How It Seems To Me
In the vast abyss before time, self
is not, and soul commingles
with mist, and rock, and light. In time,
soul brings the misty self to be.
Then slow time hardens self to stone
while ever lightening the soul,
till soul can loose its hold of self
and both are free and can return
to vastness and dissolve in light,
the long light after time.
Music today is Vortex Temporum….
I seem to be coming back to clouds. Not a surprise, surely, for a photographer. I wrote about them, among others, in the context of poetry of exile, or metaphorically linking them to the insights modern genetics can bring us.
What approach shall we take today? Start with Aristophanes’ Cloud Cuckoo Land (nephelokokkȳgía (νεφελοκοκκυγία), a satire of a bird-built city in the clouds meant to ridicule Athenians for living in a fantasy world rather than facing reality? Now used as an insult for naive, slightly deranged people bent on conspiracies that the impossible might happen?
Or start with Anthony Doerr’s novel of the same name, which links multiple narrators across 600 years in a time-traveling puzzle celebrating the power of stories? A puzzle that provides the hope – or fantasy? – that some permanence of tales told echoes the permanence of our world, despite predictions to the contrary? (I am not a fan of his, I think I reviewed All the Light that we can see here earlier in not too friendly a way. But Cloud Cuckoo Land is beloved by many readers who cling to the bit of optimism it provides.)
Shall it be Shelley, the poet famous for his poem, among others, that personified a cloud as a sentient narrator? The Cloud is a long poem (thus linked, not posted here in full,) beautiful, wistful, complex and, as it turns out, not entirely true.
The fourth line in the last stanza of the poem is both true and false – it turns out certain kinds of clouds ARE changing (at least where they are operating), and not for the better, leaving dead zones behind. Functionally dead clouds, then, in a challenge to Shelley. (And yes, as you might have anticipated, we are ending up with science, after all these longwinded throat clearings.)
Here is a summary of findings as reported in a long read from the NYT last month.
Basically, different clouds have different roles in the regulation of our climate systems. Some have a cooling effect of land or water, some warm the earth’s surfaces.
Low clouds – puffy cumulus, stratocumulus and flat stratus layers – help with cooling by reflecting light back upwards from their white surfaces and casting shade onto the world below due their density. They absorb heat from the earth and also radiate it back into space in equal measure, because the water droplets they consist of are warm, thus not trapping warmth overall.
High clouds – cirrus and cirrocumulus – on the other hand, are warming our world, counterintuitively so, given that they are much colder, filled with ice crystals. The sun permeates them, because they are less dense. And they act like a blanket to earth, not sending the warmth back into space.
Until serious global warming began, the clouds protected us on net, with the lower ones outweighing the damage done by the higher ones. But now we have a feedback loop where global warming is making the low clouds steadily disappear where they are needed, while the high ones further heat up the planet. Climate change has shifted wind patterns and expanded the tropics, the storm systems with cumulus clouds are drifting towards the poles, and so leaving large stretches open to sunlight. With heat thus increasing, it feeds into drift patterns that expand vulnerable land areas even further.
Succinctly put: the delicate energy balance of sunlight coming in, some of it being reflected, and some of it being absorbed, no longer holds. When low cloud cover diminishes, the scales tip. More solar energy gets trapped in oceans and land surfaces, leading to higher temperatures, more intense heatwaves, and increasingly unpredictable weather. (Ref.)
What can be done, specifically regarding cloud covers? We could certainly try and reduce contrails, (short for condensation trails), which are formed when hot exhaust from an airplane’s engines meets the cold upper atmosphere, causing water vapor to condense into visible ice crystals.
“When the air at cruising altitude is cool enough and moist enough, these contrails spread into high, thin layers that contribute to atmospheric warming. It’s entirely possible for airlines to avoid flying at altitudes where the air is conducive to forming contrails. A 2020 study found that adjusting the cruising altitude of just 2 percent of flights could reduce contrail warming by nearly 60 percent, without using much more fuel.”
(Not to be mistaken for the conspiracy theorists’ assumption of “chemtrails,” the idea that these trails are composed of harmful chemicals intentionally sprayed into the atmosphere for nefarious purposes, spreading Covid or other viruses, poisoning our environment with other chemical or biological agents. Cloud Cuckoo Land….)
Contrails can clearly be harmful in terms of producing blanket clouds aggravating global warming. Flying less, overall, might be suggested as a solution, rather than simply wishing for flying at lower altitudes! But we keep our head in the clouds….
Images from a series – Fragility – currently in the works, that contextualizes environmental harm and protection.
Music matches the mood.
One of my favorite short poems as a child was by a poet with the pen name Joachim Ringelnatz (a.k.a. Hans Bötticher.) A contemporary of George Grosz and Otto Dix, his work was declared degenerate by the Nazis. He died in 1934, so was spared to see the horrors unfolding further, but his writings and cabaret performances were prescient and subversive. Many of his poems rhymed and so are difficult to translate – in fact I have found nothing but really bad translations.
The poem in question described two ants who decided to travel to Australia, starting in Hamburg and realizing that their legs hurt in Altona, then an adjacent town, now an integrated neighborhood of the larger city in Northern Germany. Aching legs made the ants “wisely decide that they should forgo the rest of the trip.”
He concludes: one often desires and rarely succeeds, perfectly happy to let go in those cases.
Die Ameisen
In Hamburg lebten zwei Ameisen,
die wollten nach Australien reisen.
Bei Altona auf der Chaussee
da taten ihnen die Beine weh,
und da verzichteten sie weise
dann auf den letzten Rest der Reise.
So will man oft und kann doch nicht
und leistet dann recht gern Verzicht.
Hier is the most frequently cited translation:
There once were two ants in Westphalia
Who wanted to go to Australia.
But cursing their feet
In a Belgian street
They gave up the trip as a failya.
Man. Hamburg is not in the state of Westphalia, and rhyming must be found elsewhere. They didn’t curse their feet, and were nowhere near Belgium, – the hole point was about walking a distance of a mile or less – and actually welcomed the end of the trip. The translator ignored the last two “moral of the tale” – lines altogether. — Failya.
The last lines ignored here as well. I wonder if it has to do with the fact that they are not exactly the approved moral in a protestant work-ethic country that urges us to strive regardless, forever.
—
Detour: another German poet with work much comparable to the linguistic mischief of Ringelnatz’ hast just been translated into English in a superb volume of collected poems. Max Knight translated Christian Morgenstern‘s The Gallow Songs with wit and the skill of a preservationist, wherever he could.
If you don’t want to splurge on the book, here is a treat for free: Ogden Nash reads an earlier translation of the poems on the Internet Archives.
—
Back to the Ringelnatz ants: a commissioned, supersized sculpture of those two travelers was created by sculptor Peter Schröder and unveiled in Altona at the (Elb)chaussee in 2014. Made from bronze, and attached to an 150-year old copperplate rescued fron the roof of a church, on which part of the poem was engraved (they again left out the “moral”,) the sculptor soon attracted thieves, out to glean metal. A replacement version was erected in April 2022 and stolen in September 2022. In 2023 they anchored the latest replacement into a wall of the guest house of the foundation who had it commissioned in the first place.
“So will man doch und kann oft nicht…..” you can’t always have what you want!
—
In any case, why am I reporting on German nonsense verse? Well, ants, of course.
Not only is a poem remembered, the cold weather is driving them into bathrooms and kitchens to the dismay of the human inhabitants. More importantly, I learned a new fact about ants that blew my mind.
It turns out that Iberian Harvester queen ants of the species Messor ibericus produce offspring that is either their own species, or a totally different one.
Two brothers of different species, produced by the same mother: Messor ibericus (left) and Messor structor (right). Jonathan Romiguier
“Scientists recently discovered that Iberian harvester ant queens (Messor ibericus) mate with males of another species, the builder harvester ant (Messor structor). When they do, the M. ibericus queens store the M. structor male’s sperm, then use it to fertilize some of the eggs they lay. Researchers think the M. ibericus queens remove their own genetic material from the eggs’ nuclei, so that when those eggs hatch, they effectively turn out to be M. structor male clones.
The queens produce males of both M. ibericus and M. structor, and all the worker ants in M. ibericus colonies are female hybrids of the two species.” (Ref.)
That defies a fundmental principle of biology, or the way we have been defining what a species is. It is also particularly strange in evolutionary terms, since the two species diverged more than five million years ago. It is, as someone said, as if a woman gave birth to both, a human child and an Orang-Utan baby.
The scientists had their work cut out for them. Trying to find males and analyzing their DNA was not easy. They dug up multiple nests in France with ten of thousands of ants and found only 132 males, which turned out to be indeed M. ibericus AND M. structor. (Maybe ants are far advanced relative to our own society – where we hear non-stop argumentation about women replacing men these days – just read “How Women destroyed the West” from yesterday’s NYT…. oh well, I did try to stay away from politics. My bad.)
According to the article in Nature, the researchers had to come up with a new term to describe the behavior exhibited by M. ibericus queens: “xenoparity,” which essentially means “foreign birth.” All useful citizens of the great ant nation, one presumes, since there must be some adaptive value to this.
M.structors make for good builders, and their own colonies are in a very specific, remote locale. So traveling with their sperm for further use across Southern Europe might help spread their DNA and allows M. Ibericus queens to choose their own timing and locale to produce builders.
Anyhow – you now have totally disconnected and non-essential new bits of knowledge to fill up your brain. 1o minutes of distraction from our world, though, producing wonder. Hopefully appreciated.
Alternatively, we can go right back to an “undercurrent of anxiety, themes of decay, consumption, or overwhelming infestation” – all of which were implied by art reviews assessing Dali’s painting below. Hm, I just see some shiny ants happily feasting.
M.Structor or M. Ibericus?
Salvador Dali The Ants (1936-37)
Music today by one of Hamburg’s famous sons: Brahms‘ string quartet No. 1 in C minor.
Photographs of leaves today in honor of leaf cutter ants.
There is some interesting work done with and about them by artist Catherine Chalmers who filmed and photographed them at work, ending up with “collages.” Here is a fun clip documenting her approach with wild ants in Central America.
Am I correct that we have a date? Meeting out there on 10/18/2025?
Need to find your convenient event site for a peaceful demonstration? Easy. Click on the link and enter zip code.
Fearful? Consider what that says about our country and our current circumstances. Your fear is the best possible argument for going.
No Thrones.
No Crowns.
No Kings.
—
Just Frogs…..
Of course, humorous ridicule alone won’t cut it.
…
We must reconsider Dickinson….
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Let us be public, for this one (or livelong) day, and call the name out to a blinded world: the name is ANTIFASCIST.
And when I say ” Hop to it!”, you are not required to do it like this….leave that to the Royal Ballet (performing the Tales of Jeremy Fisher).
Just march.
Frog memes will not defeat fascism.
It is up to every single one of us.
A two-and-a-half year-old of my acquaintance is by all reports besotted with pumpkins and other Halloween decorations. I have been sending her photographs of pumpkins and some considerations for how to explore different colors, since painting is another current cherished activity.
Today’s images, then, are the results of my trying to keep up with the creativity of my favorite toddler. They are also related to the poetry of Richard Brautigan, the master of observing everyday occurrences and putting them into innocent, childlike, anti-poetic words that can be grasped by everyone, exert an incredibly strong visual pull, and are deceptive in their simplicity.
—
The Pumpkin Tide
I saw thousands of pumpkins last night
come floating in on the tide,
bumping up against the rocks and
rolling up on the beaches;
it must be Halloween in the sea.
***
It is the time of year, where walks around the neighborhood are dominated by Halloween decorations. Plain, messy old pumpkins have been replaced by plastic ones, inflatable figures waste electricity, and attempts at humor compete with gruesome skeletons and jumping monster spiders.
How do you explain to a child what this is all about? Do you explain the pagan origins of Halloween, coming from the Celtic world of ancient Britain and Ireland? A celebration of the beginning winter period, a day where the souls of those who had died were believed to return, and those who had died in the preceding year were on their journey to the afterworld? With bonfires lit to frighten away evil spirits, and disguises and masks worn to not be recognized by the ghosts among us?
Or do you center the 7th century Christian attempts to supplant pagan rites with the introduction of Allhallotide, a three-day Christian triduum dedicated to remembering the dead that begins with Halloween (October 31- the evening before All Saints’ Day became a holy, or hallowed, eve, from which the word “Halloween” evolved,) and is followed by All Saints’ Day (November 1) and All Souls’ Day (November 2)? (Ref.)
Protestant Reformation, by the way, put an end to this for non-Catholics. Majority Catholic countries, like most of Mexico and South America, still celebrate, often happily and vividly, the Day of the Dead.
Or do you stress the notion of a now secular holiday, devoted to fun costumes and endless candy, if your parents let you….? So how to explain the ubiquitous skeletons?
***
These are the same questions I ask myself when thinking about fairy tales, or kids exposed to adults teaching them to take the bible as a literal document to be believed. Does it make a difference in how children learn about these things if and when the adults themselves believe in the tales they tell or not?
I suppose the function of fairy tales (or biblical lore) as instructions for how to understand the world, behave in the world and perhaps change a world that is unjust and menacing, is enhanced by a belief that the threats are for real. If you trust that you’ll end up eaten by the witch if you abscond to the woods, or fry in hell if you covet your neighbor’s possessions, you might be indeed more inclined to follow the rules.
Note, though, that it is not always about punitive actions. Fairy tales in particular often stress the positive outcomes of courage and risk taking, the questioning of hierarchical oppression, the power of empathy and reciprocal aid. And in modern versions, the Disneyfication of the old stories, if you will, evil powers and their reach have certainly been tamped down, compared to what the originals contained, stressing agency instead of assured victimhood.
The German fairy tales I heard as a child were assuredly different than the ones I read to my American children, more brutal and more inclined to stress the consequences of misbehavior. And fear was a palpable experience, in the absence of Halloween decorations, for a non-Catholic child in my catholic village during All Souls’ Day in the beginning of November. I have written about it before, but the flickering of remembrance candle lights on the graves of the local cemetery, breaking through the darkness of the flat, misty landscape of beet fields and meadows, gave me bone-deep shivers as a child. It was not about ghosts. It was about death. Death in the context of a too recent war, with evil at its roots.
Now, ignoring ghosts, specters, witches and all the other symbolic stand-ins, we are focused on the existence of evil again, in the context of war and in the vicinity of cease-fire agreements, in unadulterated crimes against humanity, as just one example picked for its sadistic timing. Could come up with uncountable more, all over the world, all sides.
How do you preserve the innocence of a young child, model courage and foster their fearlessness, provide them with a moral compass with a true north of all humanity in our current world? How do you celebrate the memory of the dead when we are all implicated in bringing about their demise, be it by action, indirect financing, or simple silence and averting our eyes?
Any answers out there?
I was thinking hard about what music to include today. There is the heavy, if beautiful piece by Ralph Vaughan Williams, Dona Nobis Pacem, Give us Peace. It is a war protest, and includes the Catholic Agnus Dei, three poems by Walt Whitman, a speech by Quaker politician John Bright, and excerpts from the Biblical book of Jeremiah.
But in the interest of lifting us all (and preserving a young child’s chance to listen to some really cool music!) I think I’ll recommend this. Maurice Ravel wrote this to commemorate friends and acquaintances who died in WW I, and was accused of doing it too light-hearted. His response: “The dead are sad enough, in their eternal silence.”
It is us, the living, who need this musical consolation. Music, painting pumpkins, watching kids blossom – creativity and connectedness help us to get through hard times in one piece. They are the tools to guard ourselves against the pain, the hopelessness, the fear at our doorsteps – feelings that surface way too often these days, at least for me.
About time we introduce some new members to that idiosyncratically chosen group, don’t you think?
The first person should have been known to me, but wasn’t. I only learned about them when a dear friend sent me a bundle of postcards from a current blockbuster exhibition in Hamburg, Germany. She knew how much I wished to see Rendevous of Dreams at the Hamburger Kunsthalle, celebrating a century of Surrealism and juxtaposing some of the works with those of German Romanticists who were influenced by some of the same inspirations as the more modern movement.
“The supernatural and irrational, dreams and chance, a feeling of community and encounters with a changing natural world were vital sources of inspiration for German Romanticism and shaped international Surrealism differently a century later.” (Ref.)
Toyen The Dream (1937)
If you live in northern Germany, go see paintings by Max Ernst, Meret Oppenheim, René Magritte, Salvador Dalí, Valentine Hugo, Toyen, André Masson, Paul Klee and Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840) and Philipp Otto Runge (1777–1810,) while I longingly stare at the postcards.
So: here is Toyen, a name that means “it is he” in Czech, but could also be a play on the French citoyen,) chosen by a painter originally named Marie Čermínová (1902 -1980) who refused to use any feminine endings in her own language (which contains linguistic gender differentiation). They were a firebrand, left home as a young teenager and followed progressive political movements while attending UMPRUM (Academy of Arts, Architecture and Design) in Prague. They worked closely with fellow Surrealist poet and artist Jindřich Štyrský until Štyrský’s death, collaborated with the future Nobel prize-winning poet Jaroslav Seifert, and poet František Halas. Living for some years in Paris, they and Styrsky founded an artistic alternative to Abstraction and Surrealism, which they dubbed Artificialism.
Toyen Among the Long Shadows (1943)
Their output was prolific, in paintings, drawings and book illustrations even during the years when they went underground during the Nazi Occupation in Prague, sheltering Jewish poet Jindřich Heisler. The two moved to Paris permanently after the war and joined the Paris Surrealists. Even when fascism struck and attacked a person and their work, they did not give an inch, much less capitulated. I am so grateful for models that indicate you can – and must – follow your passion, even under the most dire of circumstances.
The work is ravishing. If you live in Great Britain, you had a chance to see some of it at Richard Saltoun Gallery in London. Dreaming in the Margins was up until October 4th (this blog got delayed, alas, by reports on more pressing current events…) You can still look at the website, though.
Toyen THE LAW OF SILENCE (1953)
Toyen’s sexuality is unknown, since they avoided revealing any details about their personal life, creating a mysterious persona, but their public styling cut across gender boundaries. This fluidity was one of the factors that led to an artistic focus on themes of gender, politics, and eroticism, but they also created highly political art that addressed women’s experiences, misogyny and the destructive effects of war and authoritarian regimes. Here is a longer biographical sketch of the artist which labels Toyen as transgender.
Toyen Eclipse (1968)
***
I really can’t figure out how that artist escaped me, given my preoccupation with Surrealism this year with all those centennial celebrations (and prior to that just my affinity to some of the female artists of that movement before they were introduced to mainstream audiences.)
I am less perturbed by the fact that I had never encountered Frank Menchaca, the second person for today’s addition to the interesting people department, a composer who turns out also to be a visual artist, a poet and writer, with a foot in the sustainable energy business and education. Talk about a renaissance man. His visual art work can be perused on his website (link in name) that offers some 14 galleries. I came across his music first; just like Toyen cross-referenced poetry in her illustrations and other works, Menchaca links some of his compositions to poetry, in direct and indirect ways. As you know, I am a sucker for cross overs. And I feel certainly encouraged by people who do not restrict themselves to one creative or intellectual area only, even if standards of excellence might differ across media. I allow myself too often to beg off of some project just because I am not good (enough) at it, and it is so easy to retreat to the familiar.
What brought me to Menchaka is a piece titled Crows listening to Wallace Stevens. It can be found on an album The Demon rubs his Palm which I have listened to so often now that I can whistle in the demon’s company. By all descriptions, the music relates to multiple contemporary composers like John Luther Adams, for example. I wouldn’t know. I do know Steven’s 13 Ways of looking at a Blackbird, though, given that I spent an entire spring 15 years ago creating drawings and montages for the stanzas of this poem that I found wonderfully challenging to interpret. Early days for me regarding the craft, but I still like the ideas.
Here is my exhibition statement from 2011:
Wallace Stevens’ poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, first published in 1913, has been hailed as an imagistic masterpiece. Stevens himself called it “a collection not of epigrams or ideas, but of sensations.” A first reading of the 13 stanzas, each mentioning the blackbird, offers indeed a multitude of sensory modes and perceptions. On closer inspection, though, the poem hints, as so much of Stevens’ work, at the relation between the perceivers and the world they perceive, extending our focus beyond perception to thoughts and feelings as well. Yet the text is challenging, frequently switching perspectives between who does the looking and who beholds whom in knowledge of the world. For good measure, Stevens adds the occasional barb, sufficiently opaque to leave the reader even more unsettled. Who would know that “the bards of euphony” refers to his critics (Stanza X) or that the men of Haddam, a hamlet in Connecticut, embarked on a futile search for gold (Stanza VII).
My challenge was to provide sufficiently representational images to echo the content of the stanzas, but to stay abstract enough to mirror the reticence of the poem’s language. I tried to convey my sense of the poem as a whole, taking as my guide the notion that our perception inevitably goes “beyond the information given,” such that the phenomenal world can never be objectively represented but consists rather of a chain of apperceptions guided by interpretation. To accomplish this goal, I, among other things, replaced the poem’s blackbird with glass marbles that were montaged into my drawings and photographs from my daily environment.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Again, here is the full album, best listened to without interruptions, and on multiple occasions, when the connections become ever more visible, or should I say audible, rooted in a poem performed at the end.
I am so tired of waiting,
Aren’t you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two –
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.
Music by Bela Bartok.
Want to walk with me? Meet me about 30 miles east of San Francisco, at the Alamo Oaks Trail, a small hilly enclave in the middle of suburban developments of the city of Danville, CA.
The hills are conscientiously tended to for fire prevention, grass mowed to a stubble, dry branches piled up for removal. It still has a feel of open nature, not manicured park, though, enhanced by the fact that I seemed to be the only soul around hiking the steep slopes.
The cracked grey dirt on the path visually mirrored the cracked grey bark of the oak trees, no bird song around other than the occasional chittering acorn woodpecker, calling for company.
Dust everywhere. Even though the oak leaves looked green from afar, they were coated with it, oak galls dropping left and right.
Brought me back to the images along the Interstate Highway on our drives, going south from Portland, going north back home all the way from SoCal.
Dust plumes whipped up by the wind, and more so by tractors and other farming equipment.
Which led to thinking about agriculture and the tragedy of all those 2.5 million people ruined and displaced by the 1930s dust bowl, following the late 1920s crash and subsequent Great Depression. At the time, poor farming techniques caused the soil to erode. A seven year drought starting in 1931, together with the erosion, led to desert-like conditions, unfit for growing food or keeping animal stock alive. When the winds came the dust was carried away in huge clouds, sickening people and depleting the once fertile grasslands.
Archival image showing dust storms in OK
Climate change brings, of course, increasing droughts but also increasing flooding events that make farming just as impossible. I urge you to read in-depth reporting on what farm families face these days, in the mid-West and increasingly California as well. Pro-Publica has a two part series that reveals how much farming should change, given the current and future conditions, but is stuck in a senseless place of doing the same old, no-longer-working thing, due to federal farm policies. (Part 1/ Part 2) The shortest summary: subsidies, including federalized crop insurance, are keeping farmers on land that is no longer productive. Programs that could help to pull out destitute farmland from production are cut by the Trump administration.
It is not the only problem farmers face (or berry-pickers and meatpacking workers — often immigrants employed exploitatively and with unsafe conditions, with workplace protections varying from state to state, never mind the current rash of ICE deportation.) Farmers continually loose access to markets as large companies buy up smaller, locally run grocery stores. (The following statistics are culled from an in-depth, devastating article in High Country News.) Four grocery giants – Walmart, Albertsons Companies, Kroger Companies and Costco – now control most of the markets, even if they run under diverse store names, which gives them power not just over consumers, but producers as well.
Farmers’ Markets are a desperate counter weight to these monopolies, but there are way too few to make a real dent (California has only 2, Oregon 5.9 per 100 000 people.)
In terms of production, 78% of the market share is held by 6% of U.S. farms, with ever larger scale production driving out family farmers. 1.8 million small farms constitute the remaining 22 %, many of them on the brink of ruin now with the tariffs. Farm bankruptcies already swelled under the first Trump administration, things are worse now. Up to 30% of Arkansa farmers are facing bankruptcy this year if not rescued by emergency funds (and they voted overwhelmingly Republican.) Expanding tax subsidies, of course, benefits not all equally.
Subsidies, once introduced to ease the pain during the Great Depression, now lead to overproduction and discourage innovation in farming practices.
Approximately one-third of U.S. farms receive regular subsidies, with larger farms benefiting more significantly. The top 10% of subsidy recipients receive about two-thirds of total farm subsidies, in direct payments, crop insurance and loans, often favoring large agribusinesses over smaller farms. They also contribute to environmental issues, as large-scale farming often relies on monoculture practices that can harm ecosystems. 30 billion $$ spent, but no talk of welfare queens….
With the new congressional bill, environmentally destructive overproduction of a few major food commodities, combined with stubbornly high and rising hunger rates, particularly among children, will be intensified and prolonged.
As reported by MOTHER JONES: “The consequences promise to be devastating for the economy, the environment, and public health. The BBB slashes food aid for poor people while showering cash on already lavishly subsidized farmers, mainly corn and soybean producers…. The new law slashes $185.9 billion from SNAP over the next 10 years, a 20 percent reduction. While low-income people got kicked in the teeth, large-scale commodity farmers cashed in from Trump’s bill. Driven largely by billions of dollars of annual incentives for all-out production embedded in decades of farm bills, farmers in the upper Midwest have maximized corn and soybean production in ways that have pushed this vital growing region to its ecological limits. Soil is rapidly eroding away there, and pollution from agrichemicals fouls drinking-water sources and feeds harmful algae blooms from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico. The rapidly warming climate makes both problems worse.“
Not yet taken into account is the fact that even monopolist producers are starting to feel the pain of Trump policies. Just as the soybean harvest begins, there are no orders – zip – from one of the largest clients: China. They account for 25% of all soybean sales and more than half all soybean exports.
***
There is much heartbreaking, perceptive poetry written about the displacement of farmers, and the yearning for a return to the land that they were driven from through a combination of climate, governmental actions and the results of ruthless capitalism. The land calls, in Hughes’ poem below, despite the evident hardship, promising the freedom of a migratory bird in flight, in contrast to the caged one, mired in poverty. (Best read in conjunction with his poem Let America be America again. It also compelled me to offer one of the two musical choices today, a wonderful rendition of I know why the caged bird sings by Buckshot Le Fonque, reciting Maya Angelou’s poem of the same name.)
By Langston Hughes
Smoke from 21 wild fires in the vicinity of Dunsmuir lining the horizon.
View of Mt. Shasta.
I was equally drawn to more modern allusions to the hardships of the dust bowl, by Steven Leyva, a poet new to me. Very much attracted by his determination to stay hopeful under the veneer of his play with language, encapsulating the vagaries of defense against what this world has in store for us, including existential threat.
What You Need to Survive Vernon, OK
Sheer luck. Dumb-as-a-hammer-
without-the-handle luck. Two-yolks-
in-the-egg luck. The fourth leaf on
the clover isn’t enough. Leave the rabbit’s
feet alone. Beginner’s luck. One
bounce of the Plinko chip into the bonus.
The universe’s casual lagniappe. Crossing-
the-platform-and-catching-the-other-train luck.
Even-better-when-late luck. Onion-ring-
in-the-fries luck. The penny’s street resumé.
Hard worn, back-country luck. The creek unrisen.
The anti-Lazarus creek. The-glint-against-
the-barrel luck. Luck to see the sniper asleep.
Oil-derricks-never-went-dry luck. All-sevens-
and-a-pineapple luck. Good fortune to defy the odds
of hypertension or hair loss. Arm of the lucky cat
scratching the air forever. Unambitious Icarus Jones—
boy was lucky as a broken wishbone. Oh to match his lack
of fear, his letterman swagger [All State, Triple Jump Champ],
his young, gifted, and Black luck. A palm itching, money-on-
the-way luck. An ear burning, willing-to-fry-anyone-
who’s-talking-shit-around-the-way luck. An ace in the hole type.
A rueful magnanimity toward what is out of control.
An ease with being at ease while the state becomes the dust bowl.
BY STEVEN LEYVA
And here is Woody Guthrie with the Dustbowl Blues.
Too hot to hike. Too hot even for a walk around the corner. So I photograph in the garden, bees and bumblebees visiting the flowers in their late-summer state, a mix of full glory and early decay.
Not a random choice, of course. It all started with a book by Christian Wiman, award-winning poet, editor, translator, essayist, and theology professor of Religion and Literature at Yale Divinity School and the Yale Institute of Sacred Music.
A compilation of diverse entries, Zero at the Bone: Fifty Entries Against Despair, finds ways to communicate the complex relationship between hope and despair even for those of us who do not share the faith – or any faith – so central to its author.
Part autobiography, part poetry, part analysis of the importance of a moral and ethical existence in a world where many have turned away from these criteria to protect their own comfort and/or lust for hierarchical status and power, the book instructs, challenges, affirms, and repeatedly uses terrific wit to make the medicine go down.
I was drawn to the text of someone as different from me as possible – deeply religious vs. completely agnostic and missing pretty much any spiritual bone – because I heard an interview where he voiced something after having undergone a bone marrow transplant, something I could not agree with more, having experienced serious cancer:
I hear that kind of carpe diem language — there’s a famous line from Wallace Stevens: “Death is the mother of beauty,” meaning that we can’t, can’t ever perceive our lives until we look through it through the lens of death, but if you look through the lens of death, then it’s suddenly much more abundant and beautiful and sharp. And I have come to think that that is just a load of crap. [laughs]
I was also drawn to what I sensed amid his profusely proffered doubts and tribulations: a steadfastness in trust in a higher power that I can only dream of, actually truly envy. I found his entries against despair in some ways helpful, nonetheless, by pure association, however distant from the core approach.
As it turned out, the title of his book refers back to a phrase in a poem by Emily Dickinson, A narrow Fellow in the Grass (#1096) which is the gold standard when it comes to describing a sense of constriction and fear, the encounter with a snake leading to tightened breathing and cold (zero) seeping through the bone. For Wiman, zero refers to other things as well, often in relation to despair, it can be a name given to G-d, or an empty soul.
There’s much to learn from his writing, much that spoke to me as an artist as well.
“Why does one create? Two reasons: an overabundance of life and a deficiency of it; a sense that reality has called out in such a way that only your own soul can answer (I create “in return” said Robert Duncan,) and in a simultaneous sense that in that word “soul” is a hole that no creation of your own can ever fill.” (p.73)
In any case, I assumed that I was not going to review the entire book (previously done by others here and here, for one), just highly recommend it. I tried to find a poem by the author instead, that would convey the central themes of his thinking, the depth of his way of honing himself, refusing to go under, if only with proud sarcasm (note that the last word in it is entirely ambiguous – it could refer to his first name, or his faith.)
Here is the poem: (and here is a convenient link to the scientific research that has shown bees to have not just numerical skills – they can count up to 4 landmarks – but also a concept of nothing (zero) to be a number below the ones they could identify. Bringing real world applications and insights into the framework of asking the big questions is something I found – and liked – frequently in Wiman’s poetry.)
Even Bees Know What Zero Is
That’s enough memories, thank you, I’m stuffed.
I’ll need a memory vomitorium if this goes on.
How much attention can one man have?
Which reminds me: once I let the gas go on flowing
after my car was full and watched it spill its smell
(and potential hell) all over the ground around me.
I had to pay for that, and in currency quite other than attention.
I’ve had my fill of truth, too, come to think of it.
It’s all smeary in me, I’m like a waterlogged Bible:
enough with the aborted prophecies and garbled laws,
ancient texts holey as a teen’s jeans, begone begats!
Live long enough, and you can’t tell what’s resignation, what resolve.
That’s the bad news. The good news? You don’t give a shit.
My life. It’s like a library that closes for a long, long time
—a lifetime, some of the disgrunts mutter—
and when it opens opens only to an improved confusion:
theology where poetry should be, psychology crammed with math.
And I’m all the regulars searching for their sections
and I’m the detonated disciplines too.
But most of all I’m the squat, smocked, bingo-winged woman
growing more granitic and less placable by the hour
as citizen after citizen blurts some version of
“What the hell!” or “I thought you’d all died!”
and the little stamp she stamps on the flyleaf
to tell you when your next generic mystery is due
that thing goes stamp right on my very soul.
Which is one more thing I’m done with, by the way,
the whole concept of soul. Even bees know what zero is,
scientists have learned, which means bees know my soul.
I’m done, I tell you, I’m due, I’m Oblivion’s datebook.
I’m a sunburned earthworm, a mongoose’s milk tooth,
a pleasure tariff, yesterday’s headcheese, spiritual gristle.
I’m the Apocalypse’s popsicle. I’m a licked Christian.
BY CHRISTIAN WIMAN
And let me just get a bit of snark in at the end:
When I searched for the poem on google, the Search assist box popped up on top, as it is now wont to do. I never use these LLM for queries, forever raging at the amount of resources, water and electricity in particular, wasted by Chat GPT. An even better reason to ignore it: just look at the crap it delivers in the automatically appearing summary!
The poem: What looks like a satisfyingly irate tirade is really a call to recalibration. Shifting our focus away from self to soul might be quite the intellectual challenge, given how much we – I – have been tied to questions of the self, the way it is generated, mirrored in the approval of others, feared to be lost when body starts to rule mind, but it could just be an antidote to despair. Anything but what bees can and cannot do….. and if there is an intersection, it’s the one between suffering and the power of faith (whatever it might be you believe in.)
“Live long enough, and you can’t tell what’s resignation, what resolve.” I will cherish this line from the poem, during any and all periods of resigned or resolved eye-rolling!
And here are Satie’s musical vexations.
I have been absolutely hooked on an album by Fabrizio Cucco, called Tempo Fermo. It unfolds slowly, getting more powerful with each subsequent listening, creating and simultaneously satisfying a sense of longing. It is sung in Italian, so you might wonder why I am posting it with pictures of Portland Japanese Garden, an altogether different culture. Well, depending where you inquire, the English translation of the title says Down time, or Time Standing Still.
That is the garden for you: it forever offers down time, a shelter from thinking hard, feeling hard, worrying hard.
It provides beauty, in so many different dimensions, differences in patterns, from whole vistas to the smallest details.
Light,
and color.
It offers calm, as only nature can do, even if nature is pushed into defined configurations by mostly invisible sources (from garden designers to the knowledgable gardeners, who one encounters occasionally.)
It provides the comfort of familiarity, a place to return to that greets you with old standbys, or that you proudly assess for seasonal changes, like the familiar decorations alternating across holidays in your childhood home. Except here it is not decorations, it is nature itself that changes with the shifting amounts of daylight and temperatures. Change that is of the essence, not some imposed by-product of celebrating seasonal events.
Visiting the garden, like yesterday morning, also elicits, on occasion, my hopes for the other translation of the phrase tempo fermo: time standing still.
For a short moment I wished for time to stand still, to be preserved, just like my photographs preserve my way of seeing the world around me. I wanted not to have to leave the hazy light of the early morning, the still cool air before the heat settles in, the company of a friend who relishes quietude just as much as I do. I wanted to put that moment into a piece of amber, a moment when I could still walk and climb stairs, when pain was perfectly manageable, when news were tuned out and my brain switched away from analysis to simple, grateful awareness of nature’s beauty.
I wanted to hold on to a moment where the world can still be healed, in theory, where gardens can still defy the challenges brought on by climate change change, where frequent outings are not a luxury out of reach. Time standing still, so that no more deaths are accrued on the battlefields, the regions of genocidal starvation, the areas of natural disasters.
That wish – Time, stand still! – is of course one that has been shared by many people across the centuries. It has been experienced, most often in the context of love, longing, separation. Listen to one more piece of music that encapsulates the notion – from the 17th century by John Dowland.
Then again, here is the thing: if time stood still there would be no music. After all music is an unfolding in time – we have to switch from stand-still to procession, if we want to experience that art form. Beauty, then, offered in development rather than permanence, in “becoming” – I take that as a major consolation for futile longings of halting time!
And here is yet one more perspective on time:
On Meditating, Sort Of
Meditation, so I’ve heard, is best accomplished
if you entertain a certain strict posture.
Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree.
So why should I think I could ever be successful?
Some days I fall asleep, or land in that
even better place – half-asleep – where the world,
spring, summer, autumn, winter –
flies through my mind in its
hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.
So I just lie like that, while distance and time
reveal their true attitudes: they never
heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.
Of course I wake up finally
thinking, how wonderful to be who I am,
made out of earth and water,
my own thoughts, my own fingerprints –
all that glorious, temporary stuff.
By Mary Oliver
