Collected Writing

Pulga Chronicles

IMG_8054.JPG

Tetra Tec and Ceres are the names of the debris removal companies. Global warming will awaken the super heroes and goddesses to assist in these calamitous events.

We watch the comings and goings of the workers. We offer them coffee and we show them around the town. Its a whole cast of characters and Betsy knows them all, learns their names, keeps track of their affiliations and what they are here to do, what tools they have, how long they are going to be working out here for. The clean up and the debris removal, the workers and the oversight- the tribal monitor looking for grinding stones- Betsy- fed up and overworked-looking always cute in some bikini top and polka dot hair scarf. She is quite something. 

The heat and the faint smell of fire in the morning.

The dogs and their sweetness, the quiet in the morning. 

The hammock in the night after a bit of mushroom tea and the walnut tree above me- electrified and quivering in the wind. Lit from beneath by the town lights and the way that everything feels like we are children playing. Children die, children have sex. Children build things and children take them apart.

The train song and how it piles up in the canyon- getting closer and closer until it fills up the world. A clacking racket that seems to come from somewhere far away- a hellish place- a place of human folly- of hubris and devilish momentum-  the sound of sex and acceleration- of desire and great distances- the sound of the end of the world. The train makes a whirring inside- the body twists against its cry, the whistle and the clacking, grindings of its song. Thrown against this wall of sound. I spin against the ropes of the hammock and laugh in that maniacal mushroom way. I am laughing at the sins of my forefathers, I am laughing at the horror of the train in the wilderness, taking and returning, sliding as if through time itself. Through earth, through stone so old, a grinding clacking takes the train up the canyon. 

The train is a relic and a missive from the future. The train and I accelerate and then come to a halt- whirring as it stands still, just past the obscenity of my cackling pleasure. It seems a born disguise for cries of climax. The night laughs softly with me- in the manner of trees and winds and water falling down over rocks. For a long time- water that falls down and makes itself into canyons and eats up cities in the future, eats and sucks and makes soft our bones of steel. The world collapsing, and we are sharing a quiet and low down laugh. The laugh of orgasm, of mania, of tipping over into the upending of history- of teleology undone. Mountains laid low, forests burnt to the cinders, the insides of the earth in a  rippling stream of plastics, confetti that falls to the earth with the snow. The toys of children, the convenience of grab and go, the profusion of choice. Overwhelming and nonsensical- we are in the middle of a horror movie- we are standing at the edge of a precipice in the dark- we are upside down and sideways- we have no gravity- we are children dying before we even know what death is. We are fundamentally taken by surprise. 

This is how it will feel- over and over again- as if the knowledge of what we have set in motion- of what the Anthropocene really is- will continue to be a surprise. An infant playing peek-a-boo, we thought that the status we had conferred upon our animal selves- enlightened and separate from nature-wild, innocent, pure, and malleable to our wills- meant that we were in control. Surprise! Boo! 

The Boat House, Pulga CA August 2019