The Severn Bridge, over 50 years old. A monument to Capitalism, where no living being other than a few powerful humans consented to its existence. Photo by me.
Via @KevinClimate Simon Sharpe – Deciding how to decide: potential for change in policy ap… https://t.co/TwHm8GwYXS
If you can stomach it.
— Ginny, Awildian (@seasonalight) May 27, 2021
I am grateful to Kevin Anderson for posting this online talk by Simon Sharpe, and unsurprised the organisers and participants wanted to extend viewings beyond Exeter University (cyber) walls. This is how these ideas are “sold” ~ there’s a structure to the method ~ and I’m afraid we are being sold a terrible injustice. … Read more
In the River Arrow, photo by me.
I’ve been unhappy for a while now with my word “sanguimund” (Latin for Blood Earth) to describe the visceral, living human emotional connection with life on Earth. I found out about the fascist term “blood and soil” ” Blut und Boden” not long after the publication of Fluminismo. It isn’t good enough to plead “but I didn’t know.” I must attend to it, even if sanguimund could be viewed as connecting all humans, equally, to the entire world (mund), therefore flattening out any kind of hierarchy, racism or supremacy. It’s too close, however, and I despise ecofascism. … Read more
Lichen world, photo by me.
The Anthropocentric mindset is the root of so many faultlines in our linguistic approach to Earth Crisis/es. One of the latest buzz phrases is “climate breakdown”. I think it was meant to put the fear of God in everyone, to urge everyone to act. What would we all be with a broken climate? Dust!
It’s not very accurate, however, because the climate is not breaking down by the basic laws of thermodynamics. What is happening is an Earthly systemic response to broken ethics and general overreach.
Conditions for survival are becoming unfavourable to many forms of LIFE, especially in places where the parameters are already tight, like the equator and the poles, or where the seasons are rapidly changing: on the edges such as coastal regions, shifting deserts, high mountains, and downstream of melting glaciers, river flood plains, or if the Atlantic Ocean Conveyor (AMOC) stops in its tracks, most of Western Europe. … Read more
Rain shapeshifts the trees and their unseen communities through glass. Photo by me.
I’ve come to realise, friends, that even some of the most influential speakers and writers of words on climate do not understand even the basics of Earth as an entire dynamic system of systems.
I go further and say that a repetitive use of the word climate as the dominant meme is now serving LIFE poorly. LIFE is mutualism en masse, symbiosis as a continued wave down deep in the rock to surprisingly high in the atmosphere. This is why I have coined the word symbioethics.
Please, think about how you use the word climate, despite the big crowds in high politics going on and on because of pressure to “do” something as opposed to “nothing”. … Read more
Last year, I attended an online poetry workshop hosted by the great poet Lemn Sissay. We were set a task to create a poem with a particular structure beginning with “You’re the”….
It was meant for someone or something we either loved or hated; an expression to them from deep inside the heart.
Here’s mine. Each line represents a shared experience. It was sent to the subject, by the way, and received as well as was hoped. I wanted to save it here, just in case it’s immediately lost into the dust.
The tree, the lizard, and the lyrebird.
You’re the tree of all our secrets
You’re the glass held to my lips
You’re the panic of the python
You’re the wine she never sips
You’re the golden of the bower
You’re the butterfly on my wrist
You’re the silence of the fireflies
You’re the lizard in the mist
You’re the painting of the dipper
You’re the rosella of my words
You’re the keeper of our mothers
You’re the guardian of their birds
You’re my lyrebird of the shadows
You’re my orchid on the tongues
You’re my wildfires of uncertainty
You’re the red-smoke in my lungs
~~~ … Read more
The Wye, South Herefordshire. Photo by me.
Hey you, who abandoned me at life’s worst moment; who lied to all of us. Who told me of a love, un-encounterable to most. The path that cut steep down through red soils was lined by light. Tiny stars of wood anemone watched over my eager feet as I moved down through the bluebells having their first conversations with the early bees. All seemed so narrow, a weight, but with an unfurling canopy of shock-green saving me from a complete molten, lead sky.
But at the base, where woods fall literally into the river, the sky came in with a bright summer blue, and I stopped to take a deep breath. … Read more
Spring has sprung and, locally, the human capacity to create even more noise than usual is in full swing.
Lately, I have recorded on my phone a plague of noises generated by people and their loud, intrusive tools, be it an iPod and speakers aboard a stand-up-paddleboard floating down the Wye, leaf blowers, lawnmowers, and mulchers sounding their destructiveness and scaring all the birds from the trees and fish from their shaded retreats under the riverbanks, or even the abominable racket made at the local recycling yard next door to a so-called off-set ecological site at the new Skylon Park, Rotherwas Industrial Estate, Hereford (see below). … Read more
Breaking the atmosphere: This is literally what rockets are designed to do. To break free from Earth’s immediate gravity, to escape from our atmosphere and into the beyond whilst stealing supplies, all without Earthly consent.
The ultimate dying consumer is one that devours the systems it relies upon. These men (the gatekeepers are white men), are raping the atmosphere, creating a hellsphere most religions could never have imagined.
… Read more
Last summer, I am swimming in the cool Arrow just west of ye olde Penebrugge, keeping my nose above the silk-smooth, trying to find a rhythm against the strong flow. The sun is strong, and all winter’s ghosts abandon me for the ocean.
Under me swim a million Atlantic salmon lost to hunting and distress. Above me are the spectres of a thousand white men culpable for the loss. I’m not grieving for the men today.
I get out of the water, and warm blood returns to my cold skin, flush-blush, and I breathe deep the oxygen offered free by the immigrant balsams that shoot from anthroturbed, hot, shade-less, phosphated banks. … Read more
Snowdrops. Photo by me.
Candlemas bells, Galanthus, you still sound just north of the Levant, drifting across the northern shores of the Mediterranean Sea. You came to me via the piety of Benedictines serving the faith in rejection of most else—they brought you from Renaissance Subiaco on foot or on horseback, in canvas bags tucked inside leather satchels— and they poured you out into the sunlight, then buried you in chimes a stone’s throw from their dark nocturns and early morning prayers. They did love their gardens, the monastics, as they loved God. They must have loved you.
The candles that were lit in these cold, stone buildings each February, where congregations gathered to beeswaxed pews from all corners of the shire to pray, now spill into the graveyards in the form I find you today on the Goggin, all the way from the Abbot’s fields of Lazio. … Read more