Parasite Is Great Cli-Fi

By: | January 28, 2020

An opinion that I often share at social functions, usually without provocation, is that Snowpiercer is one of the best movies of the 21st century. Most people seem not to share that view. Most people are wrong. 

If you’re among the benighted millions who’ve never experienced Bong Joon Ho’s masterpiece, I suggest you rectify that shortcoming immediately. (It’s on Netflix — no excuses!) In the meantime, here’s the wild premise. It’s 2031. A desperate stab at geoengineering has backfired catastrophically, entombing the world in ice. The few survivors — Chris Evans and Octavia Spencer among them — are trapped on a train, a “rattling ark” that, y’know, pierces the snow as it circles the earth. The dirt-smudged hoi polloi rot in steerage, locked down by armed guards, while the über-wealthy (led by Tilda Swinton, playing a creepy mashup of Hitler, Gaddafi, Thatcher, and, um, Silvio Berlusconi) frolic in opulence at the train’s head, waltzing through cars filled with orange orchards and saunas and party drugs.

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The Sun in January

By: | January 27, 2020

This morning, mid-January, sandwiched between the past few days of fog and rainy gloom and future days of cold and snowy mix, the sun did this. I’d been having the flu, not getting 5 feet away from the couch, and the sun was so stunning I walked out on the porch and stood in it. I swear it’s like, the Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you and give you peace. I’m not even religious.

Sunlight has beneficent effects on all kinds of diseases and hoo boy, on all kinds of depressions and disorders of mood. But we already knew all that, didn’t we, we just hadn’t done the science. When there’s a puddle of January sunlight in the corner of a room, even the dog knows to go lie down in it.

You can’t see in that picture a detail, a tiny glory, so here’s the closeup.

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Swan Songs

By: | January 24, 2020

It is crushing to see my dad in the nursing home. Life is so small there, the food so terrible, the residents so…out of sorts. One woman continually calls for help—a tiny voice in some faraway room, ignored for crying wolf; one man walks the halls with glazed eyes and drool dripping down his chin. Another guy slumps in a wheel chair, hand working himself under a blanket. It’s a hard place to make friends.

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Imminent Invasion (Local)

By: | January 23, 2020

Dateline: mid-January, 2020. Location: Baltimore, MD. Meterological conditions: first snow of the season, 1 inch max.

Early that evening, rumor apparently came of an imminent invasion. So the local militia began work on fortifications. They packed cold-certified plastic cubes with snow, then pushed the cubes of snow out and stacked them without reference to engineering principles. By now, most of the yard had been picked clean of snow. Fortifications were left unfinished because light was failing and the militia had to go home to bed.

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Rain on Other Worlds

By: | January 22, 2020

I found this ill-cared-for painting from 1976, when I was nine, of a spaceship either taking off or landing on a barren world.

This was before Star Wars, but I was well-steeped in forbidden worlds and Star Trek. I dreamed of alien planets, their skies red or green, their landscapes sere and wind-torn. I stared for long hours into books with artist representations of unknown moons or galaxies setting on the horizon. How could you not resist the night sky and what could be?

In 1976, my single mother, an artist who worked as a secretary on the side, took a summer with me to live in a cabin in eastern Arizona. She put up her easel in tall-grass fields and painted green mountains and aging barns, wood graying and peeling apart, as I sat on the ground dabbing brushes in oil paints, rendering other worlds on canvases she gave me. You’d think there’d be enough here on Earth for a budding naturalist who gathered rocks, pinecones, and bones all summer, but when I painted, my eyes turned upward, above the whispering canopies of ponderosa pines, over the rolling mountains.

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The Screamers of Artist Point

By: | January 21, 2020

This post originally appeared Feb. 13, 2018

It starts quietly enough. At around 9:30 a.m., I strap snowshoes to my feet and part ways with some friends bound for a backcountry ski. While they skin over a nearby saddle, my dog Taiga and I shuff our way into the stream of snowshoers along the boundary of the Mt, Baker Ski Area, headed for Artist Point. It’s not a long hike, nor an extreme one, but the hordes jostle and slip like drunks. One guy slides on his side in slow motion down the steep hill, parallel to the trail, unsure how to get his snowshoes back under him.

“You could dig in your ski pole to self arrest,” I suggest gently. “I am!” he exclaims, continuing to slide past, his poles dragging unused across the slope.

Maybe he’s overwhelmed, I muse, continuing on.

“What happens all winter; the wind driving snow; clouds, wind, and mountains repeating—this is what always happens here,” the poet Gary Snyder wrote of this place one long-gone August, looking towards the edifice of Mount Shuksan from his post at the Crater Mountain Fire Lookout. Today, though, is the first truly sunny day of the year.

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A Clean Sweep

By: | January 20, 2020
My favorite instrument of procrastination: the classic broom. (Wikipedia)

“It’s so cute,” said Pete, watching our new robot vacuum cleaner gently ram the kitchen table. After gradually inching past the obstacle, the robot moved haphazardly around the room, missing the most obvious specks of dirt. Pete swept some of the dirt into a neat line in front of the robot, cooing encouragement.

I could see how the robot, a generous gift from Pete’s parents, was an improvement on our traditional vacuum cleaner. I hate vacuum cleaners — they’re icky to clean out and smell of burnt lint. I almost never use one since we don’t have carpet, just hardwood floors. But I couldn’t see how the robot vacuum was an improvement on that most elegant of household cleaning tools, the broom.

With their polished wooden handles and witchy straw bristles, brooms embody not only sexy design but my favorite form of procrastination. Along with baking, listening to audiobooks, and putting things in an online shopping cart and not buying them, I find that sweeping is an excellent way to avoid writing. 

I felt supplanted. Like Cinderella’s evil stepsister, I resented the robot’s cheery jingle. I even watched with perverse satisfaction as the robot bumped over a cardboard box and got trapped inside. Like Lucifer the cat in Disney’s Cinderella, I deliberately walked the floor in muddy running shoes, giving the robot more work to do. 

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Bad Science Poet

By: | January 17, 2020

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On September 4, 2014, LWON welcomed a new occasional contributor, Bad Science Poet. (Motto: “It’s not the science that’s bad—it’s the poetry!”™) The initial post (below) as well as subsequent contributions survive online. To this day, LWON hasn’t disavowed them.

MAYBE, MAYBE NOT

Is that uncertainty I see?

Its position known to only me?

Is that uncertainty I hear?

Echoing (or not) from ear to ear?

Said Heisenberg, “Yes.”

Niels Bohr said, “One guess.”

And Einstein?  “A mess, I fear.”

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