Sometimes you need breaks even from the things you love most, from the things that define you. It’s baffling. But it happens. And it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.
For most of my life, up until a couple of years ago, I read every night in bed, pretty much without fail. If I didn’t read one night, it was because I was extremely tired or drunk or (when I was much younger) stoned, but even then, out of habit, I’d usually open up whatever book I was reading and get through at least a page or a paragraph or even just a sentence or two before conking out.
This continued until about two and a half years ago, when I suddenly just stopped. I still can’t tell you exactly why, because I myself don’t completely know, but it happened; I completely stopped reading novels in bed, and started playing ipad games or browsing online news instead. It wasn’t the games or the news that made me stop, to be honest. I had just stopped, and then I allowed those things to fill the vacuum. Eventually my wife started commenting on it, and I would acknowledge that I should be reading a book instead of staring at my ipad, but my head just couldn’t get into any book. I did resume reading in fits and starts, but nowhere near as much as I had been before. I think I probably read, oh, maybe a novel every six or nine months for those two and a half years. I’m naturally a slow reader, but that was extreme even for me!
And now, suddenly, beginning just month or so ago, I’m reading again.
I don’t know why. I suppose I could try to psychoanalyze myself and go into some very personal and autobiographical stuff here as to what happened, but the short of it, I think, is that trauma and ptsd played a big part in the why of my long hiatus from reading, and it seems that perhaps now, through processing grief, my fairly recent realization of just how short life is has gradually brought books and stories, and the desire to make them part of me, back into my consciousness, until I’ve suddenly felt a need to read again. In short, I think maybe I was paralyzed for a while, but now I’ve woken up. If that makes sense. And so, I want to spend what time I have left focusing on the people and things that are important to me. And reading books is one of them.
Anyway. I’m saying all this is because perhaps something inside you occasionally might need a break from reading, or whatever it is you’re in the habit of doing and which you wish you were still doing, and that’s why you are spending so much time watching youtube, scrolling through facebook or instagram or tiktok or whatever, playing games, watching tv, doing busywork, reading the news more than you really need to, staring at your navel, etc etc. It happens. Everyone needs downtime. Everyone needs breaks for various reasons.
So don’t beat yourself up if you happen to have stopped doing something you love for a while. It doesn’t mean your brain is rejecting reading or books or whatever else it is that you consider, for you personally, to be healthy and constructive; whatever those things are, they are clearly things you love deeply and always will. It simply means your brain and heart need time to reset and/or sort something out, perhaps on a deep, subconscious level. You just need time to let your subconscious mind unravel the knots. There is nothing wrong with you. I promise.
I tell you what though, I am very happy to be reading regularly again. It soothes the soul… and that reminds me of some advice a man I greatly admire once gave me: “Take a deep breath and read. It’ll calm you.”
A few weeks ago, while I was up at the open mic, someone asked me what I was like in high school, what sort of stuff I was into, etc. It took me a minute to respond. It’s not that I don’t remember; as with most people, I bet, some of my most vivid memories are from when I was a teenager, especially starting around the age of fifteen. It’s an age that concretes your sense of individuality, to say the least. But I hadn’t thought about it in a while, so it took me a moment to answer.
What was I like in high school? Hmmm. Well, I think I was a more positive, confident person back then, especially starting sometime in the 10th grade. I was lucky, though, to go to a really great school. It was a public school, but its focus was on academics (rather than football or something like that), and you had to have a B average to even get in, so most of the kids tended to spend at least a some of their time head-in-book, even if it was just to cram for some test or other. There also weren’t really any of what you might call bullies and hoodlums. Not while I was there, anyway. Part of the reason for this was the school’s relatively small size; when I graduated, there were only about 400 students across all 4 grades (9-12), and my graduating class only had 88 members I believe. The majority of the teachers loved their jobs and had a passion for teaching, so it was an inspiring place that allowed us to blossom. There were of course plenty of teenage challenges to overcome.
What was I into? I had a tight-knit group of friends from about year 10 on. Prior to that, I had a couple of close friends from the neighborhood, and plenty of school acquaintances, but it was in high school that my social life exploded, same as with most people. We did everything together, especially after we one by one got our drivers licenses. I didn't own a car, but my parents had two, so were able to let me use one of them on occasion. My friends and I were into camping, music, swordfighting, Renaissance festivals, creative writing, dinners at each other's houses, taking long drives in the countryside, getting up to no good in terms of substances and shenanigans and whatnot. But we weren't really into alcohol at all (though my brother and a neighbourhood friend and I were, especially when I was 13-15, though we never were idiots about it… well, maybe a little hehe), and we tended to maintain a modicum of common sense in general. We were nice kids, empathetic, mutually supportive. I was, however, told years later by a classmate that we were “pretty cliquey”. That took me aback. Perspective is strange though.
What was I like in high school? I was terrible at math and science (because of being terrible at math). I did well in English, despite the weird topics I tended to freewrite about. I guess my essay-writing skills made up for those.
I remember this one time, some friends and I were hanging out in some place, um... I think it was this place that used to exist called Derryl's. Or maybe it was the Loveless Cafe. Not sure. Anyways, my buddy Shawn gets this bright idea to tip out all the black pepper into a pile on the table in front of him (we were still waiting for our food; only had our drinks at that point). Then someone says something not actually very funny, but which Shawn thought was hilarious, and he guffaws and makes all that pepper go POOF all over the table and into our eyes, noses... mouths.... Fun times. It's a miracle we didn't get kicked out. That time, anyway.
What was I like in high school? I was a grumpy shit half the time, especially at home. I don’t know how my parents and brother put up with me. I was selfish, self-centered, self-conscious, and a bunch of other self- things. I meant well though, most of the time, and tried to be nice to people. I loved nature and the out-of-doors; I’m grateful that that is something that has stayed a part of me, ever since early childhood.
I was into creative writing, and even tried my hand at poetry (inspired by my big brother, no doubt). Here’s one I wrote:
When Coyotes Hunt
by Gaines Post
...And here’s another, written in 10th or 11th grade:
The Man Who Is Part of Me
by Gaines Post
So, hmmm. What was I like in high school? I am still not really sure how to answer that question. I guess I was a daydreamer. There are parts of who I was back then that have faded or are hidden from me. I wish I could get them back. Perhaps I can. Perhaps we all can.
Is there an evolutionary imperative for peace? Logic and common sense would certainly dictate as much, given the premise that war equals death and, in the nuclear age, even the potential for species-wide annihilation. But I am no logician.
I am reminded of rose bushes, and something I first learned about them from an Argentinian landscaper I met in the San Francisco Bay Area in the summer of ’95.
I was there visiting my brother, who had lived in the Haight-Ashbury district for a time before moving across the Bay to northern Oakland, just a few blocks from the Berkeley border. One of his housemates, named Jerry I believe, had been in that house for many years and cultivated a beautiful, color-coded flower garden in the back yard, grouping all the blues with the purples, the reds with the oranges, and so on. It was spectacular, especially at dusk. At the very back of the yard was a huge fig tree, in the ample shade of which was an elaborate and spacious old wooden shed. My brother helped me clear out the spiders and clitter to make it habitable, and there I slept for the next couple of months. As I write this, long-forgotten memories are coming to mind, of early morning sunlight through fig leaves above my head, just outside the window; of the complexly tendrilled fig roots that had forced their way in through the walls; of a half-destroyed spiderweb; of the vague scent of moldy wood; of shadows and beams and sleeping pads under my sleeping bag, cushioning me from the futon frame on which I slept; of stumbling past vivid colors and buzzing bees, across the small yard and into the kitchen for a mug of delicious, sacred coffee.
In the Help Wanted section of a local newspaper, I found an ad by a guy looking for a landscaping assistant. I had no experience, other than yard work around the house growing up, but it paid nine bucks an hour—a pretty generous wage back then, from my perspective—so I thought what the hell, and picked up the phone. The guy who answered was friendly, and either my timing was really lucky or he was desperate, because after asking me a few questions, he hired me right away and said he would pick me up at eight o’clock the following morning for a trial run.
I ended up helping him out whenever he had a larger job and needed an extra pair of hands. He had been a landscaper for many years, and had a ton of regular clients; most of their properties he had already built and landscaped, and just needed maintenance. He made me do all the unskilled menial tasks, like sweeping or pouring dirt or hauling rocks etc etc, while he did the stuff that required more finesse and skill. One of the first things I learned from him was that if you pick the dead rosebuds off of rose bushes, it stimulates them to flower more, and actually keeps them healthier.
So. Does killing serve that purpose in the human species? Is war a mass removal of rosebuds? I’m not positing that it is; in fact, I hope it isn’t, and I don’t believe it is. I’m just wondering.
What evolutionary imperative does war serve? Any?
What evolutionary imperative does peace serve? Any?
I once read a book that had a section about groups of Choctaw in Tennessee and Mississippi, and part of the focus was on their relationships with each other, the local deer population, and other factors. These groups were separated by forest, and in the forest were (duh) deer, so that was the humans’ hunting ground. As they killed more and more deer, they had to wander farther for game, and would eventually bump into other Choctaw groups; this usually led to war, which would whittle down the human populations and cause them to pull back from each other’s territories. In peace times, the deer population would thrive and multiply, and so, then, would the human populations. It was a repeating cycle.
Again, it makes me wonder about rosebuds.
But then another part of me believes strongly that there are much better ways of picking off dead buds (my metaphor for unhealthy and dangerous ideas) than killing each other with guns. *shrug*
There is a lot of fear in the world these days. Fear for the future, fear of the other, fear of the bottom falling out from under us. Fear of the unknown.
Just recently, the president of the richest and most powerful country of the world has mocked the rival presidential candidate because the latter will “listen to the scientists”.
That mocker is not alone, either; despite the fact that the vast majority of humans on Earth accept and have some understanding of science, there are still many, many people voicing distrust of it.
How has the world gotten to this point? What is it about “science” that so many people don’t trust? Could it be simply that they are ignorant of what science actually is? Could this be another example of fear of the unknown? What exactly is this thing called “science”, anyway?
Google, in partnership with the Oxford English Dictionary, defines it as “the intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behaviour of the physical and natural world through observation and experiment”.
The Oxford Learner's Dictionary reiterates and adds to that definition of science by calling it the “knowledge about the structure and behaviour of the natural and physical world, based on facts that you can prove, for example by experiments”.
Merriam-Webster uses the following definition: “knowledge or a system of knowledge covering general truths or the operation of general laws especially as obtained and tested through scientific method”.
Okay. So, something to do with provable knowledge and truth. But since definitions are by nature sometimes rather wordy and abstract, I want to explore this question further through a concrete example or two.
The scientific process begins with asking a question. Here’s one: How long does it take a tomato plant to grow from seed to the point at which it begins to produce tomatoes?
Well, there are plenty of ways people could answer that question; someone could yell out “Twenty-three years, six months, thirteen days, and four hours!” Others might shake their heads and claim, “Nope; it takes exactly two hours to grow a tomato plant from seed to maturity.” Someone else might say, “Roughly six to eight weeks, depending on location, soil conditions, climate, etc.” Still others might shout, “Banana!”
Okay, all four of those are answers to the same question—but are they correct answers? Just how true are they?
Science, at its core, is a method used to find facts, or to get as close as humanly possible to doing that.
This method involves a very careful system of experimentation, observation, and fact-checking.
Say we plant a few seeds in some pots. How do we observe how long it will take for them to grow into mature tomato plants that are beginning to bear fruit? Well, the simplest way is to just sit back, wait, and watch.
If we have followed the advice of gardeners on how best to grow healthy tomato plants, then based on what we’ve heard, we should expect to see them eventually poke through the soil, grow up, flower, and fruit (i.e. start growing tomatoes) within a couple of months. We predict that this time could vary, of course, depending on our location and other factors—soil type, sunlight, temperature, how well we’ve cared for the plants, and so on—but for the sake of argument, let’s just say we predict it might take six to eight weeks, give or take.
Okay, so, let’s now say that we find our plants to be a bit slower than average, perhaps due to lack of coffee (I can relate), and they end up taking exactly 8 weeks to begin to bear little unripe tomatoes. Eureka! We now have our answer!
“8 weeks!” We shout into the void.
But then someone replies, “Nope; you’re wrong. Fake news. It actually takes tomatoes twenty-three years, six months, thirteen days, and four hours to grow from seed to where they start bearing fruit! I know it’s true, because my scientific experts told me so, and it also happens to be written so in this here book I claim to read but which I really only touch when my daughter takes it out of her handbag and hands it to me to hold during photo ops.”
Hmm. Okay. So, we now find ourselves in a situation in which one person is asserting one truth, and another person is asserting another.
What does scientific method do to help us figure out which truth is truer?
It has to rely on the experiments and observations of others—many others, over the course of a very long time. In our example, this means we have to wait until lots and lots of people, from all manner of backgrounds and in many locations around the world, conduct the same experiment, that experiment being to plant tomato seeds in pots, care for them the same exact way we did ours, and observe the results.
Let’s say one hundred thousand people conduct the same tomato-growing experiment, using the same conditions and growth methods as we used in ours, over the course of many years. At the end of this trial run, we can look at their results.
If fifty percent of people found it took their tomato plants twenty-three years, six months, thirteen days, and four hours to grow from seed to fruit-bearing maturity, and the other fifty percent of people found it took only six to eight weeks, then we are back to square one, without a clear answer, and we need to expand our experiment’s parameters so that we can eventually figure out which claim is true.
If, however, the vast majority of tomato-growers find that their results agree with one of the claims over the other—namely, that it takes about 6-8 weeks—then we have found an answer that is pretty friggin likely to be close to the truth.
That’s all science is: It’s asking a question, and then carefully and thoroughly performing experiment after experiment to find the answer to that question, and then carefully and thoroughly observing the results; and then, it is having other people check our results by performing the same experiment and making their own observations. Over time (stress TIME here… scientific method generally cannot be performed carefully and thoroughly in a short period of time), all those observations are compared, discussed, poked at, challenged, cross-challenged, and so on; further experimentation and observation may even be necessary—but eventually, answers—the facts—do tend to be found. I personally feel that one of the great beauties of science is that when done right, it is an unrushed, collaborative effort that brings together many minds and produces a heap of creativity and ideas.
Are all scientists reliable? Of course not. Some are quacks, some lie through their teeth in support of vested interests, and some have simply made mistakes at some point in their experimentation. This is the reason data (the observed results of how long a tomato plant takes to grow) need to be checked by others, double-checked, triple-checked, checked again, and again, and again, and again, etc etc etc.
When, after decades of careful and thorough experimentation, observation, and cross-checking, 97% of all the tomato-growers end up being in agreement that tomato plants take six to eight weeks to grow, and only 3% of them are saying otherwise, then we of course can still decide for ourselves which group to believe, but if we look at the numbers, and perform our own honest experiments, we are quite likely to find that the 97% are indeed correct.
So, what exactly is this thing called science, and should we be afraid of it?
Science is simply a system for finding answers to questions, and then double- and triple-checking each other’s answers to make sure no mistakes have been made; it involves repetition, ad infinitum, until the answers are discovered. Science is a system of using evidence, found carefully and thoroughly by many, many separate observers, to verify.
And no, we should not be afraid of it. Much, much more terrifying are ignorance and arbitrary denial; those two things will end the world if we are not careful.
The other day I decided to cook some ribs. I’d been seeing pork ribs for sale at the grocery store at a reasonable price, so I decided, hey, what the hell? I might as well give it a go.
I had eaten good ribs, so I knew what they tasted like; I’d just never attempted to prepare them before myself. I started doing a bit of research, and came across this video:
In it, Mr. Reed talks about how, given the preference, he would always choose to slow-cook ribs in a smoker, but that for people who don’t own one (like myself), it is perfectly doable on a gas grill. I thought, okay, cool, and followed his instructions to a T. The only variations I did were in the actual recipes (I made up my own bbq sauce, very loosely based on one I found online; and I also made my own rub, which was based on one of Reed’s rub recipes—but again, with so many changes that it wasn’t recognizable), and in the cut of meat I used (I got some basic pork ribs at the grocery store (Woolies), whereas the ones he uses in that video are a St. Louis cut, I believe, and most likely purchased from a butcher).
Now, my wife and I do have a kettle-style grill, and many would recommend doing ribs in that, such as my friend here:
However, I’d already decided I wanted to try it on the gas barbie like Reed does in the video. So I got to work. From here on, I’ll do my best to describe the entire process in detail, in case you want to try it. First I should of course point out that grilling is a fire hazard, and all sensible precautions should be taken to avoid injury and disaster.
The first step was to soak some woodchips in cold water, for a good 25-30 minutes. I bought some that were cherrywood and mesquite, or something like that, because they were on special, but you can just make your own by chipping / whittling any wood you have around (as long as you don’t use poison ivy or poison oak!!!). The point is to have something that will put out smoke when burned, so you don’t absolutely need to go out and spend a bunch of money on some fancy-schmancy woodchips. Unless you want to of course. I bought them in part because I was lazy.
Next, prep the grill:
Essentially, the method is to slow-cook the meat using indirect heat. Ours is a 6-burner grill, but you can do it with a 4-burner one, too. Turn on the burner(s) on one side (I fired up the ones on the far right), with a plan to put the ribs over on the left side (NOT over the direct flames). The idea is basically to turn your gas barbecue into an oven (and if you want to skip the smoking process, most of these steps can actually be converted to work just fine in an oven, though the result will lack the smokey flavour of course).
Every gas bbq/grill is different, so you’ll have to adjust the knobs and experiment a bit to get the temperature just right. Aim for a stable 250 degrees Fahrenheit / 121 degrees Celsius, measured at the far left side of the grill (assuming your direct heat burner is on the far right). Our bbq/grill has a lot of holes through which heat can escape—a large one right along the back, plus one on each side for where a rotisserie skewer can go—and after struggling to get a stable temperature, I ended up plugging all these holes up using a couple of layers of aluminum/aliminium foil.
Note of caution: The built-in thermometers in some gas grills are grossly inaccurate. Ours was WAY way out—like, not even close to being accurate—hence the oven thermometer I used (pictured above).
While you are waiting for the grill to heat up, you can make your rub. Click here for Malcom Reed's "Killer Hogs Dry Rub Recipe". As you can see in the image below, I changed the ingredients up quite a bit, but I stuck more or less to his proportion ideas (not the healthiest thing to do, but hey, the goal was flavour!). Part of the fun of making sauces and rubs is to experiment and add your own style, so feel free to get creative and use whatever ingredients you like. Some like hot-spicy, but I don’t (not on ribs anyway; I LOVE heat on other things though!).
After you’ve made your rub mix, remove the thin membrane from the bone-side of the ribs racks. You can google how to do that, but I didn’t find it very difficult; I just used a spoon to get it going, then pulled it off with my fingers. If you leave it on, it can go a bit tough and prevent some of the flavour from getting into the meat.
Next, wet the ribs with apple juice or water (or oil – come to think of it, I believe I used canola oil—mybad! But I did read somewhere you can use apple juice, and some people even soak the meat for a while in it). The point is to get the rub mixture to stick better. Next, generously coat both sides of the ribs racks with your rub mix.
Next, make a smoke tube. Take the pre-soaked woodchips, wrap them in a double layer of aluminum foil into a log or tube shape, and then poke some holes in the top to let the smoke out.
By now, after some tweaking, you should have the temperature in the meat side (left side) of your gas bbq at a more or less stable 250F/121C, or thereabouts. Place your smoke tube on the far right, directly over the heat source (the burner or burners you have burning), and then place your rib racks bone side down over on the far left. The setup should be something like this:
You’ll notice in the above photo, besides the fact that my set-up is the opposite (right to left) of the one he does in the video (but with the same effect), I also have my oven thermometer in the center rather than farther to the left. Don’t do that. I’ll tell you later why it was a mistake; for now, suffice to say that I thought the far left of the grill was a lot hotter than it actually was. More on that later. If you place your thermometer closer to the far left, it will give you a more accurate gauge of how hot your meat is getting on average.
Now close the lid and let it slow-cook for a good hour or so. Meanwhile, you can make your apple glaze (I suppose it’s more a sauce than a glaze, but still).
I poured some apple juice into a pot and boiled it until it had reduced. I don’t know how long; I just did it by feel. Once it was nice and sweet and rich, but still very liquid-y, I added some margarine:
Next, unless you want to use a store-bought one (boooooo), it’s time to make your bbq sauce. You can find a lot of good recipes online; here is the recipe I loosely based mine on (scroll down until you get to the “Barbecue Sauce for Pork Ribs” section). Adjust your proportions as necessary. There is also a lot of other helpful info on that page.
You don’t strictly have to cook it, but I wanted to let the spices get to know each other a bit and mingle a little, so I cooked it over a low heat, stirring frequently.
After your ribs have been on the grill for about an hour, spritz them with a moisturizing liquid. I just mixed some apple juice with some red wine vinegar in a plastic spray bottle. You can also put in a new smoke tube at this point if you want a heavier smoke flavour, as the first one will likely have burned out by now, but I didn’t.
After you’ve given the ribs a good spritzing, close the lid again and let them cook for another 45 minutes or an hour. Always keep an eye on the temperature, and do whatever you have to do to keep it more or less a steady 250F/121C.
After 45 minutes or an hour, remove the ribs (in the video I linked above, Malcom Reed shows some great time-saving methods and logistical tips to do with transferring the meat to and from the grill etc; I recommend watching it).
Lay a couple of sheets of aluminum down, slather some of your apple/margarine glaze down, then place a rib rack meat side down on top of it. Spoon some more apple/margarine glaze on top, then wrap the ribs in the foil, leaving no holes, so that it traps in all that good moisture. Do the same with the other rack. (Sorry; I forgot to take a photo of this step in the process!)
Now put the wrapped ribs back on the grill, again on the indirect heat side and at the same temperature as before. Close the lid and let them cook low & slow.
Check them after an hour. You should be starting to see a bit of pull-back on the meat, with it pulling back from the bone. It probably won’t be done yet though. Wrap them back up and return to the grill, and cook for another 45 minutes or so. Meanwhile, make some aluminum boats (like Reed does in the video).
By now, the meat should be pulling back from the ends of the ribs bones nicely, indicating that it is getting nice and tender. It’s time to uncover them and start the final process.
Place each rib rack in a boat (not wrapped in foil), bone side down, and then cover generously with more of your rub mixture. Return to the indirect heat of the grill, and close the bbq lid; let cook for another 15-20 minutes. At this point I turned the heat up to around 300F/149C.
Now you have a choice: You can eat your ribs dry or wet. For dry ribs, they are done and ready to serve. For wet ribs, slather a very generous amount of your homemade bbq sauce onto the top of the rack…
… and then close the lid and let them cook for another 15 minutes or so.
Your ribs should now be ready to eat. Take them off the grill, bring them inside, and dig in.
As you can see from the photos, my first attempt at ribs was not 100% successful; due to the temperature gauging error I mentioned earlier, the temperature to the far left of the grill was not hot enough, as I’d measured the temperature from the center of the grill where I’d placed my oven thermometer. This resulted in underdone ribs. They were still cooked through and even had some very delicious and juicy parts, but over all, the meat was not falling off the bone; the ribs could have used another hour of cooking at that temperature. Had I gotten the temperature right, it should have worked the way his did in the video. It also could have had to do with the quality of meat; these pork ribs I bought at the grocery store were not the best.
Still, though, all things considered, it was not at all a bad first attempt :-) I absolutely nailed the flavours, both in the rub and in the sauces, and the ribs were pretty good-eatin’. We served the ribs with granny smith apple chunks, very sharp tasty/cheddar cheese, and some chips.
The leftovers were even better the next night, because we stuck them in the oven and let them cook another forty minutes or so, and the meat was a lot more tender then. Still, lesson learned for next time!
Good luck with your ribs, and if you have any comments or ideas on how to do it better (I’m sure there are plenty of excellent methods!), then by all means, feel free to click the button below! :-)
Like all species, we humans are, by our very nature, selfish creatures. By that, I mean we put our own survival and interests first and foremost. I am not saying humans are incapable of generosity or magnanimous gestures or love; of course we are. But when it comes down to survival, we’ll eliminate anything we perceive to be a threat or obstacle in a heartbeat. And I would argue that in our haste to attain security, our tendency as a species is to neglect or at least overlook other routes that would be less destructive to our surroundings and fellow Earthlings, and some of those routes, when looked at in the long term, would actually benefit us more.
Thus, a large part of our problem seems to be short-term thinking. Why do we have such a hard time planning ahead? Why do we consider a mere fifty or hundred years hence to be “the distant future”?
In just thirty years from now, by the year 2050, wild koalas are predicted to be extinct in New South Wales “unless there is urgent government intervention to prevent habitat loss, a year-long inquiry has found.” Thirty years. That’s soon, right? For anyone reading this who is in your thirties or older, think back thirty years: That’s a long time, right? Your brain started having the capacity to form long-term memories when you were small. Even though most of those memories have now faded, you still at least have some vague images and recollections from when you were a wee ankle-biter, yeah? Okay, now fast forward a few decades from now to when you are in your sixties, and I guarantee you that your thirties won’t seem as long ago then as your toddler years do now. And yet, the same amount of time has passed; thirty years is still thirty years. To a three-million-year-old space mammoth, thirty Earth years are just a blink, or a drawn-out fart at most. It’s all a matter of perspective.
My point is that no matter how short or long thirty years might seem, it is, in the grand scheme of things, a very short-ass period of time. Blink a few more times, eat some beans, and 2050 will be here.
And the koalas will be gone.
Because certain humans in power would rather make a quick buck by allowing their real estate developer pals to chop down even more stretches of gum tree forest, which is the habitat and food source for wild koalas. Notice I said “the” and not “a”. While we humans might be able to adjust and relocate whenever we deplete a food source, by farming and fishing instead of hunting, for example, koalas cannot; they need eucalyptus leaves to munch and trees to hide in. And if the New South Wales government succumbs to pressures from those very selfish monied interests, then too many of those forests will be gone -- within thirty years from now -- and NSW’s wild koalas will be no more.
We’re bigger than that, aren’t we? Do we humans really need to be so selfish? Is having more room to build more subdivisions really a matter of survival for the human race? Does making hundreds of millions in profit really justify extinguishing the flame of another race? Okay, okay; I did begin by pointing out that species are innately selfish—but do we humans have to be?
We’ve got big brains, perceptive eyes, and very dexterous fingers and thumbs. We can invent shit that takes us beyond our primordial states of being. Haven’t we developed to the point that we should be able to look beyond a five-year plan? Why does the ability to think in terms of centuries or millennia continue to elude us? Why, if a million years really isn’t very long, do we still perceive it to be?
Shouldn’t we be bigger? Shouldn’t we be able to see the benefit to our long-term survival and happiness—because if we’re honest, it is no longer just about survival—of helping koalas and the myriad other dying species to survive with us? Do they not deserve their own protected and generously large places in the wild, where they can live without fear of extinction? Isn’t that what we’d want for ourselves if the tables were turned?
We humans have had our run of selfishly raping and pillaging this planet without giving much thought to the future. Koalas, with their thirty-year deadline, are not the only vulnerable species at stake here, and if you really take a good hard look at the data, you’ll acknowledge that we “the people” have got our own deadline, too—and once we cross it, we’ll all be gone. And after that happens, what will the point have been?
It’s time for us to grow up, and learn to be bigger than we have been so far.
Arrow studied the 3-D topo map of the ocean floor that he had called up on his retinal display. He had had a fascination with maps ever since he was little, when it had just been him and his mom, exploring amongst the stars. For his mother, those journeys had been all about making as much cred as possible, and surely had been the exact opposite of “fun”; but for Arrow, they had been grand adventures that had sculpted his imagination and, on some level, continued to drive him to this day.
There. Highlighted on the map was a relatively flat spot surrounded on three sides by cirque of jagged peaks, in the midst of the long ridge rising up from the ocean floor that he had come to think of as “The Leviathan Mountains”. A closer look would be necessary, of course, as well as a whole heap of tests, before Arrow felt confident of the location’s safety, but it at least appeared to be a good candidate for settlement attempt #2.
Other challenges would undoubtedly crop up, some of them unpredictable despite an abundance of caution and data analysis, but at least he and the others would not have to contend with the winds and storms of the surface that had obliterated settlement attempt #1. With not a single piece of land anywhere on the entire planet, unless one counted the constantly shifting polar ice caps, the ocean floor was their best bet. Arrow hoped this would be a viable solution; he would hate to have to wake the crew with the news, “sorry, but we had to retreat to the lunar staging area; we’re just gonna have to study this planet from there.” That would be stupid; they had travelled so far. He was not going to give up.
There were of course those giant floating islands of vegetation, some of which could well be thick enough to support the humans and their structures and equipment. The fact that the computer modelling showed the ocean currents taking these “land” masses on a continuous, intricately weaving pattern all over the globe, potentially exposing them to violent seas and temperature extremes they might otherwise avoid, would have been enough to give him pause, but there was an even bigger obstacle that, in Arrow’s mind at least, seemed insurmountable: Ever since their craft had arrived in orbit and begun studying this planet, its instruments had observed a phenomena that he as yet could not explain. Now and then, at very long and completely irregular intervals as far as he and the computer could tell so far, one of the floating masses would abruptly break apart into smaller parts or even disappear altogether. Talk about unstable ground!
So, no; it looked to him like there was no other choice: It was either establish a foothold on the sea floor somewhere, or retreat to the moon.
Arrow concentrated on the spot he had found in The Leviathan Mountains for another minute, and then took a deep breath. Double-checking the vectors, he keyed in the launch sequence.
First off, I can’t believe it’s September already. Holy crap. This year is flying (which perhaps is a good thing!). Then again, thinking back, January and February seem a lifetime ago.
Yesterday the kookaburras were going off their nut, all day long, starting at about five in the morning. My wife and I got up at around quarter to six, and noticed we had a cuddly visitor down in the clearing back behind the house, munching grass. I took some photos with my ipad, but they didn’t come out very well, so instead I’ll show you one from a couple of months ago (the last time we had such a visitor – I guess they’ve been hiding from the winter weather, and now they’re back to enjoy spring!):
The kookas continued throughout the day. It was warm in the sun, and they seemed to be chasing from one clump of trees to the next, perching close to each other and laughing their little hearts out. We never did figure out what was so funny. Maybe it was just the clouds moving in; their laughter often heralds rain.
Late last night, shortly after we’d gone to bed (after watching Mary, Queen of Scots—which was not bad; I don’t know the history all that well, so couldn’t vouch for its accuracy, but the story was quite enjoyable, at least until until about the last quarter or so, which felt a bit rushed… but the movie had amazing costumes and beautiful views of the Highlands, and we even spotted a few places we had been, back in 2017 when we drove around Scotland for a month)... but I digress. Anyway, we had just turned our lights out when we heard a screeching and carrying on outside. We went out onto the back deck to see if we could get a better view, but it was dark.
Fiona saw something move quickly over a log (the horizontal one in the photo -- though it was dark, so we could barely see), but it was too fleeting to see for sure what it was. Anyway, there were at least two of them, whatever they were, and they were very loud! They seemed to be having a kerfuffle of some sort, shrieking at each other as they scurried up into the woods. This morning we did some internet research, and are wondering if it might have been a couple of spot-tailed quolls (also called tiger quolls):
Such a pretty animal! Sadly, as so many predators are, this species is listed as vulnerable in New South Wales (and endangered in Queensland and some other places), though not as endangered as eastern quolls are.
We both slept better last night; the kookaburras were not quite as raucous. Today (Sunday) is Father’s Day in Australia, and Fiona surprised me with some goodies, as well as a yummy Aussie breakie, which she cooked on the barbie (yeah, that’s a lot of “-ie”s) while I sat on my ass and drank coffee (at her insistence, lol):
King for a day!!! :-] hehe. Looking forward to trying those shirazes. So far no further backyard wildlife, but I will leave you with this, just ‘cause:
(Go on; watch it twice. You know you want to. And you know you want to go munch some grass. Dooooo eeeeet!!!)
Watching the most recent iteration of War of the Worlds on SBS, and am enjoying it so far. The character development reminds me a bit of The Walking Dead, and it’s neat seeing the story unfold in a few different places [spoiler alert!]--London, some suburb in France, and the French Alps. The acting and dialogue are decent enough, and I find the directing to be quite good enough that the lack of super big-budget, high-tech special effects really doesn’t matter or detract from the story.
I do sometimes wonder whether Earth will ever be visited by creatures that evolved on another world. At the moment, though, given all the insanity happening on our planet, I seriously doubt any would want to touch us with a ten-foot pole!
Part of me likes to hope that any visitors advanced enough, and resource-rich enough, to make the journey across the vastness of interstellar space would be wise (having somehow survived an adolescence of war and pollution-induced climate change) and benevolent, like the Asgard, and would save us from ourselves either out of the kindness of their [cybernetic?] hearts or some cosmic, unknowable compulsion to harmonize the galaxy or whatever.
Another part of me thinks that Darwin probably wins in this area, too, and that if life from The Great Beyond were to expend so many resources to travel all this way, its purpose would certainly be to conquer, devour, and/or inhabit.
Then there’s that other part of me—the annoying, logical part—which is a regular reader of Eurekalert.org and realizes that even though mathematical probability dictates that there very likely is intelligence somewhere out there among the stars, the chances that contact will occur between us and it, within the narrow windows of time and space that are only open until each species self-destructs or otherwise fades away or is annihilated, are close to nil.
Perhaps the Asgard will come through though. Or, better yet: Maybe we humans will survive our infancy, evolve, and become the Asgard ourselves.
One can only hope :-)
Trying to think of names for the other online journal. Its theme is going to be a bit fluid, like the one here, but the entries I write there, especially the fiction, will definitely be more supernatural-y and fantasy-ish in nature or orientation. Ha. What's your fictional orientation? :-p
Anyway, so far, the best ideas I've come up with are: 1) "Relative Realities" (which would be cool, because it reminds me of my dad, who was a philosopher; and it also has a ring of truth to it, in that our perceived realities are indeed relative—however, that would also have a rather science-y feel to it, perhaps too science-y for a fantasy-related blog [...and don't you just love these early-morning words I'm coming up with? :-p]. Also, after a quick google search, I notice there are several papers and at least one big company with that name/title)... and 2) "Spinning Yarn" (which certainly appeals to my punny, dad-jokey side, but may be a bit too corny-sounding.... Is it?).
The reason for creating a second online journal / blog is to give me a separate avenue for telling stories, recounting experiences, and exploring ideas that have more to do with the "supernatural", with magic, and with the human imagination and all of the wonderful deities and ghoulies (heh, I just said "ghoulies") it dreams up. Meanwhile, this journal, which I call "Beyond Language's Reach", will remain more or less unchanged. I refuse to define it too strictly, but here intend to pontificate and babble about real-world events, future possibilities, and science-related subjects, as well as jot down the odd piece of sci-fi flash fiction. However, that doesn't mean I won't ever talk about magic and dreaming here, because... well. Because. The brain. Amiright?
Also, in full disclosure, I am attempting to kickstart (and, well, resume) a writing career here, and am hoping that these online journals / blogs will help me in building an audience for any stories I eventually publish: Science fiction written as Gaines Post, and fantasy & supernatural fiction written as D.G. Post (click that name to visit the other blog). I am keeping the two pseudonyms somewhat separate so that you know what sort of book/story you are getting from each.
This will all, of course, backfire if I bore you to death :-p Are you asleep yet? :-]
Larissa dreamed of boxes—dozens, hundreds of them, of all shapes and sizes, all jammed inside a minivan and threatening to avalanche every time she opened the rear hatch. She had so far been able to keep them from tumbling out, but the constant vigilance was beginning to take its toll. A terror, of being buried alive, slowly crept through each and every blood vessel, filling every inch of her body with ice.
Frozen blood expands, just like any other sort of ice. As the crystalline structure forms, it pushes outward against the vessel walls, stretching them taut until they rupture. In Larissa’s case, this resulted in little ridges jutting up against the underlayers of her skin, pushing insistently, piling higher, stretching, piercing, and finally protruding like hundreds of little pink mountain ranges, from head to toe.
Some of the mountains had snow-like caps, though these were the first to melt in the warmer air above the surface of her skin. The resulting liquid blood flowed down between the peaks into tiny red ravines before dripping onto the asphalt below her feet. There it dissolved through like acid, opening up little sinkholes which in turn began to expand and coalesce. She eyed this phenomenon nervously, understanding that it was significant and perhaps even dangerous, but she also knew she could not move lest the boxes fall out—and something in her was absolutely certain that once they started, they would not stop; they would bury the world. And so she held firm on the rapidly weakening blacktop, trying to ignore the tickle of particles dissolving against the bare soles of her feet.
She could only imagine how ridiculous she must look to a passerby: Giant sheaves or fins of ice slicing outward at all angles, shredding her clothing and splitting her face; a pink blurry mass refracting sunlight, like some artist’s fantastic sketch done on mushrooms—yet at the same time, a horrible bloody nightmare, gushing now from her head, arms, legs, torso, the hungry traitorous blood pooling and eating away at her very foundation.
With a sharp crack that she felt before she heard, the remaining asphalt gave way, and she plummeted into darkness. No longer held in place by her ice-ridged hands, the boxes followed her downward in a beautiful but terrible cascade of cardboard and right angles, blocking the sky with their uncaring opacity until not a shred of light shone through. It was as if everything in the world had conspired to swallow her up.
Well, at least now I get to rest my arms, Larissa thought to herself, as she fell and fell and fell, spiraling into morning.
Below freezing this morning. Frost on the grass, ice on the car. An almost-full moon, bright in the paling sky, the last stars already fading. Storms are coming, supposedly, though you wouldn’t know it. Unless you were more attuned to the air, that is. Those low-chuckling kookas know it; they’re waiting. They’re ready for it, always.
I wonder if it’ll be snow. Would be nice, though most folks who have to drive somewhere would probably disagree. I’ll do a quick shop this morning, pick my wife up from the train station later this afternoon, long before the system moves in, and then we’ll hole up at the house, for the next few days if necessary. I suppose it’s nice sometimes, having the ability to work from home.
Being out and about is a whole different experience these days. I have a face mask waiting in the car for when I head over to Woolies to get the groceries (and, if the outbreak gets bad enough in New South Wales, I’ll be taking one with me wherever I go); in the right-hand pocket of my jumper is a pack of antibacterial (and antiviral, though that isn’t advertised; it’s alcohol-based, though, so works on most viruses, too) handwipes; and in my jeans pocket is a little bottle of hand sanitizer (which I mixed myself back in March, when panic-buying had stripped the shelves bare; not knowing how bad things were going to get, I’d bought a big gallon-jug of 100%-pure isopropyl alcohol from a hair salon supplier online). I am constantly vigilant against touching my face unless I’ve just washed or sanitized my hands, and I avoid others’ breathing spaces like the plague. Because that’s what this is.
It reminds me a little bit of the heightened sense of awareness we had last July and August when living with a brown recluse infestation. Sealed plastic container by the door for our shoes… constantly shaking out all clothing and towels, and our sheets, blankets, pillows every night before bed… pant legs tucked into socks (because the little buggers were literally running across the floor while we watched TV at night)… glue traps everywhere… terrible, sinking feeling at even the slightest corner-of-the-eye sighting of anything creepy crawly… but that’s another story for another time.
Some say we brought this virus on ourselves, and some even say it was inevitable. Certainly, further epidemics and pandemics are exceedingly likely if we don’t do something about the most problematic aspects of “modern” society. A glaring example is our very dangerous agrobusiness / livestock production & distribution system, in which animals—pigs, for instance; hundreds, sometimes thousands of them, and all near genetic clones of each other—are jammed into confined spaces, stressed and deprived to the point that their immune systems are severely compromised: A virus’s or bacterium’s playground. That system provides free reign for a deadly bug to potentially spread like absolute wildfire, right through all those poor animals, and with no significant genetic variance among them to slow or stop it. Once that happens, it can be primed for a zoonotic (species to species) leap with devastating effect, one that could even make “coronavirus ID #2019” look benign by comparison. The right(wrong) combination of deadliness + contagiousness would do it. Given how high its mortality rate is, just imagine if Ebola were also as contagious as Covid-19.
This is the sort of danger we humans flirt with on a daily basis. And no, it’s not just China that’s at risk of being the source of another novel pathogen; in fact, America is far more at risk of being the source of the next bad viral or bacterial outbreak than any other country, given the state of its livestock industry, among other factors.
Sadly, most humans don’t like to think about such dangers. I read recently that when asked how climate change made her feel, oceanographer and climatologist Katrin Meissner said, “It scares me more than anything else. I see a group of people sitting in a boat, happily waving, taking pictures on the way, not knowing that this boat is floating right into a powerful and deadly waterfall.” Amen.
It’s a whole lotta doom & gloom. I suppose that might be why the kookas are laughing; perhaps they can sense a cleansing with the oncoming storm. Perhaps they’ve even seen it happen before.
Still... I, for one, choose hope, so I’m gonna do my damnedest to pick up a paddle and start digging for shore. Who’s with me?
Years ago, I spent a semester abroad in southwestern China. When classes were over, instead of returning to the US, I chose to stay and travel. My goals were exploration and absolute language immersion; I wanted to become native-fluent in Mandarin.
As my mind sorted through all the new shapes and sounds with which it was being inundated, all those patterns, words, and even entire concepts that were so utterly alien to me, I gradually gained a sense of just how profound and fundamental a role language plays in not just human communication, but in our very ability to perceive and process the universe around us.
It's a bit of a chicken-and-the-egg situation, really; our brains learn to communicate as we develop, but they can only develop insofar as we learn to communicate. I have felt the same thing in music at times; the more fluent one gets in expressing melody, tone, and rhythm, the more one can “see” and understand a way forward—and the same goes with words and other structures in language—although, by “understand”, I mean something that is either beyond or subsurface to conscious intellectual comprehension. (Ugh. Even now, decades later, I lack the vocabulary to even talk about this stuff! And that dearth makes me less able to perceive and, therefore, digest and absorb these ideas. If only you were here to give me the right tools, Dad!)
As I wandered through the mountains and valleys, pushing the limits on my little more than caveman-speak Chinese at the time, I entered areas where Kham and other Tibetan dialects were more prevalent, and many of the people I met were even less fluent in Mandarin than I was. More and more frequently, I encountered that challenge that humans (and other beings, too, I believe) have faced since the dawn of our interactions with each other: How to converse when verbal language fails. It was in those high windy passes that I realized that language is much, much more than a matter of mere phrases and vocabulary, and that there is a space between spoken words—fleeting and ungraspable; a space that would seem to be forever beyond the reach of even the most adept eloquence.
And yet. And yet.
Despite my gut feeling that we’ll never be able to fathom it, I try anyway, because… well, I mean, why not? How better to spend our time in this world than in an endeavor to see and explore and understand as much as humanly possible, about both ourselves and other species? Perhaps, by opening our minds and reaching for that “beyond”, we can eventually learn to embrace our myriad similarities and differences. Perhaps we can even learn to love each other.
Welcome to my online journal! Please bear with me while I finish setting things up. I'm having to re-learn how to build a website, as most of my knowledge is a good twenty years out of date! (What is all this css3 nonsense, anyway?? And what ever happened to Flash?! Zoiks!)
I'll be using this space to post stories, thoughts, and images on a weekly or fortnightly basis. If interested, feel free to head over to the discussion forum, where you can make a profile (don't worry; I promise you won't get spammed!) and chat with other members about these journal entries and/or anything else on your mind.
The chime had come a good twenty seconds too soon. An equipment error? Was she just being sloppy?
No. Not her; not ever.
It could really only mean one thing: Saadia had been compromised, and this was not her.
Trip stared at the screen of his phone for another second and a half before reluctantly placing it on the workbench, picking up a hammer, and obliterating it. Scanning around the room, he allowed himself to indulge in a moment of helplessness.
They'd all been aware of the risk. She especially, given the week she'd been having. This was not such an unexpected thing.
And yet he felt empty, lost, desperate. All he wanted to do was to call her, hear her voice, make sure she was okay.
Trip straightened his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stood. It was time to get the hell out of here. All was not lost, after all, and the others were still relying on him to get it done.
The Elevator would come down, and when it did, they would be ready.
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