A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. The music of idealism, the anthems of equality, the lyrical poetry of peace we heard from Democrats in the days of Bobby Kennedy and Gene McCarthy and George McGovern. But the music died, we all know what killed it, and we all know where we are now.
Mixed metaphors ahead, proceed with caution . . .
We’re Dante in that dark wood, we’re a shadow in the dust on the road not taken, we’re an entire society with an appointment in Samarra, we‘re a ghost ship on the face of the deep, chasing the great white whale of profit. I don’t like where we’re going, I don’t trust the captain, I suspect the hull is full of holes, but what do I know? I’m just a deckhand.
Call me Ishmael.
I can’t remember if I’ve just survived a shipwreck or if there’s one on the way. Probably both. I’m not as young as I used to be, my heart only beats when I’m here, but my eyes are just fine, I know a catastrophe when I see one, and this one is going to be off the charts . . .
The permanently-frozen soils of Siberia contain more than a trillion tons of carbon dioxide and methane, stored during the last ice age. If a small temperature rise causes the ground to melt, the released greenhouse gases could dramatically accelerate the global warming process.
I could provide further gory details, but everyone here understands what the chain reaction of environmental, social, economic, geopolitical, and ultimate death toll consequences are going to be when a trillion tons of carbon dioxide and methane start saturating the atmosphere, and the famines and the resource wars begin.
February makes me shiver, with every diary I deliver. I’d like to see spring, but all I see is a silver thorn and a bloody rose, lying crushed and broken on the virgin snow. There’s bad news on the doorstep, but we have to take one more step, and then another one, and then as many as it takes to save what we can.
There are lovers here, there are poets here, there are tears and there are dreams, everyone here is reaching out to the sons and daughters of humanity out there across this weary world, in troubled sleep beneath the stars of night. I know how hard you’ve tried to awaken them, I know how hard you’ve tried to set them free, but they would not listen; they did not know how.
Perhaps they’ll listen now.