To most the blog as art form is as about as far from literature as a cold hotdog is from haute-cuisine. It’s a chauvinistic attitude that misses the point of stringing words together and self-publishing without the burden of economics, editing, support, or critique. I come from the school of the opinionated columnist and have always loved the freedom of writing without editors…..or many times readership. I’m used to creating without audience. Drawings go in the flat file. Paintings are completed, wrapped and stashed in storage. Songs are recorded at Outlier Studios, lost in Josh Druckman’s soon to be obsolete computer formats, never to be heard again. And multiple blogs are tossed into the vast ether of the internet cloud. When I’m gone the blogs will be the most easily accessible, possibly my only legacy on this plane.
Deforestation, climate change, global warming, suburban sprawl, and the false narrative of the pastoral have been reflected in the written word in America since Moravian brother George Henry Loskiel wryly observed that "The severity of climate in America will abate in proportion to its culture and population.” This was 1794. Loskiel was soaking up the weather in America and referencing the writings of Roman historian Tacitus, who had made similar observations in Europe in his day. Tacitus died in 120 AD. Concern over human influence on climate and the landscape has been going on for a very long time. The straight line and the campfire destroys much. But we are still here, so why worry?
We are now in the time of critical mass— of doom and desolation. The metaphor of that cancer on my shoulder is a good one. It’s only now that it’s been spooned out and the pain in my back reminds me not to lift my arm or jerk off with my left hand, that I’m truly conscious of the danger. A little pain is a good thing. To be an ecocritic in this time of doom (Trump) is literally to be a voice in the wilderness, the faint mutterings of Cassandra drowned out by denial and the thumping oil rig. Like trying to stem the flow of Dollar General stores, the first word that comes to mind is helpless.
Our micro-climate here in the Catskills, one of the most benign weather systems in the U.S., rich with water, devoid of disastrous tornados, floods and hurricanes, breeds complacency. Sure the winters can be too long and aggravating, but on the whole we are safe on the high ground. There is no pain. But, all we have to do is look a little closer to see the changes in the skin. Something mysterious is growing on my (and many other’s) roof shingles. Long winters and extremely wet springs are peeling paint and taking their toll on the deer and turkey populations; boosting the plight of the predator. Half drowned fawns and molding turkey eggs make for easy meals for bear, coyotes, fishers, raccoons and crows. The weedy species are thriving. Change is in the air.
To be an ecocritic is to be ignored, lampooned and satirized as a free range tree-hugger one step removed from the geek. All you have to do is look at the attack ads of right wing media aimed at Alexandra Octavio-Cortez, “the Squad,” or a 16 year old Swedish teenager to witness the mean-spirited hypocrisy. I am not on the front lines like climate warrior Greta Thunberg or her minions. But there is a place for all. The great forces of capitalism, global real estate development and fossil fuel extraction cannot be opposed without a concerted effort across the board. It may look hopeless and maybe it is, but for at least a couple of weeks I can’t do much more than sit on the couch, write and criticize as the hurricane approaches, the Dollar General stores spread and the Amazon burns. Maybe it will have a small effect. That cancer removed from my shoulder reminds me how fragile the illusion is.
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