Tag: Extinction

Posting Bail

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Ignacio Manteca


Humans are being bought and sold this morning. I’ve placed a bid on one, but we’ll have to wait and see how it comes out. I’m having trouble with the messaging systems. 

A voicemail is heard in Ramah — lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone. I suspect the children of Leah, (Rachel’s sister-wife), and Bilhah and Ziphah, (the handmaidens), are gone as well. 

So damn gone. Pushed down the slick, disgusting slope of vengeful, wrongful incarceration. Deportation. So much money to be made. Phone calls prepaid by the broken.

There are too few places to put my rage. In the back seat of the old, malfunctioning car? At the borders that define us? In the pocket of the officer who lied about the handcuffs? 

It’s easy to be indignant from a distance and then order dessert. Tempting to wash my hands of this murky, oily, filth and focus on harvesting carrots. This evening, we can yuck it up about, oh, I don’t know. Privilege? Wokeness?

And this God Thing. 

Maligned, manipulated, ridiculous. Should we wash our hands of it, too? Would we behave any better if we had no fall guy? No excuse?

“Thing,” I scream. “Are you paying attention?”
“Trying to,” Thing mumbles. “Got a black eye. Dislocated shoulder. Bleeding.”
“Stop bleeding! There’s a cleaning fee.”
“Got no money.”
“They’ll go after your spouse and children.”
“Got no spouse.”
“They’ll beat it out of you.”
“Got no body.”
“Just stop bleeding. The sight of your misery makes us sick.”

Thing raises its piercing eyes to mine. “Don’t stop looking. You’re meant to see.”
“Oh, I see, all right. I see the idolatry of young girls with golden hair.”

Thing sighs.
 I continue.

“Some fucked up stuff is being done in your various names.”
“I have no name.”
“Well, they’ve named you some horrific names.”
“I’m beyond your alphabets.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re using you to justify war. Cruelty. Wealth.”
“So, I should just disappear? Wrap things up and move my concept along?”
“Yeah, I think so. It would be better.”

Thing shakes its head.

“Then who will suffer with you?”
“We can do that by ourselves.”
“Bad idea. And impossible.”

Thing puts its fractured arms around me.
Splinters slice my flesh.
Tears roll down our cheeks.

We mourn the hatred.
We mourn the debasement.
We mourn the children.

“We have to stop crying,” I say. 
“They’ll see that we’re weak. They’ll hurt us.”

“I know,” Thing says. “Cry anyway.”

Eyes For Eyes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive. –Albert Einstein

Little Ralphie slugged Little Lana in the stomach, and she fell. He punched her in the face and broke her nose. Blood spurted. She curled inward. He kicked and stomped on her leg. She screamed.

Adult responses:

  1. Yank Little Ralphie up and commence beating him.
  2. Drag Little Ralphie to the edge of town and stone him.
  3. Castrate Little Ralphie so he cannot reproduce his own kind.
  4. Let Little Lana do to Ralphie what was done unto her.
  5. Lock Little Ralphie up and while starving him to death, fine his parents, and give the money to Little Lana.

But wait. Little Ralphie had found Little Lana using a cattle prod on his beloved grandfather. Little Lana was howling with laughter as the grandfather twitched in his wheelchair and cried out for help. While torturing him, Little Lana taunted the grandfather. “You’re a worthless, helpless pile of shit. Pathetic. I hate you.”

Adult responses:

  1. Grab the cattle prod and begin shocking Little Lana.
  2. Cage Little Lana up.
  3. Sterilize Little Lana so she cannot produce children like herself.
  4. Roll the grandfather to a safe place and then shake Little Lana to death.
  5. Rape Little Lana to put her in her place.

But wait. Little Lana has already been raped. Repeatedly. By the grandfather, of course. And he’d just tried to pull her onto his lap, calling her his favorite slut, whispering that he was going to sell her to his neighbor. He said he had pictures of her woo-woo and she’d bring a decent price.

Adult responses:

Make a violent, erotic movie about the whole sequence. Wring hands. Donate to a charity. Introduce tariffs on pornography, fentanyl, and wheelchairs. Sell more guns. Fantasize living on another planet. Rape the grandfather.

Bam

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this whacked out,” my Coauthor observes.

“Is extermination the correct adult response to our species?” I snarl.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Remember, you’re just illusions of organized molecules,” Coauthor smiles.

“And sometimes, you’re just a Bad Idea.” I turn away. “This illusion of molecules is going to distract herself with something beautiful.”

“Excellent!” Bad Idea exclaims. “I’ll come with you.”

We kneel in the garden where a tulip has bloomed blood red and watch molecules shaped like Little Ralphie and Little Lana care for their offspring. I scream the names of the Baby Gods dead in Gaza and dread the adulthood of those who survive.

Methane continues to escape from the warming permafrost. Bullets fly. Bombs drop. Idiots rule. I dissipate into a momentary dream of justice. My Coauthor dissipates with me. Therein lies my only hope.

Oil and Gas: Nectar of the Gods

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Millions of years ago, on this evolving planet, tiny animals and plants died, sank to the bottom of the swampy waters, and were gradually pressurized into coal, oil, and other nasty-seeming substances.

Quite recently (in geologic time) humans began to play with fire and found it helped to stay warm and cook food. Not long after that, we discovered that digging, drilling, refining, and combusting those nasty substances provided astonishing amounts of energy.

Soon, basketballs, varnish, nylon tents, plastic bottles, airplanes, asphalt, and cozy homes began to seem a birthright for many of us. Even though it’s now obvious that extracting, refining, and burning these nonrenewable deposits of ancient life is dangerous, destructive, and ultimately deadly, we can’t seem to stop.

“Nice summary,” God says. “Though a tad simplified.”

“Fine,” I say. “Go ahead and complexify, God. You always do.”

God offers me an apple and leans back into the gathering clouds.

“I got my first doctorate in chemistry,” he says. “Technically, you should call me Dr. God. But I’m not hung up on titles.”

“Right. Or maybe I should call you Dr. Denial,” I say. “I got my first doctorate in psychology, and you are diagnosable.”

“That’s rich!” God chuckles. “Isn’t your diagnostic system just a primitive description of being alive? Coping?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But there are better or worse ways to cope. You seem to cope by rolling the dice a lot. And we’re the dice.”

“Vegas, baby,” God jokes, rubbing his hands. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I say. “Not funny.”

God grins. “Fine. Actually, nothing that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You probably don’t know this about me, but I bathe in untouched oil reserves. I rub Myself with chunks of coal and float in pockets of natural gas. They let me be. I let them be. I love what they were and where they are, but you should leave them alone. They’re not worth the gamble.”

“That horse has left the barn,” I say.

“Oh, I know,” God says. “I got my second doctorate in statistics with a dissertation on probability.”

“So, with our selfish, exploitive, nature, we’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Likely,” God nods, then adds, “I often root for the underdog, but it doesn’t look promising. I’m working on my third doctorate. It’s in theology. I’m exploring the concept of black holes and infinity, and I’m totally transfixed. Want to be on my examining committee?”

“I think I already am,” I say.

“I knew that,” God says with a big grin. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Naked in the End

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

You will be happy to know the accent wall is now midnight blue, the ladder-backed chair rescued from the dump, lime green, gold, maroon, and yellow, and though my life has not gotten noticeably better, I used recycled paint, so there are five fewer dented cans awaiting resurrection in the basement. They are empty. I’m happy. I’m drinking the leftover Malbec wine for breakfast, but I would prefer dark beer. We must all make sacrifices.

Among the things set free by the storm last night are five rotten cottonwoods, one majestic willow, and twenty-six irrigation pipes rattled loose from their line of duty and sent tumbling dangerously through the darkened sky. Those of us left behind have accepted the fact that we will not be able to save the planet by ourselves. The wind has agreed to help but at great cost. Millions of unwilling children have lined up along the shoreline hoping for food. The tide will rise and take them. Their elders will follow. Millions of other species have unwittingly signed on for extinction, simply by being themselves—ugly, simple, and in the way.

For a while, we will fight to save the pandas, the owls, and the wealthy; the beautiful and those who make us laugh. I, for one, will write words infused with angry sympathy for those born into suffering, born with few options, those who then hate, radicalize, and destroy. The war games continue.

I kick at the shins of God, trying to wake them up. This cannot be the Original Intention. I am a foolish Cinderella. They are a flimsy Prince Charming. I am Jack. They are the Giant. I plant magic beans. They are the purveyors of binder weed and quack grass. I install solar panels. They are the sun and patchy morning fog. They are the good witch, the man behind the curtain, the placebo effect. They are a modest chemical reaction, and we are atoms splitting, cloaked in a thick shawl we’ve drawn over our shoulders, thinking it was pure merino wool. It is not. It is denial. I have considered freezing to death instead of protecting myself with lethal and selfish lies. When souls stand naked in the end, truth will be the only shelter. Not power. Not possessions. Not beauty. Not brilliance. Truth is always grounded in humility, compassion, and sacrifice. Sometimes, to practice, I wear clothes thinned to threads by others and endure the brutally cold light for as long as I can.

The Dance

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

Sometimes, I don’t get along with the co-author of this blog all that well. We argue, give each other the silent treatment, and land low blows, but then we usually find our way to uncomfortable compromises. It isn’t exactly quiet desperation, but close. We’re like the gruesome twosome in the couples counseling literature—together for the long haul, though there are days it isn’t pretty. Arguing with God is a thankless task and there is scant evidence it does much good, but what are the alternatives? Eat curses and enemies for breakfast with loaded guns across our laps? Slide blithely toward extinction? Give shallow thanks for our short-sighted blessings, imagined or real? Die alienated, resentful, or afraid? No.

For instance, this morning I say, “Hear my prayers, oh mighty and all-knowing God.” (I only start this way when I’m in a certain mood.) “I implore you to move most of earth’s population to other planets. Provide everyone with birth control, shelter, and nutritious food. Let the artists do art. Let the lovers love. Let the earth recover its incredible balance. Disable all weaponry. Learn an instrument and play for us every evening. Sing for us every morning, and at noon, dance. Amen.”

My co-author responds. “Hear my suggestions, oh puny human,” she says. “Feed the hungry. Provide shelter and comfort to one another. Limit your offspring. Visit those who are ill or imprisoned. Give cheerfully and pay your taxes willingly. Elect rulers with integrity and compassion. Stop relying on that which is nonrenewable. Stop using poisons and short-cuts. Stop using weapons. Stop acting like you own the place. You’re just passing through. Learn an instrument and play for us every evening. Sing for us every morning, and at noon, dance. Selah.”

Our longings are similar, but we disagree about who’s responsible. Many of us can’t even carry a tune. Who should take the lead?  

“Not me,” God says. “I’ve already given you all you need.”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Of course you’d say that,” God says, in a firm mother’s voice. “You’ve made a royal mess. Clean your room.”

“I would,” I claim, shamefaced. “But I don’t know which one’s mine.”

“Doesn’t matter,” God says. She hands me a dust cloth, a mop, a broom, knee pads, a toolkit, water bottles…

“Stop!” I say, “I already have all that stuff.”

God grabs a can of oven cleaner. “Then let’s get going,” she says. “I need time to practice. I’m combining tap with some exquisite break-dance moves for my next performance.”

This is a great motivator. I love watching God dance, her muscular body supple and yielding, her hair snapping like lightning. Sometimes, she invites the universe to be her partner, and spectacular forces shape themselves to her. Sometimes, she dances solo. Either way, it is magnificent. I gather rags and rubber gloves, and away we go. I’m not sure what, but something will be shiny clean by noon.

Body Snatching

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Today, I painted the fingernails on the plastic hand that I bought at an estate sale last summer. Apparently. the hand fell off of a mannequin into the pocket of an older individual who took it home. Who knows why? The daughter was selling everything, and I didn’t blame her. Her inheritance was mostly junk, though I did get a nice brass lamp and some decent pillowcases along with the hand. The graceful curl of these fingers reminds me of my mother’s hands. She kept her shapely nails immaculate, and on very special occasions, she painted them red. Mine were always chipped. This bothered her.

I have other projects, too. So many meaningful activities, it’s hard to choose among them. I’ve already answered emails, done Facetime with a friend, texted God twice, and eaten half of a pumpkin pie. Soon, I’ll take care of some other dreaded items on my list. But first, I need to gather myself in my dim navigational mirror and chart my way. God’s answer to my first text was garbled and long, filled with comically misspelled words. Essentially, it said “Hang on a bit longer, little buddy. I’m gathering fallen leaves, breathing over the surface of a thousand planets, and birthing stars. I wish I could bring you with me, but you must stay put. I’ll circle back.”

“Wait,” I texted back. “WAIT.”

I’m not sure what one does with a waiting God, but I didn’t need to figure that out because God refused. “No,” God texted. “You’re the one who has to wait.”

I know the fog will burn off, only to gather again, storms will rage, subside, and rage. The eternal is comprehensible only to a broken man lying on the side of the road–and only for a moment.

I am bereft of mother and father, bereft of a God that will submit to containment and do my bidding. But while I can, I will name the hatreds so hot, so wrong, they are burning holes in the fabric of hope. When I’m at my best, I, too, wait broken on the side of the road, and as darkness gathers, I, too, look up and see the cold light of stars—ancient light that has made its way over terrain I cannot imagine. As the sure and final darkness falls, I hope I will remember to pry my fists open and paint my broken nails florescent red. And then, when God circles back, I hope I’ll wave my fancy fingers like a shameless fool; defenseless and overjoyed.