltpeter, naptha, quicklime, sulfur, niter and now plutonium." He pokes a dead bird on the shore with his shoe. "It's not 'What's next?' It's 'What's left?' Something is out there that is the silicon of this cold, iron stone that we live on."
“Maybe we already burned it.”
Jack turned his head toward me, squinting. He studied my face. His mouth was open and he wanted to say ‘What?’ but no words were coming out.
We stood looking at each other. A minute passed. I didn’t know what to say, he didn’t say anything. A hundred fish could have walked out of that river and set up communal living with the dung beetles and flatworms but we wouldn’t have noticed. “Jack?” My neck felt hot. Still no words, but I knew what he was trying to say. “Jack, I mean, I don’t know, maybe we used it up already.” I thought about that Labrador retriever barking at an empty squirrel’s nest in a dead tree in the winter at night by himself in an atmosphere depleted of oxygen and a blackened sun unable to give warmth or light. I think the dog was blind and deaf and a seizure was coming on. And I thought about beaches, that the beaches are covered in silicon. There is no end to sand. I find it in my clothes and shoes and food. It blows and carves out rock sculptures and it stacks a thousand feet high in deserts and buries ancient cities. They say the number of stars exceeds the grains of sand on earth. Hourglasses are filled with sand and the glass is made of sand. If you burn sand it turns to glass. I didn’t know what to think. My eyes focused on Jack but he was gone, heading up toward the old woman’s house. “Jack. Hey. Hey, where you going?”
“The old woman.”
There was that splash again. A fish chomped onto a bleach bottle, shook it back and forth and pulled it underwater. A sound, like sloop and a few bubbles and it was gone. Two minutes later bits of plastic rose to the surface and then some large bubbles. Alligators do the same thing; they shake the victim, drag it underwater, dismember it and drown it. Or is it the other way around. That’s when I noticed that the sand at my feet was very big. It was mixed with millions of bits of broken plastic bottles, oxidized, irradiated, abraded, and I was standing on a semi-man-made beach, very colorful. Too much quartz to call it an unspoiled, anthropogenic man-scape, but give it a few more years, just a few more years of this synthetic saturation-bombing, this mad-chemistry, and imagine what it would look like. And two-hundred years in the future, why, with all the sand washed away - it was going to be pristine, pure, a breathtaking polymeric paradise. A thousand automatons in a laboratory somewhere turned their faces toward me and smiled.
Eons beyond, into the distant future, after a zillion floods and channel diversions, and tectonics elevated the landscape upstream an additional two-thousand feet above sea level, this old beach would be buried beneath a thousand feet of debris. Then, some sunbaked paleontologist would unearth the hardened strata and, wafting away the chlorinated outgasses with an old, cotton towel, find my fossilized footprints and declare me primitive man. I could see the vestigial fingers on my left hand fumbling with the vestigial fingers on my right and I could not bear to look. Rudimentary, degenerate, like fat, pink crayons. Stop it. I turned away. They might as well have been hooves. But I had to wonder just what they were doing. I had no ready answers. And yet, this thought did not stop them from doing whatever it was that they were doing over and over again and for a moment I considered tossing one of them away for simplicity. This is not where I wanted things to go and I quickly rubbed my footprint out with my left foot. Wilderness ethics, Leave no trace, right? Of course, the right foot quickly made a new footprint and I knew I could not control my feet either. I could see an automaton in the lab, smiling and I was hot with jealousy.
Upstream somewhere, tiny particles of quartz sloughed off in the raging battle between water and rock and drifted downstream. The sales pitch is that plastics are maintenance free, no thought or effort required, and soon I was going to fit right in just like -
A splash. The fish broke the surface, snagged a plastic bag out of the air and cut back into the river and I swore it had three heads.
At that moment, I heard Jack shout as he ran back from the house. “Hey! I had to ask the lady. I had to ask her what she did with all the sweaters.”
He beat me to it; I had always wanted to ask her that question. “And?”
“She said, ‘What sweaters?’ I thought she was being coy, so I said, ‘I know how you’ve helped so, so many unfortunate souls. What’ve you done with all the sweaters you’ve made over the years?’ She said, ‘I only make this one. Only this one.’ I said, ‘But what about the others?’”
Words jumped out of my mouth, “Charity, she must have given them to charity.” Come on, lady, I thought, Say you gave them to charity.
Jack took a breath. “Then she said it again, ‘I only make this one, only this one.’ I don’t get what she means. And so I looked closer, and I see that she was taking the sweater apart, unraveling it knit by purl, one knit by one purl, one knit by one purl. And then her hands, they are calloused like a sailor’s and full of Gordian knots and pock marks, like yellow golf balls melted together. And then she said - get this: ‘And when I am done, I only make this one again, only this one, and when I am done I only make this one again, only this one, and when I am done...’ She kept saying that over and over and over and I see she is going to make that sweater all over again and I had to get out of there so I jumped up and ran out the back door.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I didn't see this. Did I really see this? This is uncharted territory.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” We stared the house. “What is she doing?”
His body leaned slightly, away from the house. “Let’s get out of here.”
I looked up. It was almost noon but it was still a dreary grey. I felt like we were being watched. Maybe it was the old woman, maybe someone else. I didn’t know. I looked at the river. Then the treetops. I could barely speak. “Jack. Look." I pointed. "Those aren’t clouds up there. It's smoke. All this time it’s been smoke.”

Friday, December 09, 2011

Bedtime Story

My first floor windows on the east side of my house had an excellent view of the first floor windows on the west side of my neighbor's house. The view was so complete that, while I sat in my living room in my reading chair by the east window, I could yawn and stretch my left arm and reach into his living room and trade books. If only for the window screens. The same was true on the west side but I did not care for her cheap romance novels.
One brilliant and wrathfully hot Wednesday morning, just shy of noon, I was sitting in the shade cheerfully swatting a breed of imported flies when Henry, my neighbor to the east, came down the sidewalk toward my patch of lawn carrying a box. Henry walked his way around town, having no car or license. He said that he couldn't drive because he was myopic, but his wife said that he was gloomy. He was whistling again. My ears stood straight up like a dog's. I rose in my chair. "Stop it, will you?" He glanced my way. He was in the third bar of some byzantine, baroque fugue in descending minor that was elevating my blood pressure. "I said stop it. Can't you find something else to do with that excess windage and fattened tongue besides misinterpret Vituperatio or Balooney or Paparazzi or whomever it is you mock?"
He stopped right in the arc of the lawn sprinkler. "I whistle when I am tense. I've got to shed some excess nerves." The sprinkler swept across his back. "Yow - cold!" He jumped aside.
"Well shed them in the fall so they can blow down to Alabama with the rest of the litter on my lawn." I nearly stood up to impress, but I was really hoping that he would pass along too quickly for me to rise. "Anyhow, what's the angst about now?" Never a day passed without his complaint about his nerves.
He looked at me sideways. "Job applications." He had been unemployed for about two years and was looking for work.
I relaxed in the chair. "Any leads?" I looked down at the ants crawling across the driveway that sizzled in the hot sun, tar oozing from the cracks like black summer sweat. The ants would make it about an arm's length into the driveway and then overheat and swell and turn on their backs and then die, legs outstretched. And many of the dead were rescue teams sent to recover the remains of the first casualties. Carcasses piled up. Maybe this was a plan; they would use the dead as bridges to the netherworld on the other side of the driveway where all wood was soggy with rot and the aphids were plump. I looked across the shimmering asphalt and saw ants on the other side working their way toward this side in the same fashion. I wondered what it must have felt like to be on a suicide mission to save another suicide mission that is on a mission to save you.
He shrugged again. "Well, I figure with all my experience applying for jobs, I could get a job looking at applications for job openings. They call it a Personnel Director."
I thought of Russian Nesting Dolls eating one another.
He saw my blank look. "I was interviewed for an opening in personnel at the airport today."
I raised my eyebrows. He looked away. "How did it go?"
He started whistling.
"Hey - "
"Sorry. I was relaxing." He looked at the box of papers. "They tested me today. They had me review applications for job openings for pilots." He paused and looked down and slowly shook his head. "I don't know. I don't get it."
"Get what?" I swatted at a fly that landed on my arm. It was about as big as a half dollar, glittering blue and green like a Vegas hotel with a rack of antennae that would have made a trophy elk run in fear.
He shook the box. "All the applicants were schoolchildren, from Mrs. William's second grade class. Some of the applications just had pictures drawn in crayon. Food stains. Ripped. Crumpled. I don't get it."
I smiled. "Were they qualified?"
His face curled slightly. "That's what I don't get. I was told that they were serious candidates." There he stood, sweating, dehydrating in the hot white sun, losing weight, height and volume, holding a box of crayon drawings of stick men created by the brightest leaders of tomorrow, and tomorrow would begin in precisely 12 hours, coincidentally, the very moment when our world would be at its darkest.
I began to whistle.
Henry tipped his head to the side. "You sound myopic."
I got up and went into the house.
At about ten at night - it must have been ten o'clock because the news was on television and panels of pale men with swollen necks and carnivorous women with dilated pupils dressed in business suits were championing in great detail personal versions of a future reality in ever increasing volume and cacophony. Like a cage full of parrots. About ten at night I sat down to watch the news.
Henry looked out his window into my window. He was watching the same program, or maybe he wasn't because the background colors were different. "I am watching an action movie."
"No you aren't. It's the news."
He looked at his television. "Nah, it's an action movie. You're wrong."
"No, you are wrong."
"It has to be. At the end of this there is always a loud explosion and bodies fly all over the place and the next day I go see the sequel and I see the same set of actors scrubbed and cleaned and powdered do it all over again."
I picked up a book on the end table and tried to read but I forgot that the pages went from left to right and besides, I read it several years earlier. It was a science fiction novel from the 1950's entitled The Eyestorm, about a future that is now long past, one where everyone drives a flying car, motivational music is omnipresent, the moon is cultivated, communities are arranged vertically, and the state wages war against every second thought. Well, I had misgivings about the book when I opened it, but I was afraid to put it down and finished it in a few hours. Afterward, I closed the blinds on the windows.
"See?" Henry pointed at the screen and there was chaos and shouting and the camera cut away to a commercial. "See?"
On the west side of the house I could hear the other neighbor reading a bedtime story to her daughter. I think she read it every Wednesday evening, a book called The Big Red Airplane. The heroine, a young girl named Darcy, takes the controls of a big red airplane when the pilot oversleeps and she flies it around the world so many times that they go forward in time and find a civilization where everyone is literate and animals have rights and houses talk to you and, sure enough, they have flying cars, and the President calls on Darcy to save the city from a family of angry asteroids by sending the asteroids back in time so they miss the earth. This reminds me why I sit on the east side of the house. I had half-a-mind to tell that daughter the real story, and I made sure I let her mother know that I had half-a-mind - and she agreed - and I was fully determined to tell her that the civilization that Darcy saved went on to revoke the rights of animals so that they could use them to fuel their flying cars and all the people could read alright, but became immersed in abject sloth and bliss and their ability to write and create atrophied - but this condition didn't last long because their immune systems were no match for the mutant bacteria that were out-gassing from the genetics laboratories. Besides, the President was the one that sent the asteroids so he could declare a State of Emergency and force a social contract whereby the citizens would give up their inalienable rights in exchange for virtual reality, libations, and the pursuit of pleasure. Darcy was just a pawn and died in prison with hundreds of other children held for their charming, little beliefs.
That was about three years ago. She only recently unlocked her first floor window and opened the drapes.
Henry was still watching the news. He looked over. "You know, these men and women on this show look like they are aware and sentient and lucid. One would imagine they had a conscience."
"So?" I looked at the newspaper. A headline read, "Scientists Discover Royal Family Is Genetically Identical to Sausage Links".
Henry continued. "Really, they all use abstract terms and assert their moral certitude. It's a good movie."
"Would you quit calling it a movie! It's not a show, it's a discussion, experts finding solutions."
"That's a good movie." Henry leaned back in his chair and took a swig of water. "I am cheering for the fat fellow on the left there. See him? He can really act. I am almost convinced he really believes he has solutions."
I looked past him at the television. It was a different channel, but they had the same position players, one aging wise man, a blonde woman with sharp eyebrows, a dark-eyed man with a cherubic face, smart haircut, dark hair clipped above the ears and parted on the side. Another puffy, arteriosclerotic man with thick jowls and bulging eyes who sweated and lost his temper first. Once he lost it, the others followed. That was the explosive climax. I think I saw a headline go across the screen about an asteroid.
Henry tapped on the window screen. "Hey. Lincoln said that the legitimate object of a government is to do for a community of people whatever they need to have done, but cannot do for themselves in their separate and individual capacities."
He said it too fast for me to catch it all. "What?"
He watched the experts shouting above each other. "I am saying that we need more than single-issue Messiahs. I mean, we have five-thousand and seventy-nine critical issues we need to solve simultaneously. One for every man, woman, and child on earth and all these folks can do is shout simultaneously."
I still had trouble hearing him over the din.
He placed his drink on the end table. Moths hit the screens between us. "Unfortunately, Lincoln had to bathe and eat and take naps and comfort his wife and retrieve the keys he misplaced in the icebox and hang out with his relatives when they brought 'possum from Illinois and then go sleep for eight or ten hours and then miss an appointment with the ambassador to Spain because he forgot about it and his teeth were aching oh-so-badly that he had to put down more corn whiskey than he was accustomed to and that was where the Vice President would step in, if only they could wake him up from his slumber after being up all night playing poker with the Speaker of the House and the Secretary of State. They say he lost his shirt and redistricting in Vermont."
The television switched to breaking news from somewhere. Headlines and war scenes appeared. "Peace Marchers Set Fire to Nursing Home."
Henry looked at me. "Are you listening, bud?" I gave a vague shrug. "Think about it: What was Gandhi's policy on health care? What did MLK have to say about child slavery? What did Cyrus the Great think about drug resistant pathogens? And Peter the Great, I wonder what his platform was on groundwater depletion? I suppose that man had the time to come up with something." He looked back at the television. "Yeah, great show."
"Maybe it is, but maybe they are lost in the character and really are what they appear to be."
"For enough money, anyone will be what they are not. These people make a living convincing people they are someone other than themselves." He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. "Nah. They will sort things out when they hand out the Emmy Awards." He pointed at the screen. "Well for the love of Pete..." A headline appeared: "Aurora Borealis More Active Around Pet Cemeteries."
Before I could think I blurted, "I believe that!" I backed into my chair. "I mean, I think I have seen that happen in Rosemont, along Highway 63." I looked at the end table. Seven dead flies were on the table. One was caught in the glass housing around the lamp and was burning alive.
"And the show goes on." Henry turned off the television. "I mean, this Machiavellian landscape is overpopulated with also-rans, thugs, megalomaniacs, sycophants, honyokers, and ruffians, many of which are engaged in such villainous acts of compulsive-destructive behavior that new problems at created at such a rate that they outstrip the ability of all the genetic laboratories in the earth to produce cloned Gandhi-like figures in numbers equal to the task."
I raised my hand. "But maybe they could appear to be up to the task. That would at least create security, right?"
I don't think he heard me or maybe he did. Moths swirled in the lamplight like snow. He continued, "Let's be fair. Maybe one of these leaders could multitask. So let's ask, What was Julius Caesar's policy on alternative fuels, nuclear waste, habitat destruction, species extinction, petroleum based farming, corporate greed, internet pornography, school violence, the drug trade, wetland loss, factory farms, consumerism, hyperinflation, quantitative easing, landfill seepage, racism, and the weapons trade? Oh, and I forgot, failing infrastructure. I want to see his mission statement too. By tomorrow at the end of the business day. Four copies please. And it had better make sense. No gimmicks. Consistent, integrated, no contradictions, comprehensive and fully funded. Leave it on my desk."
I laughed. "Don't bet on it. He probably has to take a powder and rehearse his lines."
He nodded. "Yeah, but I hear he has a great smile and a full head of hair."
I sighed and sunk back into my chair, relaxed. "Man, I am glad these folks aren't real. If they were we would be doomed." I looked at the clock. "Hey, it's already midnight."

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Civil War

This is what is war.
I had read that politicians and their wives sat upon the hilltops overlooking the Occoquan River to watch the first battle of the Civil War, the Battle of Bull Run or Manassas. They imagined that they were going to have a picnic. This was about 150 years ago. The battle turned and they abandoned the hilltops and fled for their lives.
The fellow sitting at the counter next to me was staring into his coffee cup. He shook his head. "I saw glowing cats in the shelterbelt behind my house."
"What?" The smoke over the Occoquan valley vanished and I looked at his face, pale, loose and baggy like the skin on a rotting gourd. I smiled. "Maybe it was marsh gas, Will-O-The-Wisp. You know. Blue flames."
"No, they were cats. I see them every fall. They herd up at this time of the year, forming a defensive alignment - like Musk Oxen. The females are on the outer edge, facing outward, hissing, protecting their young."
"Where are the menfolk?" I wiped my mouth with the napkin, the one with a phone number I had intended to keep, but blue cats absorbed my thoughts and the napkin was taken away by the waitress.
He looked up, bewildered, his mouth open, exposing toast and eggs. There were no words.
I signaled the waitress, slid five dollars across the counter, excused myself, put on my hat, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. His eyes followed me out the door. I looked up and down the road. It was a small town: one grocery, one gasoline station, one bank, one florist, one funeral home and one beauty salon. I think it was a beauty salon - named Prairie Hair Design. Huh. I wondered if they did prescribed burns. Out walked a woman with blue hair. Is that - ?
A wildland fire usually has one point of origin: a lightning strike, a spark from a railroad car, a runaway campfire, an overheated muffler, a branch on a power line. From above, the boundaries of the fire have a teardrop shape, expanding outward from the point of origin, much like the outline of an island in a river or a patterned peatland. Forensics at the point of origin can determine the cause of the fire. So, working backwards to the point of origin it might be possible to determine the cause of all of the puffy hairdos with blue rinse in the community. Was it a stray lightning strike? Hot cinders tossed by a passing rail car? A gust of wind on the unattended campfire? A branch across two high voltage transmission lines? I figure that's why beauticians go to school for cosmetology; the occupational hazards are formidable and one needs rigorous safety training before setting up shop and releasing all of these chemically-altered fur bearers into the public arena.
But the line between cosmetology and cosmology is a fine one, as is the line between cosmology and astrology, and this transitivity supports my suspicion that the whole business of hair repair and maintenance is simply a superstitious act, like divining the future from the marks on one's hand or witching water with a willow twig or tossing a black cat over one's shoulder or walking beneath a cracked mirror. They strut out of the salon and onto this same sidewalk, puffy and proud, coming toward me with their glowing blue auras. Eager to meet the future. You will meet a dark and handsome stranger today! Luck awaits you around the corner! New experiences will happen to you and emotional connections await! And that lucky stranger just might be me. This mob, why, it looked like a herd of glowing cats. There they were. This set me in the opposite direction, toward the outskirts of town.
The town is surrounded by shortgrass hills, plain and featureless, like a beige wool sport-coat. A side slope overlooking the village has a pile of whitewashed rocks assembled in the form of a large letter "A", the first letter of the village name. It is visible for miles around and to the occasional light plane that might drift overhead, on its way to dust crops. The rocks were moved from the crest of the hill to the side slope a half-century ago by boys from the high school. It was an afternoon outing, a break from classroom studies, a community project. None of the boys noticed the that the rocks they were moving had been arranged in seven circles on the hill crest. Nobody noticed the flakes of black flint scattered around the rim of the hill. The teacher was busy staking out the edges of the letter. One boy found an arrowhead. He put it in his pocket; every kid had an arrowhead collection. Another boy pulled a coffee-colored leg bone out of the soft clay on the western edge of the hill. The teacher shouted and they both trotted back to the group. The letter was constructed and they marched down the hill and back to the school. They admired it from below. "You will be remembered for this as long as those rocks are there," said the teacher. Every year since, a group of students have marched back up that hill to repaint and readjust the rocks.
A century earlier, seven families would set up camp on this hilltop, using the rocks to hold down the skirts of their lodges. They had been doing this as long as they could remember and the keepers of oral history said that their ancestors had been doing it since the day they emerged from the Hole in the earth. The River was visible to the camp and they would venture down to the sandbars and riverbanks each day to trade and to visit. They thought it would last forever.
Well, the village came, bringing forever to an end. The valley where the village was built was in the opposite direction of the River, at the base of the hills. The seven families abandoned the hill.
On the way to that hill, I passed the fellow I talked to at the cafe. "I can't get the cats out of my head," he said, shaking his head like he had wasps in his ears.
"I am trying to forget." I kept on a fast pace, walking up-slope toward the crest of the hill. I could hear him swatting the air behind me and arguing with cats. I raced up the hill and reached the crest, spotted with yucca and sandstone blocks and granite glacial erratics. Standing behind the letter A, near the missing stone circles, I turned and looked down on the village. Cars and pedestrians worked the sidewalks and streets below.
I don't think it would be possible to get too far away from anything in a town like this. Here, the mortician is the beautician's husband, and nobody seems to know the difference, the banker is the brother of the chief of police who has a key to the vault, the Mayor owns the saloon where the pastor moonlights as the bartender so long as he doesn't tell the Mayor's wife anything about his visits, the church group meets in back of the grocery store and sings songs about sin with hearty vigor, and no wonder, they were celebrating the communion with the same brand of wine they drank at the saloon the night before and were singing the same songs they sang that night - with some alterations at the end of the final verse to express penance and sorrow for the backsliding ways expressed in the first verse - and the florist works nights as a nursing assistant at the hospital (her flower arrangements are slightly used), the gasoline station owner runs an insurance agency from his garage, the same garage where he keeps the fire truck, and the ambulance driver is the mortician, never known to speed. This place is everywhere. As the village grows into a city, the connections multiply and mutate and suddenly, it exceeds our natural limitations and simultaneously it exceeds our ability to understand it. A new class of merchants arise, those that ply statistical approximations and primitive, mathematical models to describe our new, self-replicating, autonomous reality, all of which fall desperately short. It is Dystopia, where industrial output of ignorance and error is growing nine-percent a year and everyone has a manufacturing job. In this environment, we don't even recognize our own children.
Thus, you bounce a check at the grocery store and you may end up getting a fatal manicure in a burning church.
At that moment, I recall that I think that I recalled that phone number. It was the number for the mortician. No, the beautician. Or was it the mortician. Ah, what's the difference? It's a thin line between a mortician and a beautician; the difference is the vigor of your client. I think. I know that one or both or neither of them wanted me for something or maybe not for something. That is for sure.
Man, I thought it would be a picnic, being up on that hill, but things turned out far, far worse than anyone could have expected. That I will remember for a long time.

Sunday, October 02, 2011

Dante Was Here

The other day someone bumped into me on the subway and slipped a list of questions into my coat pocket. I found them later that morning when I reached into the pocket to pull out the obituary section. I was looking for a story about a man who disappeared and was never seen again. The thirteenth question read: "What are you doing here?" I thought, that was hours and miles ago; I am not doing anything where I am not anymore.
There are questions that leave me awake at night, staring at the ceiling in a cold sweat, and there are other questions that lull me to sleep to dream about lying awake at night staring at the ceiling in a cold sweat thinking about questions. I try not to think of either at any time, but it is like asking someone to raise his hand if he can't hear you.
This night, there I was, looking up at the ceiling again, trying to picture what it is that I am doing somewhere at sometime, but all I could see was darkness. I couldn't see my own hand in front of my own face if I had tried and for a certainty, if it were not my hand I wouldn't have known the difference. And it wouldn't matter, I would still try to swat it away, swat it away like one's arm when it has fallen asleep and drapes across one's abdomen heavy and wet. That's the arm that keeps returning back to its place no matter how many times you swat it away, like a mad dog on a short leash, like that check you wrote last week, like the memory of the war you fought. This is a handicap. Once again, as I dispute the origins and validity of my own hand, I miss the opportunity to come to experience just what it is that I do, and cannot answer questions that only I can ask. I may have simply disappeared. I fold the paper and the names it contains are forgotten.
Or so I think. I squint at the ceiling a little more and there I see tiny space ships moving across the blackness trailing banners with the answers to these questions, but now they are in an ancient script and I can't make out a thing. It is then I realize that all the while I have been outside on a high meadow lying in my sleeping bag next to a dwindling campfire and those lights up there are real space ships. XXM, Vorsted, VRM, ROSAT, Amos. I shake my head: but I am certain that I am imagining the banners. That illusion is true. It is very late and I need to put out the campfire and go to sleep. The northern lights sweep across the sky like the tail of a mountain lion. A meteor makes a paper cut in the sky, bleeding white for a split second, then the black skin of night heals over. After eons of this, you might think that the the night sky would be so scarred it would look like African body art, but night absorbs all wounds. So I sleep. As I nod off, one of the ships reenters the atmosphere at a sharp angle and ignites, sparkly yellow and green and then it disappears. Two days later, as I sat in a cafe eating vulcanized bacon wedgettes with bleached, androgynous eggs and oriented-strand toast, the newspaper headline reads, "Space Junk Reenters Atmosphere and Burns up over Denver. Millions Misinterpret Sign." I guess slept right through it.
The morning in the meadow brings the sun into the open like a loud brass band. I shield my eyes. What am I doing here anyhow? Somebody once told me that we just aren't meant to know, and I told him not to share his personal problems with me anymore. I mean, answering questions about ecology, niche, habitat, associated species, soil type or slope, these are academic and ordinary. Anyone can create a postulate or theory and then assemble supporting data. Go ahead and try. Repeat after me: I postulate that... Now fill in the blank and then apply for a grant. Go ahead. I postulate that army worms caused the First World War. I postulate that decreased rainfall increases religious behavior. Speech intolerance is a reliable predictor of the ability to navigate hedge mazes. Banking security is a function of shareholder disorientation. All parental superstitions are traced to one town crier in France. It's easy. The library shelves have a random and highly disordered assemblage of yellowing journals filled with lofty, mathematical prose, which journals reproduce asexually and can do so in an oxygen-depleted environment. Doctoral dissertations and coauthors and peer review and coefficients of correlation. Yes. Orthogonal two-component experiential hyperbole. Somewhere in there lies ecology and niche and soil type. So I have a theory: What I am is not in there.
So maybe my business is just plain-old Agoraphobia, a fear of going out into crowds of people. An uncontrolled social situation from which there is no escape.
And this assumes that one can actually escape from uncontrolled social situations. It may not be possible. I think that they are universal and all pervasive, sort of like some sort of Zen state, all-one with all. Or one. Or something. Well then, I must be in The Urbanite's Hell: The past four months I have been drifting, just migrating across the open fields like a herd of antelope, on a sea like a rudderless ship, floating through air like a paper airplane, a leaf on a breezy lake, a blind man looking for something to see. Through savannas and black forests of pine, up claystone slopes and down sagebrush swales, meanders along drowsy clear rivers, slogs through soggy black ash bottomlands where every step sinks into the floodplain silt and releases mosquitoes into the air like telegraph messages, pointing into my thighs. Ten thousand at at time, dive bombers, sacrificing their lives for the nation. Could I send one back, half-alive, to warn the others? If reincarnation were true, I would be a mass murderer.
How many levels are there to this hell, nine? The cold air collects on the hillsides in the evening and merges in the draws. By the time it reaches the river bottom, it is nearly a breeze, and it forms a fog that drifts away from shore like a daydream. It is scented with wet grass and turpenes from the ponderosa pine, sweet like tangerines and clove. I have entered another savanna. This is Level One.
The Second Level is finding a pine that looks just like a ponderosa pine on another continent. Level Three is finding that the two pines are genetically similar and that, although they are isolated by time and space, they can actually interbreed, albeit with assistance. Level Four is sharing this with your friends. Level Five is having your friends reply that the sedges and grasses beneath the pines on one continent are not the same as those on the other continent and that they have a completely different function in relation to the pine and that the niche that the grasses and sedges occupy on the other continent are unique and require further study because nobody thought of that niche before and hey, they forgot to tell you that studies have shown that humans have a widespread and ubiquitous preference for natural environments, particularly savannas but also they gravitate toward lakeshores and seashores and sometimes dark forests and more often than not will build civilizations around these natural spots and, by the way, they also forgot to tell you that studies show that the urban environment is shown to have a causal relationship with mental illness. Level Six is the realization that everything you knew up until now was wrong, but something tells you that you had better stay put in this grassy, open woodland, so help you God, Level Seven is the realization that the design in nature is infinitely more complex than anything you could ever imagine from here to eternity, and Level Eight is the realization that the land management program that you worked on with a panel of fifty experts for the past ten years and implemented last week set in motion a series of irreversible and catastrophic natural events that will ultimately lead to the extinction of all life on earth. You probably won't share this with your friends.
Very few people make it to the Ninth Level. After all, one man's hell is another man's paradise.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Ghost in the Darkness

There is a wind out on the meadow. It whistles through the bones of a bird, hollow like drinking straws, a pneumatic system, bellows pumping air that keeps the frame bloated and aloft. It sings. Then a gust carries the bird away. I look at my notepad. I had something to write down but I lost it.
It is a cloudy, low sky. Wind and water are fundamentally clear, but you add smoke or clay or condensation and they each become visible. It's like putting a radio collar on a suspect bear or radioactive dye in the bloodstream. The suspended substance gives it a form and you can track it across a matrix. But it's still not wind or water.
Sometimes it doesn't matter. The bear circles a sheep herd in the foothills at night and you can watch it move in and out of the herd carrying off one course of a meal after another, a feast, a banquet of mutton - all in the comfort of a climate controlled office in the northern Rocky Mountains. I think about that office and wonder what heat used to feel like.
I want to tie a rope to the bird. Before the taming of the electric current, a sheep herder would have to recognize the shape and space and color of the eyes in the firelight. Two red dots four inches apart. Two blue dots that don't move. Two green ones that move up and down. Quick. Which one is the sheep. Which one is the bear. Which is the reflection of the moon. Which one is the camp cook. A shot into the dark could mean hot bear steaks tonight or prison meals for life. It is at this point in time that the herder, his face raining sweat and eyes wide like egg whites, conceived the idea of radio telemetry and was about to broadcast it to his two friends staring into the woods, but, alas, was unable to expound due an unfortunate combination of poor night vision, wind, rain, and simple miscalculation. Three bears, not one. This is what we call circumstances beyond one's control. Too bad. Under the same circumstances the bears easily recognized the well-fed sheep herders.
The vast majority of humans were rural dwellers in centuries gone by; some 95% in the United States in the 1790's. They were villagers with stone or wood or animal skin dwellings and few dozen family units and surrounding fields with livestock and beyond it, a vast wilderness. This was an unknown wilderness, really, known no more than the accidental provisions that spilled out from it into the village: the occasional elk, the flock of grouse overhead, the swarm of bees, the creek that passed between the fields. Many villages were surrounded by barricades of pointed stakes or stone walls and armed men posted in watchtowers. This wilderness entered by invitation only. At night, when something moved in the darkness the men would fire guns, shoot arrows, toss spears, throw rocks...even their own children. At daybreak they would venture out into the bush and find blood-soaked sand and drag marks. A wounded or dead animal was carried away by something much, much larger. The talk would spread and convolute and quickly the animals would become unimaginably large. Great, horned beasts with claws and toothed jaws that ate entire mountains and breathed fire and ate women and children by the thousands.
Today, it's the other way around. The vast majority of humans are urban dwellers; some 75% in the United States live in cities. These are still walled cities, with stone fortresses and watchtowers with heavily armed men. But the wilderness is proportionately smaller: quaint, little fenced rectangles, like schoolyards, with a sharp, razor-tipped line between the civilized and wilderness lands that can be seen from 800 miles in space. And the forest that was never known is now simply unidentifiable: a scrubby, worm-eaten corpse with tilting trees, pock marked stumps, inbred wildlife, sunken aquifers, tailing piles, herds of feral cats, toxic stains, windblown plastic, severed corridors, and an understory of wiry invaders and genetically-modified mysteries that coil around the last remnants of the original forest.
There is a rustling in the woods tonight. Quickly, the menfolk grab their guns and fire into the darkness. Guns on turrets with fifty caliber shells and thousand-pound bombs with jellied gasoline and dioxin and benzene and plutonium. The smoke drifts back into the city and burns the eyes. An air-quality alert goes out. In the morning the men venture into the bush and find the remains of something unrecognizable; tufts of fir, or is it feathers. Maybe it's a mammal. Probably a bird. Who knows. Who knew. Who would ever know.
I suspect that the animal probably recognized us before it vanished. It's probably true: Something is here that is larger than we can imagine, something monstrous, a great, horned beast with claws and toothed jaws that eats entire mountains and breathes fire and eats men and women and children and living things by the thousands.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Foreshortening

As a man walks away from you he becomes smaller than your outstretched hand. If you look around, there are a lot of things that were very big that have become small for one reason or another. Like Y2K. Atom-bomb shelters. Prohibition. Fur trade. Knee screws. So it is a little unsettling to think that I am shrinking in the distance myself, that is, according to people who see me getting smaller and had the notion to tell me before I disappeared altogether, sort of like the last, desperate protestation of love between a man and a woman at a train station in the few seconds before the conductor says "all aboard". The hands break apart and the fingers reach out to touch but the distance grows until the hand disappears and all that remains is the plume of coal smoke on the horizon.
You wait long enough and the memory disappears too.
It can feel like fatality, this departure, or maybe it's the other way around. The difference is the reason for the disappearance. When one disappears without warning, as might happen when abducted by anthropologists or duped at a card game into taking a monastic vow of silence or when becoming too absorbed in doing the math in one's head or when falling into severe and prolonged existentialism, it feels the same. I had a friend who disappeared that way once. I saw her reflection in a storefront window and I turned to look at her and a bus passed between us and she was gone. I think that is what happened. Her name escapes me. She had blonde, no red hair.
The other day, while in search of vanishing species on the north central grasslands, I came across a cemetery. It was a quaint prairie cemetery guarded by wrought iron fences on the south and a depression-era windbreak of Siberian elm and Black Hills spruce on the north, east. In the European custom, the graves all lay feet facing east, luxury suites with a fabulous view of the early morning sky to the east, so it is said. The oldest graves had fallen into disrepair, no flowers to be seen, the names and dates were weathered, and many were toppled. Someone had taken the time to recast the names on little iron plates staked in the grass, but that person did their work decades ago and, I suppose, they lay amongst the headstones somewhere, rubbing elbows with old friends. Today, their names escape us, faint etchings mottled with lichen and moss.
As I walked away, I turned to look and it got smaller and smaller until it disappeared from view. Now I can't even remember where the place was.
So ends another summer. Oak savannas, black ash swamps, sagebrush and badlands, lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. Ponderosa pine, thick red trunks and deep, almost black boughs. Sturdy grasses and sagebrush so tall that it imagines itself a tree, so long as it doesn't get near one, which isn't likely, seeing that most trees in North Dakota are in museums. And sandstone caprocks huddled over strata like a child over a cereal bowl; don't touch what's underneath. And we wouldn't for a long time.
Well, the long time came to an end. We exited the age of Enlightenment, enthralled with our own wisdom and might, and took the new found liberty and knowledge and created the Industrial Age, which continues to this day. Now some may say, No, it ended when we entered the Technological Age or the Information Age or the New Age or the Styrofoam Age or the Corn Syrup Age or Sectional Couch Age or whatever it is now, but half the globe has yet to see an industry in their backyard yet. Untapped resources and new markets, my boy. This has to change and change it will.
Sometimes we go to the store and the sign says, "New and Improved", and we put it in the washing machine and the clothes still come out with grass stains and ring-around-the-collar and the mothers look cross and the kids look downcast. All that was new and improved was the lettering on the box, those words New and Improved. So it is with the Industrial Age: We have taken the old machinery from the Dark Ages, the knee screw, the iron collar, the rack, the branks, the garotte, and put a label "New and Improved" and hawked it to nuclear families around the western world. Only this time, we wouldn't dare use them on the heretical masses; they learned to read and write. So we applied them to inanimate objects, ones that can't complain or riot or call lawyers or write great declarations of inanimate object rights. And we applied them to unintelligent brutes, from the great apes on down to lobsters.
As I leave, I can see the hills recede from view, hills brushed red with tussocks of little bluestem and moist valleys of ash and elm and wild plum, with flocks of sharptail grouse bursting from buffaloberry thickets and nighthawks sweeping the skies in the late evening and a luscious full moon, tomato-red from forest fires to the west. I am becoming a dot on the horizon, a distant memory, someday forgotten altogether, like the folks in the prairie cemetery. But today, the long time has come: The caprocks and soil mantle and grassland carpet are being pulled away by medieval machines, the modern-day Brodequin, Strappado, Judas Cradle, Heretic's Fork, and Iron Maiden. The riches are exposed and angry, desperate, confused, trembling crowds gather and plunder them. They light fires to burn what remains.
As I disappear, I look back and I see nothing. It occurs to me that we both disappear at the same time and someday, there will be nobody left to remember a thing.