What Now?

Roll clouds over Bad Ass Coffee in McKinney, August 4, 2024

I've been AWOL from The Farm for nearly four months now, trying to figure out what to do if the elections were to go badly for folks of my particular intellectual bent. Since I generally lack optimism and tend to gird myself for the worst in hopes of being pleasantly surprised, I thought I'd be well enough prepared for whatever happened. 

Like most of my fellow travelers, however, I fell into a kind of hopeful state of denial that a large enough plurality of voters could abandon common sense and/or willfully disbelieve the available evidence, and that reason would somehow prevail. And then the reality hit the fan and . . . . well, here we are. The consequences of the cognitively dissonant, counter-intuitive, intellectually and emotionally painful, and, yes, frightening election results are beginning to settle in.

The fact that we have a couple of months of marginally normal life left has numbed this household into a reflective mood, and we are beginning to shore up our inner resources--and a few of our external reserves--into strategies for facing the future in the developing dystopian moment.

So, my question: What now?

Fortunately for me, the gathering gloom brought forth some happy accidents during the last couple of months, and I discovered some interesting newsletters that kept me from doomscrolling through Quora, and gave me some rabbit holes to fall into and explore, and allowed me to enjoy the serendipity of found objects. In this case, the "objects" were really writers whose interests coincided with mine and practically coerced me into beginning to think sideways onto more productive paths. What's best about these folks is that after November 6th, they began channeling their grief and disappointment into productive avenues of creativity and philosophical engagement. So, in hopes that the folks who read this blog will not be surprised at my angst, and will probably commiserate in some measure, I decided to share some of these recent discoveries that might appeal to you as much as they have to me. I should note that everybody listed here offers ad-free content supported by subscriptions; some offer limited free access, but I urge you to subscribe if you can. 

Austin Kleon. Two or three months ago, I was idling through my Pinterest feed and came upon a compelling photo of a notebook that led me to its owner, the author of a book I wish I had known about when I was still teaching: Steal Like An Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative. As some of you already know (especially if you were one of my students), I am not generally fond of what could be called "self-help" books, but this little (about 6" square, 1/2" thick) tome-ette is a charmer. And it's helpful. Especially if you're in a crappy mood and can't seem to get anything accomplished. I liked it so much that I subscribed to his Substack (see the initial link), and then bought Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad, which seems consummately appropriate for this moment in world history. I'm now such a fan-girl that I eagerly await the newsletters I get twice a week, and they often set the tone for the morning. Last week's "Don't let your dreams give up on you" collage/post kept me going all day. 

Jason Kottke is a long-time blogger who's really good at connecting folks to other folks via links and commentary on his site. I subscribed to his newsletters, too, and am treated twice a week to intriguing, thought-provoking, beautiful, funny, entertaining, inspiring, and (I could go on, and on) other engaging stuff. He also introduced me to

Matt Pearce, the journalist who got me out of my snit about the Washington Post. When Jeff Bezos prohibited the WaPo's editorial board from endorsing Kamala Harris for President, I cancelled my digital subscription (which would have expired on the 11th anyway). Pearce, however, in a thoughtful essay, "Journalism's fight for survival in a postliterate democracy," convinced me that losing my piddly little 170USD per year subscription wasn't going to hurt Bezos one small bit (especially since I can't really afford to give up Amazon Prime from whence I feed my addiction to French murder procedurals), but the collective effect of losing all those pissed-off readers like me would seriously impact journalists. As the daughter of a foreign correspondent, I know how that could hurt. Anyway, it would also be a good idea to read the essay Alex Wagner interviewed Pearce about on MSNBC, "Lessons on media policy at the slaughter-bench of history: Contemplating the purpose of the press after the Trump revolution." I'm still reading him for free, but only until my Social Security check comes in. One note, though: I am no longer buying books through Amazon, and I urge you to tame your instant gratification urges and start buying from Bookshop.org instead. Yes you pay shipping, and yes it takes a little longer. But some of your money goes to an independent bookstore of your choice, and you'll be a better person.

I've got more of these, and a recent visit from two former students has convinced me that I need to get back to working diligently on the Farm. As Rachel Maddow has said (and Austin Kleon, and many others), it's time to do something. Since this is practically the only something I do, I guess I'd best get to it.

Image note: I thought that an ominous cloud formation might be an appropriate illustration for the topic. I took this photo at the end of a storm after consuming a terrific cup of Kona coffee.

Slouching Toward Gilead

Because nearly every day recently has contained elements that seem to portend the beginning of the end of rational life on earth, I've been reading more than my usual quota of science fiction. So, while I was looking for something to use as a banner for this post, I came across this wonderful diagram of The History of Science Fiction by Steve Jurvetson on Wikimedia Commons*, and I think I've managed to link to a high-res version (which is the only possible way to use it without getting a headache). Although as an infographic it's a bit difficult to follow, Jurvetson's connections among different genres and media throughout history (from Gilgamesh to now) offer a really useful way of following what I've come to think of as the literary genre with the longest history of all. 

Imagining different worlds and universes seems to characterize major shifts in historical events, ways of thinking, and--eventually--life, the universe, and everything.** Among the stories I've always loved best, even though I've been pretty much a free-range reader, have been those attempts to imagine what we could become at moments where what are becoming seems to be particularly problematic. Only recently I'd plowed through all three of Cixin Liu's Three Body Problem novels (and watched both television renditions) and was left longing for something that would restore my persistent suspicion that things might just turn out okay in the end.

I often return to Ursula K. Le Guin's early stories that feature striking contrasts between fairly simple economies (like the Kesh in Always Coming Home, or Falk's rescuers in City of Illusions) and their antagonists (the Condor People and the Shing), or that follow emerging connections during contacts between indigenous peoples and explorers (such as natives and ethnologists or colonists; I think the best of these, and the most relevant to the present is The Telling). But Le Guin tempers utopian leanings with realistic assessments of the things that get in the way: greed, power-hunger, fear/hatred of the other.

Living through the current election cycle seems more and more like being ensnared in an ill-conceived saga about people who yearn for a past that never really existed, others who have a better idea of what is actually going on but are powerless to effect any kind of meaningful change, and a much larger population of those who would rather not think about it at all.

So, I keep reading. Rather recently I discovered Robin Sloan's Mr. Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore and its companion (within the Penumbraverse) Sourdough. As often happens to me, at just about the time I'd finished both, Sloan's newest entry into his 'verse came out: Moonbound. I pre-ordered it and devoured it upon arrival. None of these books is actually science fiction as usually defined or experienced by folks like me. Instead they're variations on a magical-realistic view of the present (the first two), and a fantasy adventure that riffs off most of the stories/tropes that belong to boomers, gen-exers, and their descendants: C. S. Lewis, Tolkien, Harry Potter, Dungeons and Dragons, and a lot more I'm not even tangentially familiar with. Sloan's worlds are amusing, smart, with-it (I think; since I'm not, I'm not really sure what that means--but they seem particularly attuned to my children's generation), and engaging, even for old Luddite farts like me who fell out of the gaming world when she couldn't make it through Myst. [Note: I'm leaving the sourcing up to interested readers, since everyone seems to harbor preferences as to booksellers and critical resources. Searches can lead to beneficial excursions through accidental rabbit holes, so have fun.]

Another new favorite is Becky Chambers, whose Robot and Monk books, A Psalm for the Wild-Built and A Prayer for the Crown-Shy are much better, and far more healthful, than drinking too much wine in order to make it through the current epoch. They're both gentle, sanguine, philosophically sound, and way too short (not really; each one is exactly as long as it needs to be--but I want more). Her niche in contemporary SF has been called "hope punk" which seems rather appropriate.  I can't remember how I found out about them, but will search back through last year's journal to see where they first come up so I can thank whoever's responsible. When I'd finished them (twice), I read her earlier Wayfarer series (A Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, A Closed and Common Orbit, Record of a Spaceborn Few, and The Galaxy, and the Ground Within), and a stand-alone novella, To Be Taught, if Fortunate.  Twice, each. In the Robot and Monk books, dystopia has been bypassed (the robots give up on humanity and left town for the wilderness). In the Wayfarer series, dystopia still beckons among some species, but the crew of Wayfarer and their friends are making their way(s) toward a more harmonious universe. If this intrigues you at all, see this essay in Wired by Jason Kehe: "Is Becky Chambers the Ultimate Hope for Science Fiction?"

So, while this country seems bent on making at least some aspects of contemporary dystopic film and fiction (like The Handmaid's Tale, Mad Max, and various warnings about the coming Singularity) come into being, I'm revisiting William Morris and Le Guin. 

But in case you haven't had enough of dystopia (or if you're bingeing the stuff I never read or watched, like The Hunger Games and such) here's a classic, which everybody needs to read: 

In 1909, E. M. Forster published his short story, "The Machine Stops" in the Oxford and Cambridge Review. It's available at the link in .pdf  (thanks to retiring U. C. Davis professor Phillip Rogaway; I'm not sure how long this text or his web page will be available after the end of the month). I used this story in my Technology And Utopia classes both at UTD and the Art Institute, and my students found its prescience striking--even before the F-book and its ilk had taken over our own world. 

But I'm not going to end on a completely sour note. My bedtime reading (after my third time through Le Guin's The Telling) is currently Andy Weir's latest novel, Project Hail Mary. . . .

[Several days later]

I started working on this post on or about the Ides of July, when things had started looking quite ominous. Since then, and since my last little bit of input, things have changed and a modicum of sanguinity has returned (that's "sanguine" in the sense of "optimistic" rather than "bloody"). We'll still have to wait to see how things turn out, but the prognosis is somewhat more promising than in recent weeks.

That said, I've now finished Project Hail Mary, and I don't remember having quite so much fun reading a book about the probable demise of Mother Earth. A mild spoiler: Earth seems to have survived, thanks to the efforts of Ryland Grace and his buddy Rocky. Weir once again has his characters "science the shit out of" every problem that erupts (actually, many, many problems) just as Mark Watney does in The Martian. I'm sure the biophysicists (?) and other sciency types who read the book (or see the film, due out next year, with Ryan Gosling as Grace) will find numerous flaws, but I'm more than willing to suspend whatever disbelief arises because the whole thing is poignant, smart, quirky, amusing, and very much fun. I can't wait to see how the film crew manages to pull this one off!

Good science fiction is really no different from good fiction of any other genre, as long as the writer can build an engaging world, create believable and compelling characters, and deal with issues important to human being-in-the-world. Once upon a time, in a world long past, I was asked "where have all the philosophers gone?" I rather flippantly answered that they'd all run off to write science fiction. As it turns out, though, the tendency of SF writers to engage questions of philosophical importance, deal with cultural conundrums, and explore the meaning(s) of sentience and consciousness by posing interesting questions and conducting thought experiments along the way makes my answer from about 1980 practically spot-on today. 

Any of the writers I've mentioned in this post are well worth reading. So, if you're looking for a beach read, or just something smart to take your mind off current events, have a go. As I mentioned above, I haven't linked everything, but using the google machine can often lead you along interesting paths, so I decided to leave the door open for serendipity.

Enjoy the rest of the summer, and try to stay cool.

*Steve Jurvetson's Flickr page is here. My finding this image also led me down a rabbit hole--this guy is really interesting.
**Thanks, of course, to Douglas Adams. 

Earth Day 2024: Rewilding in the 'Burbs

A recent purchase from Red Bubble; the Totoro decal is older.

Like my Beloved Spouse (who was born in Pittsburg, but lived in San Antonio for most of his life before college), I have spent a substantial portion of my own life as an exile in a place I never actively chose. Both of us were Air Force brats who followed where our fathers were assigned. When we met in grad school in the '80s, we bonded over not wanting to live Texas. Except for a two year hiatus in Chicago (where we were married), however, we've been living in the Dallas area for over thirty years. We didn't really mind Dallas so much, because we had enjoyed city life in Chicago. But the city was hell-bent on razing small historic houses to build oversized mansionettes that dwarfed the homes in old neighborhoods. The competition for the lots (not the houses) was so fierce that we had to look elsewhere to find what we wanted: a Craftsman style bungalow with a big enough yard for dogs and a garden. When we were both finally employed in full-time teaching jobs, we bought a house north of Dallas, in a then-sleepy, quiet, historic district in a then-smallish town about 25 minutes up the then-four-lane highway out of Dallas's growing disregard for little old bungalows. 

We moved to McKinney in 2001, a year short of the house's 100th birthday, and have spent the years since fixing up the old girl (but not transforming her), repairing some early "updates," and resisting the latest "trends." The only major refurbishment occurred about fifteen years ago, when we had the aluminum siding removed and replaced with hardy-board (proper wood siding cost more than the house was worth), got some of the plumbing redone, had a not-insignificant amount of sheetrock and sagging beaverboard removed, and had it repainted in appropriate Arts and Crafts colors. But most of the work we've done has involved the garden--especially the back 1/4 acre.

Over the last few years, especially after we both retired (2016 for me, 2018 for him), we've built a drive-through parking space for our caravan, Porco Rosso, and have added two brick patios, a greenhouse, and several "garden rooms," as William Morris called them: areas for enjoying the fruits of our labors, entertaining friends, and simply enjoying what we've wrought, along with our various animal companions--both dogs and cats. There's a nice area outside of the greenhouse (an aspiring Wunderkammer) with an umbrella table and chairs, a seating area just outside the study with room for another small table and chairs (plans are to build a pergola for growing grapes), and another area for eating and entertaining that includes a larger table (built by The Beloved Spouse his ownself) and umbrella, with an adjacent firepit area with Adirondack chairs and benches. 

The raised bed next to the greenhouse and perennial patch.

The back-door patio (at the beginning of the eclipse).

Big table with Firepit behind.

The wilding shade garden.

Recent work on some of the eight pecan trees located in the back yard (there are four more in the front and side yards), and the felling of a well-loved, but barely-alive Chinaberry left us with a significant amount of trunk and branch slices to use for our wood-burner and as borders for the several areas we've been allowing to go as wild as we can get away with. The upcoming annual Continental philosophy soiree we host has inspired us to complete one or two new areas: a potential shade garden in the northwest corner, and a pollinator garden on the south-and-east side of the front yard.

None of this is, of course, very "wild." In fact, although most of it tends to look pretty rustic, it can't be let go completely, or the townsfolk would come after us with axes and summonses. One small corner next to our garage (and adjacent to recently tidied wood piles and our two large compost bins) is  the one exception. A few years ago, I tried to build a hügelkultur berm, but before I could finish what I'd started, health issues intervened, and nature pretty much took over. I'm in the process of taming it a little, but the berm has been used to foster mulching and more-or-less accidental composting with the result that we've provided some good habitat for critters. The fence on two sides also hosts honeysuckle a volunteer spirea--both in full, fragrant bloom at the moment. We've seen bunnies, cotton rats, and evidence of continuing raccoon and 'possum visits. There's a fox nearby as well, and he seems to have found is way through the hog-wire fence--probably to look for bunny chow.

About all the sky I can manage for this Skywatch Friday. 
Too many trees!

So: not so wild, in fact. But one thing the garden has going for it is the absence of chemical fertilizers or pesticides: completely organic for as long as we've lived here. Some of the mulch from the biennial tree-trimming has replaced some of the inappropriate St. Augustine grass in front, and the rest of the "lawn" is gradually being replaced by a mixture of seasonal treats like cleavers (goose-grass), chickweed, henbit, plantain, dandelions, and various other "weeds" that most people pay other people to spray herbicides on. At our house, we eat these treasures, make tea and pesto out of them (chickweed pesto is every bit as tasty as that made from basil--although we grow basil as well). Volunteer flowering plants like mullein (which my cousin Charlie says is good for what ails me), and Byzantine Gladiolus have graced the garden for many years now, and I'm hoping to add goodies like Borage and Hyssop that I love but will have to plant.

The four-lane highway is now ten lanes wide at the exits, and the quietude has already suffered from that. But now the city has contracted to build a 20,000 seat open air arena ("entertainment venue") almost adjacent to the local hospital/trauma center ten minutes away from our house. The mayor is trying his damnedest to get us to pay for an international airport just east of the historic downtown area, which itself is in walking distance from us. We defeated the proposal last year, but he's still trying. 

Despite all this potential tsuris, we still waffle about moving west. Politically, this area couldn't get much worse, but environmentally the prospects aren't particularly promising. But neither are they in high-desert regions of California, where we'd most like to settle. So the current plans (but don't blink) are to soldier on here, visiting some of the glorious Texas State Parks, and in September (or maybe the following May) try to make at least one more long-distance sojourn west. 

In the meantime, our semi-wild half acre provides the perfect balm for soothing our aggravated souls, and I hope it can see us through the continuing political circus that would be hilarious, if it weren't so rife with unsavory and environment-threatening possibilities. Depending on how the summer goes, we could use that westbound road trip for house-hunting.

At this particular moment of the anthropocene, we seem to be sitting at a nexus. Many possibilities exist, some much more disagreeable than others. So here's some recommended reading: Kim Stanley Robinson, The Ministry for the Future; Cixin Liu, The Three-Body Problem (all three volumes, including The Dark Forest and Death's End)*; and Becky Chambers, the Monk & Robot series (A Psalm for the Wild-Built and A Prayer for the Crown-Shy). 

Happy Earth Day, people. It will be interesting to see how things stand next year at this time.

*Note: I'm currently re-reading the three Liu books, after having watched both the Chinese version (Three-Body, streaming on Peacock) and the Netflix version (3 Body Problem). The Beloved Spouse has not read the books, so the experience is quite different for each of us. Both series are well-filmed, acted, directed, and visualized, but the Chinese version is far closer to Liu's original. The Netflix version is problematic because for those who have read the books, the changes to plot and characters can be jarring and confusing. So read the books first, and then watch the films, but be prepared to take notes. All three versions add interesting perspectives to our continuing conversations about climate change and technology--and the future of humankind.