earthweal open link weekend #24

Welcome to earthweal’s open link weekend No. 24.

Thanks all for your strong and deeply felt responses to this week’s environmental justice challenge. Your global witness confirms that humans are as badly out of balance with each other as they are with their Earth. Justice is a righting of those pans, of making measures equal, and your responses served that purpose, weighting what’s important and discarding the rest.

Speaking on the challenge of Northern Irish poets who answered in their words the tensions of their time, Seamus Heaney said redress — the act of restoring balance—was a principal aim and use of poetry:

I have been intent upon treating poetry as an answer given in terms of metre and syntax, of tone and musical trueness; an answer given also by the unpredictability of its inventions and its need to go emotionally and artistically “above the brim” beyond conventional bounds. To redress poetry in this sense is to know and celebrate it for its forcibleness as itself, as the affirming spiritual flame which W.H. Auden wanted, to be shown forth. It is to know and celebrate it not only as a matter of proffered argument and edifying content, but as a matter of angelic potential, a motion of the soul. (The Redress of Poetry, 1990)

Similarly, the work of environmental justice—both for the Earth and the people who have been exploited along with it—is much more pedestrian; it’s voting in elections and serving on committees and fighting for ordinances and regulations and seeing that wrongs are fully confessed and paid for. As members of a society, we can’t be remiss in that work, not ever. But poets have a special contribution to make, that we not lose sight of our Earthly angelic potential. Eden even in the verses such difficult work, but your hard work here shows glints and gleams of possibility in a darkening present. Earthweal’s secret motto is in the singing of the seals on a lonely moonlit island: We, too, are sons and daughters of God ….

The US stock market today (Thursday) is sharply down, with the Dow Jones currently 1,500 points south of the day’s start. For a week is that money market was deaf to the cries for justice, soaring while some global spirit sank deeper and deeper. Now it feels like the Earth’s pan—freighted with COVID and climate change—is redressing obscene wealth in the hardest way imaginable for the takers.

assam fire

Bagjhan oil well fire, Assam State, India. Stopping the leak will take four weeks after fire is doused.

And why not? Melting permafrost in the Siberian Arctic led to the collapse of an oil tank in late May, releasing 150,000 gallons of diesel oil into rivers and flowing toward the Arctic ocean and threatening a nature preserve.  An oil well in Assam state in India burst about the same time and has now caught fire, unleashing massive plumes of smoke, causing the evacuation of some 1,600 farming families and threatening a nearby nature preserve.  Greenland was hit by a heat wave earlier in the spring, with temps 40 degrees above normal and some 2 billion tons of meltwater at its height; now the heat has centered on the Siberian Arctic, where a few days ago temperatures soared to (86F).

And the American’s president’s oldest son recently hunted endangered giant sheep in Mongolia to add to his trophies. Nothing, right now, can stop him; but one can’t help but see the glint of COVID and the greater looming shadow of human extinction in the dark glassy eyes of the sheep mounted on his wall.

Every poem is a redress.

Share a poem of your own preference, new or old.

Open links taken through Sunday; be sure to visit other linkers and comment.

Sherry will take up the reins next week with a challenge on systemic racism—very topical and sorely in need of our redress.

Have a great weekend—




earthweal weekly challenge: ENVIRONMENTAL JUSTICE


It may surprise you that the two groups of Americans most concerned about climate change are African-Americans and Hispanics. But when you consider that they also live closest to our sickened Earth and environmental hazards like air pollution, waste treatment facilities and coal-fired plants, then the parallels between racism and environmental degradation become clear.

It also makes a clear case for environmental justice—a means to address environmental damage and the populations who suffer the worst consequences of it And in the courts, civil rights prosecution has succeeded where environmental suits have failed. (Sadly, in our Earth cause a human face trumps a green vista every time.)

People working outside in a climate grown too hot for working outside bear the brunt of changes largely wrought for the benefit of those who live in segregated, air conditioned comfort. Market liberalism is the vanilla flavor of oilman’s glee, that extractionist greed which plunders resources, bodies and markets for the benefit of the few.

The environmental justice movement—a legal version of liberation theology—began taking shape in the 1980s. Back in 1979, a Houston waste company announced they were building landfill in a black middle-class neighborhood. A suit was filed by the homeowners, and Dr. Robert Bullard, then a sociologist at Texas Southern University, was hired to look into the move. He says,

When we looked at the data and analyzed it, we found that 5 out of 5 of the city-owned landfills were located in black neighborhoods. Six out of 8 of the city-owned incinerators were in black neighborhoods. And 3 out of 4 of the privately owned landfills were in predominantly black neighborhoods.

Even though blacks only made up 25 percent of the population from the 1930s to 1978 — the period that I looked at — 82 percent of all of the waste dumped in Houston was in black neighborhoods.

“Dr. Robert Bullard: Lessons From 40 Years of Documenting Environmental Racism” (Tara Lohan, The Revelator, April 17, 2019)

For the first time, a clear connection between racism and environmental degradation was drawn. The lawsuit became the first case in the United States to use civil rights law to challenge environmental discrimination. In the 40 years since, Dr. Bullard has written 18 books on the topic, documenting countless incidents of disadvantaged populations used as dumping grounds for the excess of a wealthy, consumerist nation.

Indigenous people in many other countries are equally challenged with the same. In Canada, oil pipelines and tar sand projects violate the heart of sacred homelands; in Australia corporate irrigation projects for cotton farms threaten the livelihood of Aboriginal tribes along the lower Darling River basin. Most black South Africans continue to live in the most polluted and contaminated conditions in the country. In Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam and Indonesia, plastic waste recycling plants poison crops and emit toxic air pollution into poor communities.

As I wrote for our last open link weekend, the suffocation of a black man beneath a policeman’s knee—captured in eight grueling and harrowing minutes of cellphone video—has sparked convulsive protest around the world. The immense scale of the demonstrations suggest that many things are at play—despair over continuing police violence against black men, economic disparities made worse by global pandemic, despair over an increasingly heating climate horizon and the devastation it is already delivering the most vulnerable populations.

The demonstrations may provide the impetus for an environmental justice movement which will remove anti-environment populists from power and begin to redress decades if not centuries of capitalist and extractionist oppression. Again, the human face of a martyred black man may help deliver a new political establishment capable of passing and enforcing the Green New Deal.

As I write this, a massive rallies are underway today all over my country, some of the biggest yet, in protest of police brutality. Rallies have grown more peaceful and are multi-racial in attendance; but you have to feel the keenness of the anger and despair of black participants to understand that theirs is an exhausted protest. Like the enormous volume of rain now being dumped by Tropical Storm Cristobal as it approaches New Orleans, theirs is a heavy, sad and fraught lament.

After this, rage may be the only alternative. The arc follows the same trajectory of our pending climate catastrophe; address now or deal with enraged elements.

I wondered about this as I attended a “Peace, Love and Unity Walk” this morning down the main avenue of my little Florida town. It was rainy—steady but not heavy, freighted with the angst of tropical storm Cristobal two hundred miles away. The city’s leadership of downtown merchants, city government, police chief and pastors from several churches cooked up the idea to have this “Walk” (instead of “march”) to celebrate (not protest) unity in the face of division. Our town is OK as Southern hamlets go, more progressive than most, with a good recent history of community policing and relatively calm relations with its black population, sequestered mainly on the city’s swampy and flood-prone northeast.

It was surprising how many turned out for the walk, and I’d say the composition was maybe two thirds white. Lots of couples, families with kids, older folks and neighbors amid the more vocal and sign-brazen young. (I didn’t see any septuagenarians holding up Black Lives Matter signs.) At 10 am the procession rolled down Donnelly Street blocked off by smiling policemen, turned left at the cop station and proceeded into the black area of town, stopping at a small park where there was a tent with a podium. Various members of the city leadership spoke, with impassioned appeals to unity and sensitivity and the largest rounds of applause in response to calling out the citizenry to vote in the fall.

Yay to all that, but even though the size of the turnout was impressive for our little town—I’d say around 500—it was a little laid back and too congenial. A white folks’ march for unity without the higher simmer of anger and exhaustion still has the ambience of whitewash. Something we’ll never be fully able to relinquish, I’m afraid, before it is taken from our hands.




Terrence Hayes

Rilke ends his sonnet “Archaic Torso of Apollo” saying
“You must change your life.” James Wright ends “Lying
In a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island,
Minnesota” saying “I have wasted my life.” Ruth Stone ends
“A Moment” saying “You do not want to repeat my life.”
A minute seed with a giant soul kicking inside it at the end
And beginning of life. After the opening scene where
A car bomb destroys the black detective’s family, there are
Several scenes of our hero at the edge of life. A shootout
In an African American Folk Museum, a shootout
In the middle of an interstate rest stop parking lot,
A barn shootout endangering the farm life. I live a life
That burns a hole through life, that leaves a scar for life,
That makes me weep for another life. Define life.

There is a cycle of energy in the current moment; protest leads to voting which enables future protests to provide an even greater volume of energy for the next election. I liken it to stepping incrementally back from nuclear annihilation or climate devastation: Tides are turned with signs and voting booths and regulations and signs and more voting booths and stronger, more effective regulations. I’ll venture that my country has a more progressive center than it did six months ago.

Without George Floyd’s brutal murder in plain sight of the world by a cop with too much brutality in his testosterone, where would we be now? Still forgiving the power ploys of a government which has renounced its first duty to serve all of its citizens? Getting back fast to our comfortable consumer privilege, heedless of the darkening climate horizon? We are paused at this moment and told—loudly, vociferously and with a keen edge of danger—that slumber is no longer permissible.

Soon it may be no longer possible.

James Baldwin got at this in a 1968 address to the World Council of Churches, later condensed into an essay titled “White Racism and World Community” published in Ecumenical Review, Oct. 1968:

We all know, no matter what we say, no matter how we may justify it or hide from this fact, every being knows, something in him knows, and this is what Christ was talking about; no one wants to be a slave. Black people have had to adjust to incredible vicissitudes and involve in fantastic identity against incredible odds. But those songs we sang, and sing, and our dances and the way we talk to each other, betray a terrifying pain, a pain so great that most Western people, most white Westerners, are simply babbled by it and paralyzed by it, because they do not dare imagine what it would be like to be a black father, and what a black father would have to tell a black son in order for the black son to live at all.

Now, this is not called morality, this is not called faith, this has nothing to do with Christ. It has to do with power, ad part of the dilemma of the Christian Church is the fact that it opted, in fact, for power and betrayed its own first principles which were a responsibility to every living soul, the assumption of which the Christian Church’s basis, as I understand it, is that all men are the sons of God and that all men are free in the eyes of God and are victims of the commandment given to the Christian Church, “Love one another as I have loved you.” And if that is so, the Church is in great danger not merely because the black people say it but because people are always in great danger when they know what they should do, and refuse to act on that knowledge.

Baldwin delivered that address in 1968, the most convulsive year of demonstrations previous to this one; and though some of the language may have evolved (women are, we know now, are similarly daughters of God), the tooth of the message is unchanged. And the environmental justice movement has merged the face of racial oppression with that of capitalist extractionism: injustice is equally doled out to humans and Earth, all of us being of the same essential tribe.

In an old Irish tale, a Christian holy man late in life finds his faith taking a radical when a fellow monk is sacrificed in the belly of an oak tree for refusing to renounce the green Earth for Heaven. Love breaks his wooden dogmatic heart, and he is flooded with the awareness of so much heaven all around him, in this life.  The monk, whose name was Molios, is changed.

Fiona MacLeod picks up the story in “Annir Choille” (second volume of his collected works)

That night Molios could not sleep. Hearing the loud wash of the sea, he went to the mouth of the cave. For a long while he watched the seals splashing in the silver radiance of the moonshine. Then he called them.

“O seals of the sea, come hither!”

At that all the furred swimmers drew near.

“Is it for the curse you give us every year of the years, O holy Molios?” moaned a great black seal.

“O Ròn dubh, it is no curse I have for thee or thine, but a blessing, and peace. I have learned a wonder of God, because of an Annir-Coille in the forest that is upon the hill. But now I will be telling you the white story of Christ.”

So there, in the moonshine, with the flowing tide stealing from his feet to his knees, the old saint preached the gospel of love. The seals crouched upon the rocks, with their great brown eyes filled with glad tears.

When Molios ceased, each slipped again into the shadowy sea. All that night, while he brooded upon the mystery of Cathal and the Annir-Coille, with deep knowledge of hidden things, and a heart filled with the wonder and mystery of the world, he heard them splashing to and fro in the moon-dazzle, and calling, one to the other, “We, too, are the sons of God.”

My blog’s patron saint is St. Oran, victim of another sacrifice so Christian walls might stand, his bones the mortar of mission, his ghost regent of the Iona abbey cemetery. He was also of the seal tribe, and his death also kept alive in the new faith a vital connection with the old—a greener sustainable existence which we are still trying to find our way to, freed from economic and racial bondage.

We, too, are sons and daughters of the mystery! Let that inform our work this week as we see what poetry has to say about environmental justice.

— Brendan

earthweal open link weekend #23


Welcome to earthweal’s open link weekend No. 23.

It’s been a loud week: lots of marching, protests, projectiles, pepper spray, low blows, speeches, burning cars, funerals, tear gas, posturing with Bibles, invectives, rhetorics, theories, cell phone videos, baton crunches, curfews, solidarity, despair and hope—around the world.

Is anyone else’s ears ringing?

One conclusion is that the economic buzz-saw of the pandemic has revealed the raw fault lines in market liberalism, the grievous gulf between haves and have-nots. The worst off are the most marginalized in pocket and body. In the U.S., African Americans have suffered worst from COVID-19, and young black men are arrested, beaten, die at police custody or are imprisoned at dramatically higher rates than their white peers.  Police brutality and the authoritarian regimes they protect and project are a flash-point of the split between oppressor and oppressed, and systemic racism is nowhere as deeply rooted and vastly ignored than in (again) the United States.

Our raw environment shares this divide with extractors and extracted (for the pugnacious, humanity vs. the rest of animal, mineral and vegetable existence on Earth) lining up in similar ways. Climate change similarly revealing the gulf between one and ninety-nine percent. As the human population grows toward 10 billion, the rate of vertebrate extinctions is speeding up faster and faster.

Justice is called for on both accounts, and time is short: nothing is improved in either case by waiting, kicking the can down the road or ignoring the freight of impending damage. Environmental justice may be the only way to properly address both racism and climate change. Both point to the same essential wrong which only we humans can address.

As Bill McKibben recently wrote,

… Having a racist and violent police force in your neighborhood is a lot like having a coal-fired power plant in your neighborhood. And having both? And maybe some smoke pouring in from a nearby wildfire? African-Americans are three times as likely to die from asthma as the rest of the population. “I Can’t Breathe” is the daily condition of too many people in this country. One way or another, there are a lot of knees on a lot of necks.

The job of people who care about the future—which is another way of saying the environmentalists—is to let everyone breathe easier. But that simply can’t happen without all kinds of change. Some of it looks like solar panels for rooftops, and some of it looks like radically reimagined police forces. All of it is hitched together.

“Racism, Police Violence and The Climate Are Not Separate Issues,” The New Yorker, June 4, 2020

All of it. So let’s see what sort of linkages you come up with. Every poem is a solution, a “complicate amassing harmony” as Wallace Stevens put it; let’s harness that bonding energy to a weekend of Earth justice.

Share a poem of your own preference, new or old, Tristanned or Ysouled.

Open links taken through Sunday; be sure to visit other linkers and comment.

— Brendan



earthweal weekly challenge: WHAT COMES NEXT



Is it ironic that last week’s protest challenge would culminate massive uproar in dozens US cities following the slow torturous death of a black man beneath a white policeman’s knee?

Or was it fateful, as true to the time as all the voices who cried out at our forum?

Who knows. But summer comes to the Northern Hemisphere with pandemic’s toil and toll grown wearisome yet hardly done and a heating climate sweltering snarls of greater and worser magnitude.

One thing follows another. In the United States, these are added coils for a pot already aboil with political division and dissent. For all our wealth and clout, my country has shown astonishing weakness in the face of souring events.  With a death toll from COVID surpassing 100,000 and finding new strength in places like Wisconsin and Alabama which have reopened prematurely, our leadership has chosen to peeve  rather than grieve.

It is a tragic thing to watch and gives me little hope for any speedy and effective remedies.

Here we are however and must look at WHAT COMES NEXT.

* * *

In the state of Florida in the USA where I live, high summer has blossomed in the past week with the advent of the rainy season. One day it was warm and dry and gusty like it had been for much of the spring; then a day came where a crack of thunder transformed the time into soggy surly upwellings of heat and clouds and rain. Each next day it’s more humid than the last, the heat feels more intense and the certainty of storm grows. This pattern will ladder for weeks into a density of heat and moisture whose spiritual consequence is hurricane.  By July there will be an eeriness to the height of summer, a constant wet rapture and raptoring for which there is no escape, only enduring into August through September and even October as we await in the next week or the next some greater massing of stormclouds from the horizon.

It’s an archangelic season into which the mind which sustained me all year vanishes. It’s like an altitude, erasing certain depths of thought.

* * *

My wife and I drove out to Wildwood on Friday looking at storage sheds. We’re thinking of tearing down our decrepit garage and rehabbing a new shed into an air-conditioned sewing studio for my wife. For fifteen years she’s worked in crabbed conditions in our house, her linens stuffed in every corner, her sewing equipment occupying the desk space I once worked on. (For an equal length of time I’ve had to move my morning studies to a chair in the living room, hauling out all my books and journals and laptop, setting up camp there for my appointed hour and a half in heaven and then tucking everything back as the day wakes in the windows.) For a considerable amount of new debt, she gets her space and I get mine. We can’t really afford it, but next things are mired where we are. My days as a commuting office drone may be over, and may work the rest of my career from home.

The heat was empyrean that day, a beating brilliance as we drove and talked about the unrest in so many cities, the awful divisions of the time and the horrible leadership we suffer from. The sheds we saw were pregnant with possibility, opening with a creak and vastly empty and hot within with so much brilliance outside. Perhaps a future. We lunched in a restaurant in the middle of The Villages, that arch retirement mecca in Florida where so many come to play golf and party the rest of their living means. Only the serving staff wore masks and the stores around the eatery all seemed packed with eager buyers.

None of this plays much into the darkness of this time—not the commercial animus, the milk-white palette of comfort or the torpid brilliance of the afternoon. Yet you can read it in reverse, as preceding acts of an unfolding tragedy. I could, while reading Teju Cole’s essay “We Can’t Comprehend This Much Sorrow” in the May 24 New York Times Magazine:

Yesterday’s death toll from Covid-19 in New York State was 732 people. I can hardly concentrate in daytime. At night, I read Annie Ernaux’s ‘‘The Years.’’ You can feel the pulse and intelligence of Ernaux’s mind, her technical facility, the range of her assessments over several decades of French history. The book, which mixes history with memoir, is good writing. Eventually, there will be good writing about our moment as well. If journalism is the first rough draft of history, perhaps a journal is the first rough draft of literature. But grief makes me sour. I feel as though I’ve read the same piece of white writing 30 times in the past month.

Much of it is concerned with inconveniences, and some of it is jokey. I understand these collective attempts at lightness, but I quarrel with them, because I know that in the United States there is no ‘‘collective.’’ Levity in the midst of sorrow can be a consolation if the sorrow is shared to begin with. But here, where everything is divided, where the unscathed can’t quite believe the wounded, the levity sounds like anything but solidarity. Covid-19 was initially heralded as a great equalizer, and there was some evidence of this in some countries. But it arrived in America and immediately became American: classist, capitalist, complacent.

The words Samuel Beckett wrote to his friend Alan Schneider in 1963 feel like a lifeline: ‘‘I offer you only my deeply affectionate and compassionate thoughts and wish for you only that the strange thing may never fail you, whatever it is, that gives us the strength to live on and on with our wounds.’’

White writing: The memory of a Reuben sandwich slowly fading from my hands as my wife and I talked her father’s care and the help she’s not getting from her sister, and this next project in our house. No table next to us had patrons sitting at it but the room was still full and calmly devouring Jewish deli and muttering beneath an ambience of boomer hits on the sound system—Beach Boys, Candlebox, Duran Duran.

All that rings whitely and tritely against the curse of this American moment. As I write this afternoon Florida is convulsed by confrontations in Tampa and Orlando and Miami. Someone has driven a red pickup truck into a crowed of protestors in Jacksonville and the governor’s mansion in Tallahassee has been surrounded. Preparations are underway to call in the military in Minneapolis tonight. Protestors face off with the Secret Service in front of the White House.

A heat is already out of control.

Must we get to the grief this way? Is there no other?

* * *

The other day I found out that my favorite living jazz pianist has been dead for several months. Lyle Mays found fame as a member of Pat Metheny’s ensemble, co-writing much of the work. (He was also apparently a great pool player and even better mathematician.). Mays released a few solo efforts in the years since but retired from professional music in 2003 to work as a computer consultant. On Feb. 10, it was announced that Mays had passed at the age of 66 “after a long illness” of which I’ve never found further explanation. (My guess is that he committed suicide after years of depression.)

Lyle Mays had a lyricism unparalleled by any other jazz pianist other than Bill Evans, whom Mays revered and co-write with Metheny an utterly inspired elegy in “September Fifteenth.” (Evans died on that day in 1980.) His gifts were archly classical–in later life he composed deep responses to Stravinsky and Debussy—but his touch was gentler than any other musical artist. Angels were summoned in the infinitesimal arpeggios he glanced whisperingly from the keys. Spirits drifting. Soaring.

The beauty of Mays’ music is almost unbearable.  That surely helps explain his early departure. Lyle Mays lived longer than Bill Evans, who died at age 51 after what a girlfriend called “the longest suicide in history.” How could it be otherwise for the two, mounting a musical cross of yearning, emotional truth and heart-breaking gorgeousness?

I first heard “September Fifteenth” in 1981 when I was 24, a year into my new life in Florida and recently shattered from a breakup. That song touched depths in my broken heart that I didn’t know existed. Soon after that my younger brother was nearly killed in a car accident. He survived a massive head injury, but his musical ambitions were destroyed (he’d lost hearing in one ear) and he since suffered disorientation and double-vision. In 2008 he died of a heart attack; he was 44. My grief of him was deeper than anything I had experienced. I collected his ashes, his laptop and photographs and returned to Florida.

What a surprise to discover that the last song he played on his laptop iTunes the day he died was “September Fifteenth.”

It’s been a few days since I found out about Mays’s death and I’m still grieving hard. I know his music will always be there.  (I didn’t find out there was a Bill Evans until after he died.) I know too that the music we love resounds much deeper than the personal. Yet I can’t help feel a grief that is wrapped up in so many losses, the woman I lost long ago, my brother, my mother and father, Lyle Mays, my youth. What else? My pre-pandemic life. My humanity. My Earth. All going, soon gone.

We say there are chains of events. Men walk on the moon. The last white rhino vanishes. Victoria’s Secret models drink Ipecac and walk flawlessly in thongs with wings. Rising waters threaten Arctic tribes. There are riots in Ferguson Missouri.  A Republican president breaks the spine of decades of environmental regulation. Orangutans fade further away. Australia burns. A pangolin gives up a COVID ghost. Dairy farmers close to bankruptcy wonder if anyone is really sick of the disease. The world swelters. Rich people get wealthier in the stock market.  Police fan out with batons and pepper spray. Elon Musk shakes hands with Donald Trump as a Falcon 9 rocket lifts into the sweet hot blue Florida sky. Thunder rolls in where hope has vanished, replacing it with the drum of things unfolding.

Back to Cole:

Yesterday’s death toll from Covid-19 in New York State was 804 people. There’s consolation in the falling numbers, sure, but I mostly think about how, with better leadership, far fewer people would be bereaved right now. But leaders are nothing without their followers, and many Americans have decided to inhabit an alternate reality. What is newly shocking is realizing that their fanciful reality is impervious to everything, even a horrifying daily death toll.

… I want to weep. I can’t weep; I can’t write either. Is shock necessarily naïve? Can’t it also be evidence of taking in, and being affected by, new information?

I’m still thinking about ‘‘Zoom funerals.’’ There’s good reason the earliest surviving traces of many civilizations have to do with the burial of the dead: tombs, barrows, tumuli. In Sophocles’ ‘‘Antigone,’’ King Creon denies funeral rites to Polynices. Polynices is dead anyway and won’t know in what manner his body is disposed of — but Antigone knows, and we know, and it is what the living know that matters. Our need for proper ritual will never subside.

We are eager to find out what an old text can say to our new situation. But ‘‘Antigone’’ won’t tell you what to do in the time of Covid-19. The play is about individual conscience against the state, loyalty to family, funerary customs, the clash between two varieties of self-contradiction and, above all, the workings of tragedy. Tragedy is not simply that something bad happens; it’s that one thing leads to another: if this, then that, and if that, then the other thing. In Seamus Heaney’s version of ‘‘Antigone,’’ ‘‘The Burial at Thebes,’’ he has the chorus declare: ‘‘It starts like an undulation underwater,/A surge that hauls black sand up off the bottom,/Then turns itself into a tidal current. . . .’’

One thing leads to another. Polynices dies in battle, and Antigone, for defying the directive to leave him unburied, is sentenced to death. She hangs herself. Haemon, to whom she was engaged, kills himself with a sword. Eurydice, grieving her son, also commits suicide. Hubris, cruelty, and next thing you know, an entire generation is brought to grief. We can see the tidal current and the wreckage in its wake; but why has it happened? All we know is that different choices would have led to a different outcome.

We thought we still had time to respond to the climate emergency. But then pandemic happened, a global event almost no one saw coming. Now we are here. It is even hard to apprehend the Earth any more; the news is choked with protest and anger. Racial injustice has pre-empted the space we need to feel Earth injustice. Even fresh outbreaks of the virus (rampant now in India and Honduras) are just a murmur.

This afternoon a rocket pointed at heaven. It only will make it as far as the International Space Station, but it’s a milestone of sorts, the first time US astronauts have lifted off from US soil in 9 years. My father-in-law who suffers from advanced dementia had worked for years representing various manufacturers to NASA from the late ‘50s to the early ‘80s. Ten years ago he and I toured the Kennedy Space Center, with him struggling to remember and me marveling at the immensity of the technology and the worlds we might find out there. We walked through the vast Vehicular Assembly Building and beneath the length of a Saturn V rocket, like a massive whale mounted in the sky. Those thrusters like city-sized flukes, capable of swimming to the darkest depths of the night sky.

On Saturday a Space X rocket soared toward that infinity, leaving this vale behind. Leaving us here to witness what comes next.

Thunder coming closer. One of the last Amur Leopards tracks the vanishing snow of the Russian Far East. In Brazil, COVID infections hurl a dizzy spiral out of a president’s silent mouth. These events are synchronized in a broken sort of time, no more the result of hundreds of generations of relations between living things. Knots of time unfraying, releasing the conditions of functional extinction which precede the actual.

If time is breaking apart, how are we to read what comes next? What is sequence in an asynchronous time?

Consider, reflect, write. What do you see ahead? Protest? Love? Grief?

— Brendan