I once read that you can’t write about a place while you’re there. True, in some ways. As it must be for everyone else, my thoughts are birds unable to land. Ricocheting between the carefree past, the uncertain present, the even more uncertain future. Scraps are really all I have:
The ice will remember this year – fewer soot particles settling on the North and South poles.
Market prices for many fish are crashing. Less fishing. Nascent fish stock recoveries?
Now’s a good time to finally read the Wolf Hall trilogy.
This shutdown is an approximation of what us environmentalists have been calling for, for so long, and
NOW I DON’T WANT THIS. I WANT EVERYTHING TO GO BACK TO THE WAY IT WAS.
Psychologically, our modern Western society has no defence against this.
Communities in places where war is still remembered, or still happening, might deal with this better.
This is a shard of the future when climate change reaches critical mass – when the slowly closing jaws finally crunch down on us.
Things will eventually go back to normal. We’ll consume even harder, faster, to bury the memories.
Does having children make you less or more selfish in a crisis like this?
I’m even more glad that I don’t have children, and I don’t want children.
Spring is arriving just in time. Shy green in the trees. I’m aching to hear the trees when their leaves come out.