Jack Burns Lives!

So, the public is once again deliriously feasting upon the news of politician betraying the public trust.

Who it is doesn’t even matter.

Why is any of this surprising, with either with party?

Most of these guys have varying degrees of slime residue, and many are still actively involved in their various high crimes and misdemeanors. What’s equally appalling is the crazed public interest and the ridiculous “outrage” expressed when they hear about it, as if it’s something unusual or unexpected. The public feasts on it like a smorgasbord of intrigue and gossip, stuffing itself like Mr. Creosote.

Oh well. Soon enough it will all be over. At least one can hope.

I’ve completely enjoyed reading Murray Bookchin’s The Ecology of Freedom. What an amazing read, something I’ve put off far too long. It’s a marvelous, eye opening treatise on the unification of social and ecology theory that lays out, quiet completely, the effects of hierarchies in human societies, not the least of which is the formation of the State, a well known spawning ground for corruption and thievery and violence. You also get more than a spoonful of coercion, domination, classism, resource wars and all sorts of other nasty stuff.

In the introduction he states that “society in the form of bands, families, clans, tribes, tribal federations, villages, and even municipalities long antedates State formations. The State, with its specialized functionaries, bureaucracies, and armies, emerges quite late in human social development-often well beyond the threshold of history. It remained in sharp conflict with coexisting social structures such as guilds, neighborhoods, popular societies, cooperatives, town meetings, and a wide variety of municipal assemblies.”

As Hayduke would say, “‘Twas ever thus.”

The good news is there are viable bands, families, clans, tribes, villages and communities that can function quiet well without the State. We can create bioregional federations. And just think. You won’t have to hear all this rubbish about who’s shagging who or who got caught with their paw in the kitty. Not to mention really nasty stuff like Guano Bay, genocide and nuclear war.

Ask yourself, “What’s my government done for me lately?”

“To think, as it was, then again it shall be. And though the course may change sometimes, the rivers always reach the sea.”

Utah based wilderness rambler Mike Coronella recently posted to the Abbeyweb about an interesting find just outside the southwestern section of Arches National Park. I appreciate him allowing me to repost his account and photo:

“The area in question is very jagged; the edge of a massive upthrust, the layers are exposed leaving the harder ones protruding up into the sky, very cool, very colorful. I was able to get to a high point just as the rain started; I could see down the cliff line on the west side of Moab Canyon and the grand valley–and the far end was obliterated by rain. I could hear thunder far off, and to the east, where I could clearly see through one of the Window Arches, the rain was starting to encroach. I was certainly in a place that warrants a hike to see; the view was exceptional, despite the coming storm.”

Looking down at his feet, he noticed some large pieces of chert forming letters that spelled

According to Mike, they were “obviously put down a long time ago, judging from the way the dirt was around them.”

As much as I’d be thrilled to hear of an original “Abbey” somewhere in the wilds, I’m a little skeptical of this being one of them. Seems a bit grandiose for Abbey. A more subtle inscription like the well known Everett Ruess “nemo” or “nemo1934″ would be more convincing. Then again, the man did drive a red Cadillac convertible around, occasionally tossing beer cans out the window, so he could definitely be ostentatious. The “believers” have also been quick to point out other examples of this sort of behavior: pissing into the abyss, rolling tires into a crater outside Albuquerque, then poring gasoline on them and setting them ablaze fire, shooting flaming arrows off the lip of the North Rim into Grand Canyon, rolling boulders off cliffs and into canyons, etc.

I don’t believe any of these examples necessarily indicates he’d make a large geoglyph of his name. These other actions either weren’t in the wilderness, weren’t lasting or easily detectable for very long. You wouldn’t have known the boulder was rolled off by a human. You’d never know he pissed off into the canyon.

But perhaps the key reason I don’t think it’s Abbey is that he always struck me as someone that avoided bringing unnecessary attention to himself. Even his most jarring “letters to the editor” were not meant to draw attention to himself but to an issue. Or to expose a lie. Like I said, I could see a small inscription that would most likely never be found, but something you could see from a plane? Don’t think so.

Looks like a fan tribute to me.

Larger resolution image is here. Mike’s photo stream on Flickr is here.

Mike Coronella is also the co-author of The Hayduke Trail, published in 2005 by The University of Utah Press.

My garden looks like a jungle and the harvest is what I’d call “decent.” Not what I wanted, but then again, the jury is still out. I say “jungle,” because the tomato plants are six feet tall. A little too leafy, though, and while there are dozens of tomatoes on the vine, they’re not ripening fast enough for my anxiously awaiting salad bowl and stomach. The cherry tomatoes are the exception. I’ve harvested hundreds of those little jewels along with about two dozen cucumbers. What a thrill it is to walk into the house with hands full of fresh produce!

The romaine lettuce harvest has been over for some time. It’s a cool weather plant, so when we started hitting the high eighties and nineties, the plants too a slumber. I’ve allowed them to go to seed.

The peppers, as expected, are loving the heat. I have more than I can possibly use.

Another 100 degree day forecasted for the lower Delta today, with humidity around 75%. Typical late summer, delta heat. Leave your seersucker trousers and starched white oxford cloth shirts in the closet. Take the straw boater if you must, but better yet, get a good Panama hat.

Even the nights are hot, although delightfully punctuated by the song of the cicadas, and the evening dance of lightening bugs. The garden orb weaving spider regularly harvests insects in her carefully made web, strategically positioned between the light adjacent to the back door and a old fence pole where the hummingbird feeders hang. Two brown bats circle above the chimney, helping keep the resident mosquito population at bay.

Sitting on the patio, I imagine I’m Ben Quick, in The Long Hot Summer, and sip on a mojito made with fresh mint from the garden. I think of what it must have been like to sit on the front porch of one of those big old plantation houses, staring down a row of oaks decorated with hanging Spanish moss. Of what it means to be a Southerner, to be connected to this bloody soil. A beautiful land marred by its proud but undeniably pestilent history. It’s a contemplative evening seemingly alone, as there are no humans, but very much not alone since I’m in a place full of all sorts of life.

The inside is quieter than outside. No sounds but the ceiling fan motor and an occasional bump caused by its uneven rotation. A candle burns on the coffee table. The stereo is tuned to NPR, and my faithful but increasingly lazy dog sleeps under a table covered with photos of my family. They’re all gone, visiting here and there, enjoying the last drops of affordable crude.

Finally, my mind, as it normally does, drifts West. I ponder a life along a stream in New Mexico, in the foothills of the Gila. Tomatoes are replaced by cacti. The cicada and orb weaving spider are replaced by the Collared lizard and the tarantula. There’s no humidity, only dry, bone searing heat. But as I grow older I realize, more and more, that us humans are connected to place, and that I am deeply connected to this place, the South. It’s hard to leave, but why? What keeps me here in this hotbed of Bible-thumping conservatism, racism and violence?

It’s home and has been home for at least five generations on both sides of the family. I know this place. I know the plants, the animals, the weather patterns, the streets, the trails, the sounds and smells. Nearly all of my memories are from here, and even if I left, I feel that it would never really let me go. It would always call me back, and I could never forget or ignore the sounds, the smells and the feel of this sensuous, steamy, beautiful place.

(originally published on my savethewetland.org site)

It’s gone.

That’s right. Gone. The wetland is gone.

A few trees remain, but the vast majority of the wetland is nothing but mud and the scraggy remains of the trees that once stood there. Also gone are the homes of various species that inhabited this place, gone forever so humans can once again blithely go about the business of making money, regardless of the cost.

Under the cover of darkness, in the wee hours of Saturday morning, a crew (terrorists) rolled in with their weapons of mass destruction and basically plowed the place under.

Imagine the scene.

Sleeping soundly, a mother Redwing blackbird is alerted by the sound of human voices. Suddenly there’s the roar of a big Cat, as in a Caterpillar Forest Machine, ripping through the wetland, snapping trees like toothpicks. The 68,000 pound behemoth slowly moves forward, crushing everything in its path, turtles, frogs, rodents, moving ever closer to the mother’s nest.

Panicked and terrified, she can do nothing but cover her babies with her wings and call out.

But to whom?

There’s no one there to help, to stop the vortex of death from moving ever closer until it finally envelops her home.

The nest falls and so do the young. They land, still alive, only to be crushed seconds later as the big Cat moves backward to adjust its trajectory.

The mother has flown to another tree where she waits and waits for a chance to find her young.

But they, and the wetland, are gone.

Standing outside of the newly erected fence, I survey the destruction. It’s eerily quiet. Raindrops fall on my shoulder and roll down my sleeve as I adjust my camera and try to focus. Both the lens and my mind. Traffic whizzes by and a Memphis police car slows as it passes me. The officer gives me a long glance and then turns away.

It looks like a bomb went off. It’s ugly, twisted and contorted. Seemingly devoid of life. Prominent and proudly displayed are a new fence with a sign that says

DANGER
CONSTRUCTION SITE
STAY OUT

No shit, Sherlock.

Further down the fence are more signs. One has an architect’s rendering of what the “new and improved” site will look like. Another lists the names of the responsible parties. Real, bona fide terrorists.

Too harsh? Ridiculous? Not really. People that destroy irreplaceable natural areas via duplicitous, often illegal, commingled arrangements between private enterprise and government are terrorists. They terrorize not only the voiceless, the non-humans that once called that place home, but also the citizens of the community. It’s senseless, unnecessary destruction for profit, where fat cat developers, financiers and select cadre of elite’s benefit at the expense of others.

Rich folks, preparing to get richer, even if it means destroying a non-replaceable, community resource. And of course there’s the politicians, striving daily to establish and cement (literally) their legacy.

You’ll get to see them after the project is completed. They’ll be standing there in all their glory, cutting ribbons, shaking hands and posing for the best camera angles while the media fawns over them.

I hope a flock of Redwing blackbirds flies over and drops a deserved dose of well placed excretions.

So, the wetland is gone. Maybe not forever, though, since the Mississippi might one day reclaim that spot. Perhaps our scar upon the land is only temporary and will be washed away and healed over time. Mother Nature bats last.

What next? The loss of the wetland should be an important lesson to others. Be vigilant. Wary. Know your bioregion and the areas at risk. Start working before the developers and politicos and be a voice for the voiceless. Perhaps through this loss other places can be saved.

The good news is the earth is on our side. One day soon, very soon, the single, crucial and irreplaceable element that makes all of this possible, cheap fossil fuel, will be a thing of the past. Humans will once again learn how to live in harmony with their surroundings or cease to live. We’ll relearn the critical lesson that we’re not the only species in the community, that we’re not ordained and “in charge,” with all other species relegated to some lower, less important position in our illusory hierarchy. The anthropocentric folly that makes this sort of thing possible.

So, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve tried to spend more time on Abbey related topics or things related to the Southwest. Not totally, but it’s really why I created this blog, and it’s frankly more enjoyable.

More enjoyable that politics, certainly, except that our current national mess surely has us headed the right direction. Toward a collapse of the current oppressive system and the birth of something better. Or at least we can hope.

Recent news from Salon.com and Democracy Now illustrates my point and proves, once again, why you’re wasting your time counting on Washington to right the ship.

Enthralled by the “message of hope,” or “change?”

This is, of course, the oft repeated message of the Obama Campaign and the Democratic Party. It’s ambiguous and repeated over and over again like those corporate slogans that get burned into your brain, especially if you watch too much tee-vee or listen to bad radio.

The GOP wishes it could use it as well, but that would be too insulting to the dingleberry in the White House.

It’s ambiguous and for good reason, because the true platform of the DNC is not one of “change” but of continue course.

It’s corporate sounding because the entire Democratic Party has become a corporate controlled dead end. Just like the GOP.

Salon.com and Democracy Now recently released photos of the DNC convention handbag that will be given out to attendees. It’s pictured above. Of great interest is AT&T’s logo and the fact that Obama recently voted with conservatives to grant phone companies immunity from prosecution from wiretapping. Strangely similar to 2004, when Teddy Kennedy softened his stance on federal regulation of pharmaceuticals after the pharmaceutical industry was heavily recruited by Teddy to contribute big bucks at the last convention.

It’s as blatant and brazen as someone shagging your wife (in your bed) while you’re out working in the yard.

Most people falsely believe we have rigid laws restricting financial contributions to politicians from corporations. Thanks to a nice little exemption enacted by the Federal Election Commission, which incidentally is comprised of representatives from the two major parties, unlimited funds can be given to the host committee under the bogus pretense of “promoting the convention city.” And since the last national selection, corporations have given $1.1 billion to the conventions of both parties.

The end result? Corporate executives get almost unlimited access to politicians at every level. They have booths and lavish parties, and now they get to plaster their fucking names all over the tawdry cheap plastic shit at the giveaway table. (Coca-Cola is on the back of the bag, btw.) And in the case of the telecom legislation, telecom executives and lawyers more or less wrote the bill, while representatives from the ACLU were completely excluded.

How’s that for infiltration?

It’s complete rubbish and yet another example of how complete and invasive corporate influence is in the Federal government.

Had enough yet?

What’s it going to take, seeing Air Force One covered in corporate logos like something in NASCAR? Renaming of the Presidency? “The United States Presidency, Brought To You By Halliburton.”

Kick ‘em all out. Close the doors on Washington and get involved with your local Green Party. Local governance, local economies, local food and energy production. That’s the only message of hope.

Back to the trail and to the fire tower…over and out.

Speaking of fire lookouts, the summer ‘08 edition of The Paris Review has an enjoyable piece written by Philip Connors titled “Diary of a Fire Lookout.” It’s his daily diary from a summer spent in a fire tower and cabin in The Gila National Forest in New Mexico.

Ever since I read Abbey’s Black Sun, my personal favorite Abbey work, I’ve been fascinated by fire lookouts and frequently dream about spending a summer in one, living like the bard.

It’s an interesting, short read, something I think Abbey fans will appreciate. Try to find it at the library, though. It’s $16 at the newsstand.

There’s a small section you can review on the website.

Cheers,

Thanks to Tom Keith for sending these photos and notes.

The images were produced by Tom and the photocopy (text document) is from one of Ed’s notebooks housed a the special collections department at The University of Arizona.

Pictured above (click for large resolution pic) is “Pair copulating on the left- female giving birth on right” and was from Abbey’s favorite panel.

Abbey’s notes on the Green Mask

Abbey loved rock art and frequently included his observations in his non-fiction. There are basically two types, petroglyphs and pictographs. Petroglyphs are carved or pecked into the surface, and pictographs are painted onto rock surfaces with natural pigments. Exact interpretation of these images is difficult, since the exact meaning cannot be proven, only assumed or extrapolated from ethnographic sources. The artist could have been recording a special event (the themes of sexual potency, eroticism, copulation, pregnancy and birth are abundant in Southwestern rock art), such as a ritual, a hunt or a battle, or even a natural event like a storm. Or, maybe the artist was simply saying “I was here.”

But the “why” is not nearly as important as the simple recognition that this is beautiful art. They’re valuable for their own sake.