You Don’t Find Fossils in Granite

You don’t find fossils in granite1, 
So why do I find them all around?

Sedimentary, my dear Watson2 –
We are formed not by fire
But only time’s slow drift.

Inertia forms its own mass
Of things drifting down:
Trickle down, 
Things settling, 
Price of settling, 
Price of gravity –

The price of what? 

A great geological cover up.

Don’t blame those who excavate
What once was alive. Those fossils
Are decently dead and done. 

I speak of our economies, policies, 
Philosophies, rivalries:
The bones of an ancient,
Covered by convenience and things let slide,
Until it appears a mountain 
That, they say, is immovable.

1 It’s true, and I never thought about it until coming across this information in David B. Williams’ Stories In Stone: Travels Through Urban Geology (an interesting read for anyone with interests in any combination of architecture, history, urban planning, geology, and offbeat coverage of natural science topics). As you may recall from grade school, the three types of rock are sedimentary, igneous, and metamorphic. Granite is a metamorphic rock, formed by fire and time; the fire does for any organic remains what a flamethrower does for a paper crane. Therefore, you will find no fossils in granite – or any metamorphic rock – or igneous rock (hardened lava) for that matter. Only sedimentary rocks hold fossils.

2 Often imitated, never initiated – according to Quote Investigator (a truly entertaining website), Conan Doyle’s Holmes never used this precise line in any of the books or stories.

Sesame Street Eyes

Sometimes I miss my Sesame Street eyes. 

Like many children in the English-speaking developed world, I grew up with the show. I didn’t necessarily have an archetypal experience of it: I didn’t have dolls or merchandise of the characters, I didn’t watch it on a color TV. I didn’t know Elmo was red until I was six. But I watched it in a house, with two parents downstairs, and the promise of lunch afterwards. And I watched it with a great deal of curiosity and fascination. It was my first window on a wider world.

The exotic locales were part of the allure. New York City brownstones, fire hydrants turned into summertime fountains, taxis and subways – these became a visual vocabulary of Other, something I desperately wanted to see for myself. I started to look for it on every cracked sidewalk of my own Midwestern city. Eventually I started to see that there were other stories out there that went beyond my neighborhood, my small span of years and city blocks. 

For example, the corner store 7-Eleven where my mother bought cereal and spinach was a small revelation. I looked at the pig’s feet and head cheese and tubs of lard, listened to the accents that had ridden in on currents of economic hope during the Great Migration, and began to wonder. This was a culture that Sesame Street hadn’t shown me, but thanks to the show’s influence I recognized the pattern of Something Different – a story waiting to be understood. 

Each Sesame Street episode built on this need to understand. I saw other children who lived curiously different lives. He herds goats? Wow. She walks through rice fields instead of streets? Wow. They take a boat to a school housed in a hut built on stilts? Wow. 

That little girl carries her family’s water supply from a well? Wow. She studies by candle light, eats rice or pounded corn mush for every meal? Well, she has a mommy and a daddy (imagine Elmo’s voice), just like me. She has siblings – not like me, but fun to think about. Not so different after all. 

In all of this, there was no judgement or dismay, just wonder and curiosity. Each of the children’s lives was portrayed as something happy, whole, and complete. Boats, mules, and walking were just as desirable a means of transit as subways, buses, and cars. Spending your day herding goats or carrying water jugs was just as fun a pastime as baking cookies or watching Sesame Street.

Sometimes, when I read the news now, I worry about the kids I saw on Sesame Street. Their goats may have died during drought. Their parents may have died in a civil war; their siblings may have died from holoendemic disease. They may be in a refugee camp. They may be working in a factory, dying from heavy metal fumes so I can have a computer and smartphone. They may have been raped or kidnapped while carrying water. There may be no water for them to carry.

They may have had their own children at age 14 or 16, while I was studying and just beginning to learn life as an adult. 

They may have died in childbirth or unsafe factory conditions before I graduated college. 

What on Earth happened? And – hum along to the show’s intro, all together now – can you tell me how to get, how to get back to Sesame Street?

Here’s the deal. I don’t regret that early exposure to a beautiful utopia in which herding goats was just as much a learning experience as attending school. It was a fantastic place. I wish I could still see it. I wish everyone could see it, free from malaria nets and industrial smog.

I just wish I would have known, early on, that it didn’t yet exist. Big Bird could have told me: this is what you’re working towards, kid. Don’t stop until you make it. 

Follow the cracked sidewalks, read the newspapers, listen to people’s stories. When you find people with everything, give them curiosity about a world beyond their comfort and experience. When you find people who have nothing, search for the resources they need. You will need to work, and you will need to fight. You’ll need tools. 

Cookie Monster could have taught me about sugarcane and neocolonialism and banana republics. Oscar the Grouch would have covered social justice and liberation theology. Gordon and Susan could have talked about the African diaspora and cotton, the same cotton that eventually pushed people into the neighborhoods clustered around 38th Street in Indianapolis; pushed them right past the American Dream all the way to the 7-Eleven where I watched as my mother picked out WIC-eligible spinach and cereal. 

I guess I learned about each of those things, after all. 

There’s no good ending here. I don’t have words of wisdom or a neat conclusion. I have lots of questions, and none of the right tools to address them. I have a voice, but a third of the time I don’t use it and another third of the time no one is listening. The last third of the time, I’m not the right person to do the talking. 

When I was young, I thought the world was like Sesame Street: my Sesame Street eyes. When I’m old, many decades from now, I’d like those eyes back. Not because of delusion or platitudes or wishful thinking, but because the truth in front of me might match up to the reality of a world where my species genuinely prioritizes the right of each life to exist happy, whole, fulfilled, and complete. 

In the meantime – I have a suggestion. A small change in the familiar Sesame Street soundtrack, to start the newest generation off with the right knowledge and tools. As the Sesame Street end credits run, the new theme should be the final verse of A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall, by Mr. Bob Dylan. 

(Elmo’s voice) Today’s post has been sponsored by the letter “A” and the number “0”!

Did You Hear The News?

Did you hear the news? 

What news? Any news. You can pick your source; it doesn’t matter if its via internet, radio, print, or television. They all say the same thing. Today they are united in announcing a great development.

In light of recent events – well, events stretching back years, really – we’re making April 1st the new national holiday. It will replace July 4th, the day formerly known as Independence Day; we value fools over independence anyway, and it’s time to stand by our values. 

This is a dramatic change. No other nation has previously embarked on such a far-reaching realignment of national priorities and policies. We see this shift as a necessary action to stay true to our larger purpose within the global community: that of beacon, guiding light. 

Some minor adjustments to national branding will be necessary. We are discarding the “City On A Hill” ideology in favor of “Ostrich With Its Head In The Sand,” which focus groups have repeatedly indicated speaks to the new American public. As part of this reimaging campaign, several national monuments will be re-designated to fit the needs of a changing American society. 

The Statue of Liberty will be moved to the U.S.-Mexican border, where it will provide vital training towards our immigration agents’ target practice. 

The Lincoln Memorial – which stands for national healing from some sort of division that no one can see or talk about – will be deconstructed and reassembled into a true symbol of unity across differences1 for all Americans: a Walmart. 

The Smithsonian museums are already closed, due to the stock market meltdown. Plans to reopen them have been postponed indefinitely. A spokesperson says, “They were free to the public anyway; no one will miss them.” It is likely that many libraries and universities will also be re-aligned towards new national needs in the wake of a stifled global economy. 

The reason for the closed institutions, stifled global economy, shelter-in-place orders, underfunded and overworked public health agencies, and over 43K deaths, is irrelevant to this new generation of Americans. Today’s Americans aren’t concerned with reasons. Today’s Americans are driven to accomplish tasks, and never you mind who is driving them. 

With this new shared vision, we know we can count on our fellow citizens to rebuild this great nation’s shattered c-suite raise schedule and executive perks, definitely at the cost of their own health and future prospects2. 

Ultimately, this new national direction is more in line with both public values and private interests. New priority will be given to shooting ourselves in the foot; bonus points apply if you hit both feet and your neighbors with a single shot. They were always different from you anyway. Wait, what’s different – your neighbors? Who cares about them? I’m talking about your feet; don’t trust anything capable of walking either to the Left or the Right. From now on we all walk in only one direction. Look at the Egyptians; they seem to have managed it. You know you’re viewing a successful civilization when we’re still busy excavating their dead after this many years. 

Some of our new national priorities will require adjustments from all our citizens. We ask them to remain close-minded in these times of re-entrenchment. Remember: cough on your enemies, run from your friends. Prop up the market and accept you can’t afford to buy. We’ll be back to normal by Easter; we’ll be back to normal by the end of April. We’ll be back to normal when we all stop asking questions, the sure sign of an active mind. 

I’d say April Fools, but it looks like it started early this year and may extend indefinitely.

1 Except for differences stemming from poverty and lack of income. Those differences don’t count as differences to be overcome because they’re actual differences.

2 World War II would be proud, kids. Maybe we’ll even give you a new generational designation, along the lines of the Greatest Generation? Something catchier, something that can’t be surpassed – wait, I have it. The Last Generation.

A Brief Field Guide to Apocalypse

I’m not talking about the apocalypse – the Apocalypse beloved of prophecy and heavy metal. These days, it’s merely an apocalypse. It’s a bit more serious than a teenager saying “my world is ended” and a bit less graphic than meteor showers and dinosaurs. 

In fact, the way we talk about apocalypse paints it as a rather everyday, if dramatic, occurrence. The smorgasbord of options is both creative and overwhelming. There are the DIY projects, the “Bring In The Professionals” advertisements. There are endings both mass-market and stiflingly up-market, personalized and one-size-fits-all.

For example: entire genres of filmmaking end the world as a matter of course. Ever since Hollywood saw the iconic “Earthrise” picture from NASA, they’ve been figuring out how to blow it up multiple times a day. Considering the difficulty of getting a good shot, not to mention the business of sequels – they presumably have several backup copies of the real thing.

(“God, Bob, why are you such a klutz? That was our second-to-last copy of Alderaan! Now GET IT RIGHT!”)…([later, in post-production:] “ALRIGHT WHO WAS EATING CHEETOS! THIS LOOKS LIKE AGENT ORANGE, NOT THE DEATH STAR!”)

Then there’s the matter of faith. Despite what I said earlier, there really is quite a difference of opinion among various religions on the matter of the End of Days. I’ve always wondered why people didn’t select faiths based on the longest estimated TTA, Time To Apocalypse. Perversely, a more immediate TTA seems to attract more believers. I’ve never been sure whether this behavior is driven by a) boredom, b) the desire to see Bob, Karen, and the rest of Accounting/Those People fry, or c) a sort of practical, “Git ‘Er Done” mentality.

The options are endless – well, not really. If you’re dealing with the end of time I guess they aren’t. Rather, there seem to be three main camps of opinion.

Option 1: Less is More. The “poetry lovers’ special”, popularized by T.S. Elliott in The Hollow Men: “Not with a bang but with a whimper,” etc. etc. If you have used the word “ennui” more than once in your life, not as part of a spelling contest, this is your tribe.

Option 2: More is Less. This is the option for people who like to debate, and prefer questions over certainty. There are many theories of apocalypse flying around academia, not all of them tied to publishing deadlines and departmental funding. Some of the most memorable include – I kid you not – the Big Rip, the Big Freeze, the Big Crunch, and the Big Slurp.

Option 3: More is More. This is like ordering The Works at a diner: horsemen (horsepeople?), angels, books, frost giants, rains of fire (reigns of fire?), as many free coffee refills as your heart can handle. Hey, kid, enjoy it while it lasts. We’re turning the sign to “Closed” after you roll out. 

Are there other options out there? Undoubtedly. Let me know what I missed in the comments. But don’t get too upset if I omitted your favorite – after all, it’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything. 

For more fun with finality, I recommend Thief of Time, by Terry Pratchett; and Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. If you’re feeling a bit more serious and natural science-ish, try Apocalyptic Planet: Field Guide to the Future of the Earth, by Craig Childs. 

A Short Walk Towards Normal

It seems “normalcy” is in high demand. I’ve heard a lot of people lamenting or demanding it the last several days. If they could talk to normalcy’s manager, it would be in trouble; if I could manufacture it in a shed and sell it out the back door, I’d be rich. Sadly, such is not my skill set. 

Instead, from what I have I give to you: today I took a walk. 

You may or may not have the ability to walk outside right now, but please join me.  You’re welcome to share my eyes and thoughts, skin and nerves and bone. Normal or not, today is a day to share with others.

I’ve clambered down into a drainage ditch that captures stormwater runoff from my apartment complex. A few days ago it held water from recent rains. Then, it looked mysteriously swampy. It looked like the sort of place you might see alligators, maybe even plesiosaurs, as wading birds stalked through the pools. It looked like the sort of place with lost temples and malaria and Indiana Jones’ Lost Sequels.

Today the water and plesiosaurs are gone. In its place are grasses and clovers, oxalis and plantain and dandelions: the sort of determined springtime growth best described by the richness of the word “vegetation.” I balance on the concrete rim of the stormwater outfall structure, avoiding the teeming life as I watch. There’s a constant fluttering motion over everything from small moths and butterflies, white and dusty blue and yellow and speckled black and grey. They are busy with the business of pollination.  They are busy ignoring me, not that it takes any effort. For this moment, this is their meadow. 

The butterflies aren’t alone. The birds are also here, everywhere. They’re mostly mourning doves, blue jays, and mockingbirds, a Central Texas trio, their voices the only sound that out-competes the grasshoppers. Sweet softness from the doves, and a puckishly trilled repertoire delivered with the mockingbird’s usual panache; the less said about the jays, the better. 

Even on a day like today, with so many distractions, I pay a lot of attention to where I’m going. You just can’t trust Texas grass. It harbors all sorts of surprises. Self preservation has taught a habit of watching the ground to avoid fire ant mounds. But today I have to look up more often. Inchworms the color of a kiwi’s insides drift through the air on silk strands. A few times I have to dive quickly. The tiny critters drift deceptively slow until they’re right upon you. The trick is to avoid diving into a fire ant nest when you’re busy avoiding airborne inchworms.

In the shade it’s a lovely temperature for cold drinks and deep thoughts – not the kind you need to tell anyone, just the sort you keep for yourself. I think if you’re lucky, the bedrock of your personality is laid down on an afternoon like this: sunlight, breeze, the whirring of grasshoppers, slow liquid layers of thought that settle around your hippocampus, sealing in time. As the seconds evaporate, the warmth remains. It settles in through your eyes, your skin, and fills you out like a second skeleton.  

This is the sort of day where boredom has no meaning, because each second matters.

From an apartment balcony comes the sound of someone sneezing. I make a wide circle around the building. 

The non-human world is utterly oblivious to the panic, the anxiety, the talk of the economy and political games of chicken. The non-human world has exactly one thought: it’s spring. What with ice ages and meteors and volcanoes, you can’t take spring for granted. You never know when you’ll see another one. 

It’s worth it to see this one. 

Now I admit, I don’t lack fear. I’m afraid of wasps, terrified of hornets, and obsessively horrified by scorpions. I have bad luck with fire ants and remarkable luck tripping into armadillo holes. It’s a shame I live in Texas. But it’s a constant source of wonder I live anywhere, at any time. It’s worth paying attention to the moments around me, because no one else has seen them through my eyes and I may never see them again. 

I try to pay attention to living, because it’s a limited commodity. My life, yours – one day they’re going to irretrievably change, or end, or evolve beyond anything other humans will recognize. 

First Draft

Are you looking for “normal”? This is what it looks like: constant change. Continents, species, cells, sunrises: none of them are ever stable. None ever reach a point where they finish changing. Life doesn’t bear exceptionalism. If you’re in the game, you’re in; there are no free passes on death or chance. 

But humans get this weird ability to choose wisdom with every turn. With each new experience, each new disaster, they can choose to pick up empathy: the ability to see another life from the outside-inside. 

Are you looking for normal today? Look out your window. Sit on your doorstep. If you’re able, take a walk around the block, away from others. Walk towards your thoughts; look for change, growth, decay, the sounds of continents and the silent seconds of a sunrise. It’s true that one day, maybe today, you’ll change, or end, or evolve. Each of these things are normal. Each of these moments are your life. 

And if I ever do perfect the recipe for normal, I’m happy to offer you a great deal per gram, cash only.

My Lord Has Many Faces

I speak from this space
Where my Lord has many faces. 
I speak from this space
Where silence is divine, 
The quiet of a garden before dawn. 

The trees and gardeners
Bear joy,
Though the tomb is solid rock. 
The depth of stillness 
Is a space between two: 
Space to breath in one’s soul,
Anima and animus as one. 

A tree may grow between, 
But my Lord has many faces;
From my Lord flows the silence I speak.

Is It Orwellian Or Just British Food?

Here’s a secret: I love to Google unprepossessing foods. I do it frequently enough that it counts as a bona fide hobby. Recent search box stars include Celery, Grits, Cauliflower, and Beans on Toast; you would be correct to speculate that I find this hobby most engaging right before mealtimes.

There is a dark side to my little obsession. Such relentless pursuit of knowledge comes at a price. For example: today I learned there is such a thing as a Crisp Sandwich. This is not a sandwich on crisp bread, or even a sandwich with a crispy fried filling; this is a British affair, which follows the linguistic algebra of “crisp = chip.” That’s right, comrades. This is a Chip Sandwich we’re talking about. Some bright spark decided to put potato chips between two slices of bread and call it delicious. I’m still trying to decide if “bright spark” means “person with a brilliant response to desperate times” or “person with a disastrous disregard for taste, self respect, and the health of nations.” 

This new intelligence does not exactly upend the traditional reputation of the sceptered isle’s food. British Cuisine is widely held to be an oxymoron. However, I am not unfair. Rather than unthinkingly accept the consensus of the international community and the evidence of my own eyes1, let us consider a staunch voice for the Opposition in the form of George Orwell’s 1945 essay, “In Defence of British Cooking.” 

Mr. Orwell begins by noting:

“…there is a whole host of delicacies which it is quite impossible to obtain outside the English-speaking countries.”

Perhaps with good reason? But the arguments are convincing enough: he name-checks kippers and Yorkshire pudding before going on to mention “Christmas pudding, treacle tart and apple dumplings.” The next two paragraphs concern themselves with the joys of the English way with potatoes and sauces, respectively. I feel a twinge of regret; I have been hasty in my bias. I shall concede Britain its Crisp Sandwiches, an anomaly in the midst of this generous still life of puddings, potatoes and cranberry sauce2. 

Ah, the eighth paragraph, Lucky Number Eight. Orwell continues:

“Outside these islands I have never seen a haggis, except one that came out of a tin…” 

My dear sir, the beautiful thing about haggis in a tin3 is that it needs never to emerge from that tin. Please put it back immediately. Cover it with a kilt in a show of decency, and step away as if in mourning for good taste. Furthermore – aren’t haggises (haggi?) Scottish? 

Clearly, by 1945 Mr. Orwell was losing both his sense of taste and his observational prowess. Or perhaps this essay was an intentional illustration of the seductive power of doublethink.

Bereft of Orwell’s guidance, old habits return. I open Wikipedia and search for British Cuisine. The article contains a list, by date of introduction to Britain, of various non-native foods which have nonetheless played a role in the island’s quintessential foodstuffs. The list begins with “bread 4 .” Presumably, since crisps had yet to be introduced, this was used for early Bread Sandwiches consisting of bread between … wait for it… more bread. The last item on the list? Sliced bread. At this point, British cuisine comes full circle, bread to bread and dust to dust. You see, sliced bread is the foundation of what I now can vouch is the most memorable of British culinary contributions: the Crisp Sandwich. 

1 With no censoring whatsoever, the Guardian article in question actually contains a full-color picture of a Crisp Sandwich. I can’t tell if these pains in my chest are from shock at such shamelessly graphic food obscenity, or the meta-caloric load of looking at a sandwich made of potato chips.

2 Pronounced in the manner of John Lennon at the end of Strawberry Fields Forever: “Croooown – berrrrrryyyyyyyy – sowwwce.”

3 But really – in a tin?! Where was he visiting “outside of these islands,” Hell?!?

4 The same list also includes “dog”. Just saying.

Lights of the Deep

This solitude, this solace, this depth of stillness sparse
And barren. 
No! an ocean: beneath waves
And breath of wind,
Sea breeze constant as time and current.

I wait. Stand, float and swim, climb (rise) and fall.

Around me, lights of the deep,
An echo back to distant star: 
An echo to warm Earth’s core. 
This blue of calm 
and thought of change: as tides shift,

So bring me to your shore.

Seek The Desert

Seek the desert –

The space where stars walk lightly,
And wheeling birds frame an infinite sky –
Water cradles in a rocky basin
And water tracks where dreams of water lie.

The space where hearts walk softly,
And dust-born flowers shape a lullaby –
Silence drips like water in a garden,
And blossoms forth the whispered God to life.