The fIrst storm of the year arrived last night in Bellingham. The temperature is still in the low sixties, but the wind billowed out the curtains at the open bedroom windows all night long, and this morning the rain is . . . light but heavy. I'm not sure how to say that better. The drops fall softly, but there are a lot of them?
Our neighborhood park is well on its way to becoming a swamp, as my dog, Alice, would testify if she could speak. (I think she's learned English but is still keeping it a secret.) Poet Carol Guess and her two dogs were at the park, too, but about the time we spotted each other, the sky opened, so we trudged in opposite directions, leaving the dogs on leash.
I'm coming out, I hope, of a depression that has lasted about a year. It did me good to see 300,000 people march in New York on Sunday. It's hard to believe that the ecosystem destruction already in progress can be stopped or even significantly mitigated, hard to imagine life here in 20 years as anything other than hot, wet, and ruled by overwhelming scarcity. But it was still good to see so many people addressing that reality, those fears, and even better to see the diehards show up and sit in at Broadway and Morris on Monday. I feel communal anger building. I sense the beginning of a truly oppositional culture. I feel less alone.
I'm about to start Naomi Klein's new book, This Changes Everything. If you're reading it too, let me know what you think.
Our neighborhood park is well on its way to becoming a swamp, as my dog, Alice, would testify if she could speak. (I think she's learned English but is still keeping it a secret.) Poet Carol Guess and her two dogs were at the park, too, but about the time we spotted each other, the sky opened, so we trudged in opposite directions, leaving the dogs on leash.
I'm about to start Naomi Klein's new book, This Changes Everything. If you're reading it too, let me know what you think.
