Wednesday, November 9, 2016

On Donald Trump Winning

Whitehall, Montana       July 2016

Who will stand and fight now? Pay close attention because those are the ones who will lead us (and the Land) out of toxic waters of the mile-deep mining pit America seems hell bent to land on. Which of us snow geese will not land in those waters? Pay attention! Those are the ones to follow.

Here's a clue: the least-confortable among us will be the most likely to show the common sense and courage that we all must honor and then emulate. Rebel against the ones who will not hesitate to land in water that looks like…water? Those comfortable leaders who've already feathered their nests and see no problem with sticking to appearances? Yes. Of course, and it's always been that way and you goddam-well know it.

Here's another clue. Those real leaders are already showing us the way. I'll just leave it at Standing Rock. You want a livable world for your children? Think about it. Is an Indian still just some "chief" selling cigars to you? It apparently still is to the town fathers of Whitehall, and Whitehall--or at least Jefferson County where Whitehall exists--went heavily for Trump.

Who will seek comfortable waters of toxic waste to float their poor, weary butts on, and who will not. Who will stand and fight and who will you follow? 

Far past time to decide. The painting's been on the brick wall for long enough for those of us who need more time to process these things. What do think of white privilege now? Do you benefit from it? Be honest! What will you do?

Give the Brick Wall a fresh coat of paint? C'mon. Get real...

Follow the leader, I'd say. Evolve.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Go Bernie!

8000+ people waiting hours to see Bernie/ Missoula Montana/ May 11, 2016

Here's a little paragraph I wrote to the Bernie website I've been contributing to this last year ($27 a shot) when it asked me why I support Bernie. I don't suppose anyone will really read it there, so I thought I'd reprint it here and let five or ten other people see what they think. Ah, the internet! I suppose I should thank Al Gore for all these joys at my fingertips, but I'm still mad at him for not fighting harder the last time the media stole a presidential election. The bastards….

It's hard to express in this somewhat impersonal format how deeply I respect Bernie's efforts on our behalf. Since Reagan, most politicians bow out or wimp out long before the job is done, but Bernie is clearly the politician so many of us hope will be the prototype of the future. My main income these days is Social Security, and I figure if my children are going to have that program when they get to be my age Bernie's campaign is an excellent investment of a couple month's worth of mine now. Maybe the best thing about his (our) campaign is that he woke up so many people—especially the young--to the corporatist nature of the entrenched party and media. The latest machinations and collusions of the corporatists and the media in undermining our democratic process in the June 7 primaries—particularly in California--will never quit smelling like the rotten elk carcass in the hot sun that it is. This brand of open-air, stinking collusion between cozy elites has certainly happened before (the 2000 Bush vs Gore coup for instance) But thanks to Bernie we are finally being given a big enough voice to (maybe) shout them down this time. Maybe not yet, but the movement is building. In fact I feel it’s just the beginning and it’s entirely exciting. What choice do Us The People have but to be “clear-eyed” optimists?
Sincere thanks and…Go Bernie!

I recommend sending Bernie  donations as long as he asks for them. His donation site has about 20 progressive candidates that you can also help out with a credit card number and a push of a button. It's not the hardest thing we'll have to do in the near future, certainly not the only thing. But you can count on Bernie that every dollar you spend now is a real-time investment in your kids' and our Earth's future.

 DireWolf says:
 Get off your butts 
Don't give up 
And give til it hurts
Or your kids'll end up in a tar pit
And then go extinct.
Don't tell me I don't know!!   

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

“The time has come,” the walrus said, “to talk of many things.”

“I’ll believe a corporation is a person when Texas kills one”

A Note to Montana Democrats

All of us in rural Montana who have organized meetings and strategy sessions around issues to the left of Attila the Wall Street Speculator know the feeling when we look around the room and calculate the average age. It’s usually around 60, isn’t it?
That’s why a now-common political slur is annoying me so greatly. I won’t footnote the year’s worth of “liberal” talking heads who’ve repeated it in one form or another, so I’ll just distill down to its simple essence:
People are pissed because the Wall Street crooks got away with their heist, so they’re supporting “extreme” protest candidates like Trump and Sanders.
It’s not that “old” progressives like myself are thin-skinned about such gratuitous dismissals coming from unexpected places. Remember Obama’s mantra “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good” when he reneged on his campaign promise for a “public option”, when majorities of Montanans were showing up at Baucus’ dog-and-pony shows demanding healthcare reform not health insurance reform and the Democratic elites responded by substituting one Rube-Goldberg-get-rich-quick scheme for the already-rich with another? Cutting off the legs of your base after you get their votes with the rallying cry of “what choice do they have!” has been common scheme for Democrats in power for a long, long time. So “old” progressives like myself aren’t surprised with backhanded dismissals from “the center” when we are no longer seen as useful. We’re used to it. But guess what? All those young people whom Bernie has finally engaged, whom the Democratic Party needs so desperately to remain a viable movement as well as a party, aren’t.
This election cycle is, if it’s nothing else, different, and Montana Democrats are in a uniquely favored position to appreciate that difference. The divide between those who believe that the Edge of the World where dinosaurs live with humans is just south of Darby and those who don’t believe that is as self-evident as whether your septic juices flow into the Pacific or the Atlantic. So let’s take a minute and examine this canard that those who believe a better world than incremental slides toward dystopia is possible and those who believe in the Edge of the World are peas from the same “protest-vote” pod. Ready? Go…
            …There, that didn’t take long, did it? Now let’s consider what will happen to the Democratic Party if their leaders and activists stick to and act on such mind-numbingly-incorrect analyses.
            Rudely dismissing a whole generation of young people so desperately needed for so very long in every fight Democrats claim as theirs is explicitly self-destructive. For one thing, once they’re dismissed as starry-eyed, unrealistic Trumpians of the Left, you can bet they’ll disappear, and you can talk until you’re blue in the face about how they should show up and vote for Hillary anyway, but you know a lot of them won’t, and for good reason. Worse, they won’t show up to vote for the other progressive politicians on the ticket needed to really change the chemistry in Congress and the state legislatures, the ones who’ll do the heavy lifting of taking on Wall Street, the war machine, college debt, grade-school funding, the heathcare crisis. It won’t matter then, whether their Chosen One gets coronated or not. We’ll be in same politically-dysfunctional mess we’re in now for another four, or eight more years.
Worst of all in the opinion of a progressive who’s been active in one of our small, rural towns for many years: the saddest effect of condescendingly dismissing smart young people whose political dander is finally up is that when we take stock of our tiny local progressive “activist” lists in a few years, the average age will 70.

Monday, October 5, 2015

News Flash

Note: to anyone still visiting this page since my last post, I should explain that I have been directing all of my working time on a book and have obviously been neglecting this site. Oh, well, if apologies are necessary, I do, although I’m not sure what the proper protocol for such things in our digital age are, or if such protocols even exist. But there you have it: an explanation, and a sincere thank-you for visiting this page!

Here’s a news flash. A group of American scientists have just published a study called “Functional mismatch in a bumble bee pollination mutualism under climate change”[i]
A very brief synopsis of the study is that in the last 40 years high-altitude bumblebees that used to specialize in pollinating deep-corolla flowers have evolved shorter tongues in order to become less specialized. That’s apparently because plant species are generally colonizing higher altitudes, the higher altitudes warming relatively faster than the lower ones, and so the flower mix available to the bumblebees is changing to shorter-corolla ones. In the words of the scientists:

“We see broader bumblebee foraging niches, immigration by short-tongued bumblebees, and shorter tongue length within resident bee populations as floral resources have dwindled,” and “In remote mountain habitats—largely isolated from habitat destruction, toxins, and pathogens—evolution is helping wild bees keep pace with climate change.”

So, at least in the protected high-altitude areas the scientists studied, the bumblebees have had a chance to evolve to meet the challenges of a warming climate. The flowers? I’d guess that maybe the long-corolla ones the bumblebees favored will develop shorter tubes, or maybe they’ll slowly get crowded out by their cousins moving in from below. If they do survive, the relationship between the flowers and the bumblebees will be forever changed, which is kind of like a death in the family, or a divorce, and is sad enough. In either case, in the face of what we are doing to their planet, species still have their best chances in the last-remaining protected habitats.

Furthermore, this new knowledge was essentially the result of 40 years of data collection and study, and the data is just now being observed, understood and published. What else is out there that we don’t know about?

Wilderness is “so sixties”? I don’t think so.

(Common Dreams has a good short article on this study[ii])

Thursday, April 2, 2015

On Toads Singing Unexpected Songs

Petroghlyph Lake, Hart Mountain National Wildlife Refuge, Southeastern Oregon

If you’re ever on a jaunt in Southeastern Oregon and driving down Highway 20, stop in for gas and a Hampton Burger at the Hampton store. The store is located along an ancient trade route that the People used to travel to reach Celilo Falls, where they would meet in truce to socialize and to trade with the coastal and river peoples, salmon for obsidian, seashells for slaves. That community, at Celilo Falls, has been there for ten thousand years, and is the oldest known site continuously inhabited by human beings on the North American continent. Hampton Store, for its part, is just a little north of Glass Butte, which has been one of the main sources of trade obsidian for the People throughout the region from time immemorial, and for that reason alone it’s worth your while to grab a Hampton Burger on your way through. The burger, if not immemorial, is big and relatively cheap, and the gas, if the owner happens to have five gallons that day to sell you, is your last chance until you reach Riley, forty miles further east down the desert road.
            You’ll know you’re in Riley as soon as you’re able to read the homemade sign that says “Whoa you missed Riley!” Like Hampton, it’s another one-store town, and probably has good burgers, too. But Riley, unlike Hampton, was in the national news recently by virtually the only way a desert town like Riley ever makes the national news, by archeologists who have unearthed an interesting thing. At an excavation site nearby called Rimrock Draw Rock Shelter a scraper was found, under a layer of ash from an eruption of Mt. St. Helens that occurred almost 16,000 years ago, long before the Clovis people supposedly graced the North American continent with the human species. These archeologists have yet to go through the meticulous and critical peer-review process that Science rightfully hangs its hat on, but they plan to, and in the meantime Logic, a softer branch of science not necessarily limited to peer-review, opines that since the scraper was underneath the 16,000-year-old ash, there’s a good chance that it’s older.
            Scientific knowledge is, by definition, incomplete and will always remain so. At one point Science tells us that humans have been on the continent a mere 13,000 years despite what the First People say about their having been here forever. Then it tells us, no, make that 16,000 years, or maybe 20,000 or 50,000, but not forever. And so on, which is the necessary, peer-reviewed language of Science. This makes it a poor substitute for Earth Wisdom, but it’s the only one we have for jumpstarting ourselves down the path toward the kind of knowledge we so desperately seek and need right now, the kind of wisdom that’s taken so for granted by those who have known and understood it by virtue of the simple fact that they and theirs had been around these parts long enough to hear it, to know it, and to understand it.  
But as our Science wends its way with us in tow, I think I see it heading toward a slow and reluctant intersection with that Earth Wisdom that will tell us, Indeed! Coyote did it, or something else equally un-peer-reviewable, and by the time it gets to that inevitable point it will be called something other than Science, and we are going to have to deal with its new name, which in our contemporary parlance may end up being called Humility, and that’s going to be hard, very hard indeed.
It’s not a contradiction, though. Rather, the realization that this intersection is about to occur is nothing if not a perfect opportunity for us to critically measure a few delusions we suffer under in these times, the trite and dreary songs we hear repeated so much these days, of how we should either deny outright the mess we’ve made or, equally obnoxious, of how we can mentally twist or geo-engineer our way out of the consequences we have created for ourselves and our world. In a modern sense, the recognition of this intersection is counter-intuitive, seditious if you are one of those who lean toward the ever-trendy fascist persuasions we seem to inflict ourselves with such sickening regularity, but there it is. I’ll try to explain.
            The Blitzen River drains the backside of Steens Mountain in Southeastern Oregon, which is the magnificent mountain for those of us who love mountains. It’s forty miles long and rises in sheer drama over a mile above the Alvord Desert, one of the driest places in America. The small river, as well as the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge which it flows into, owes its riparian existence to the snowmelt coming from the high country off of this one, single mountain, and that is phenomenon enough. But go ten vertical feet above the surface of the river’s riffles and you’re back in the desert, and it was here I heard a toad high up in the dry, basalt talus that defines the river’s desert canyon when I camped along it last week. It seemed unusual, to hear a water-prone animal in such a place. But more unusual still was her voice, modulated in cadence and tone unlike the monotonous chirpings we tend to expect from toads, as though she were literally singing to the mountain behind her. I was sure that, contrary to the majority of life forms we share the Earth with whom we know nothing about, most animals who insist on being so vocal have been tagged with a genus and species by now, and that this toad probably had one of each. I knew that there were those who could identify her just from her voice and even say a few more interesting things about her. I could even climb up the talus myself and make the intrusive identification. But I satisfied myself with standing still and listening until I heard another toad answering from the river, also singing, and this was a cause for wonder, not just at what I imagined they might be saying but at those new-baked academics among us who would respond to Global Warming by claiming that we modern humans know enough about the Earth now to not only understand what this toad is singing, but to “manage” her in a garden of our own purpose. Not to worry, they say. It's all good.
Ironically, Steens Mountain is named after the Army major who chased the Paiutes— those who probably could tell us exactly what our toads were singing—off the mountain. But that’s just irony. The point is, the toads are still there, singing to the mountain which has also been there long enough to understand.
             This experience repeated itself in reverse when I got back to town after my camping trip. The milk I'd left in my refrigerator had “gone cultural”, which in this case meant that the various microorganisms, some of which scientists have labeled as such and some of which they hadn’t, had matured. It was the consistency of cottage cheese, and after my jaunt through the drama that is the naked geology of Southeastern Oregon (no trees to get in the way of your geology) I thought this milk smelled unique, unlike anything I’ve ever quite smelled before in my many decades of experimentation, and I found it interesting. But at the same time I knew that action was needed if I were to have my morning coffee the way I wanted it, and so I went shopping. When I got to the checkout area I was presented with a choice: interaction with a human being, who had a waiting line, or with a checkout machine, who didn’t. Being caffeine-deprived and therefore impatient, I chose the latter, and as the mechanical woman’s voice thanked me ever so much in her modulated tone programmed to sound like...a singing toad!...I received that dystopian jolt we all experience from time to time no matter how much we deny its existence, the realization that we have not only successfully trained ourselves off of the toad’s song but that we are allowing those who think only in one-and-two-dimensional terms to use infernal, ubiquitous, even automated insults--with our active acquiescence, mind you--to train us off of ourselves. I was sorry, for the toads at least, because of the question this all presumes. If there’s none among us who are at the stage of Earth Wisdom where they can say with any measure of accuracy what it is that talus-bound toad has been singing to the Mountain for a million years, and if Science can't get us there--which it can't--then who among us can presume to claim we know enough not to be humble, and to therefore not leave the toad's world as alone as we possibly can while we meander down our own tedious course of learning to listen?


Poker Jim Wilderness rising above canoe route through the lakes of Warner Basin, Fourth Year of Drought
Southeastern Oregon

 Petroglyphs Lake, Fourth year of drought, Hart Mountain National Wildlife Refuge

Petroglyph Lake

Alkali Butte area in vicinity of Mary Harris' gravesite, Meek's Cutoff, Oregon Trail

Blitzen River, Southeastern Oregon

SunriseWarner Basin, Southeastern Oregon