170822

Fleshing out some ideas for a series, here’s a recent Cintiq sketch with 100 years of the Pacific Decadal Oscillation run through d3.

I think of the activity we call science as a somatosensory extension, some enhanced and self-directed intelligence beginning when the first person wondered about the night sky or was no longer content with the information afforded to them through five basic senses and a singular, isolated human experience. I wonder about some different way of being where the external clunkiness of instrumentation were suddenly supplanted by a visceral ability to feel every cold front, see ultraviolet wavelength, and hear the shift and crack of icebergs hundreds of miles away.

I wonder if we’d have any different perspective of our actions, in this vivid and immediate landscape, or if a hardwired tendency to spare ourselves threat salience would still override our perception even with ten, twenty, or one hundred ways to experience a lushly tapestried world of information.

This is why I work in science media, to contribute whatever small part I am able in healing and retelling this story. It’s never seemed anything but vastly awash in immediacy to me, a world full of pattern and complexity and self-organizing intelligence, of centuries-long interwoven trajectories of fucking and fighting and adaptation set before the one background high note of all life and proliferation on earth, an unequivocally resounding *yes*. I do the best I can to share that perspective well, and am always looking to improve.

160130

Edges and boundaries, desert edition. Flying over patterns on the earth we’ve made with our growing and fighting and fucking and feeding, even in the most inhospitable places, and I’m thinking of the mold blooms that never leave our bathroom, a recent tropical-virus-of-the-week map, blotches of dermatophytosis on an elderly woman in front of me at the grocery store this morning. Sometimes from above this just seems like some weird scab you could scratch off, leaving the dry land to quickly heal underneath.

151021

It’s amazing to me that the deposition of precious metals on the earth’s surface has been a long-running mystery, and that our most accepted theory is that we were peppered with them from space by a series of asteroids. A continent was crossed, towns rose and fell, rails were laid and prostitutes were lavishly decorated by our steadfast obsession with some gleaming sky gravel. It’s said that the total amount of gold mined worldwide would measure 20 meters square, and our entire system of buying and selling things – food, clothing, shelter, more shiny rocks, our limited time on earth – has been consensually based on this one cube the size of a backyard until just before my lifetime.

141203

The rain is here and the ground starts to exhale
people go about their business relieved, slightly quieter

And for all our long relationship with the land
the imposing of our limited and short-sighted human ideas
the endless fences
the concept of private property
imaginary lines in the sand
our furtive scrawling of ideas like (nation-state) over the deserts and mountains and plains
the maps we draw
the heartache and division it causes
the miles of concrete and razor wire

The clearcutting
the poisoning of oceans
the slicing clean of mountaintops
the pummeling and manipulation to force the land to yield
bigger faster better
the stripping of nutrients and minerals
of life-giving properties
the fields turned to dust
the shattered shale
the chemicals dumped into clean aquifers in the name of profit

For all these relative microabrasions that add up to one
howling worldwide wound

For all this we still do not control the sky
for all this
for all our clever predictive technology
the greenscreen weather maps
the meteorologist’s glistening dental veneers
the seed clouds
the attempts at papering over this expanse of blue with
slow-trolling airplanes pulling ads for car insurance
for all this
it is still a wild thing
still attempting to set a balance
shake off our cumulative damage
For all this we still have the farmer
the anxious hope
the straining to watch gathering clouds
the pleas and offerings to our various gods throughout millennia
of corn and harvest, water and sky
we still marvel
we still have some shred of wonder at late-season monster tornadoes and seven feet of upstate snow
at something far more powerful than ourselves
and some none-too-gentle reminder we are still so very small.

And for all this, regardless of what it means, I am grateful.