Through reading the book I was recently reading and mentioned in a previous post, I’ve also started to come across other authors/people who see themselves as ‘recovering environmentalists.’
What that appears to mean is that they’ve seen the cracks in the environmentalist movement and seen that the flaws in it are too big to continue on that road.
A lot of the flaws they point out, I have long felt uneasy about myself.
For example, there is a tendency to talk about technology as something that can become our saviour.
The idea is that we can use technology for positive purposes, we can make more ‘environmentally friendly’ technology etc.
‘recovering environmentalists’ see this as a kind of like another religion.
Instead of believing in heaven or some superior being saving us from ourselves, believing that technology can save us instead.
The idea that technology can save us has always created mixed feelings for me.
On the one hand I really, really, emotionally, want to believe it to be true.
But on the other hand, a less emotionally driven part of me can see the massive flaw in the idea.
How exactly do people expect we can utilise technology in a sustainable way when the very things that create those technologies are part of the problem? Not to mention the energy that is then needed to keep that technology up and running.
The world is a closed-off system. We can only utilise what the world has within it.
We end up ‘utilising’ more than our fair share.
Environmentalists often also suffer from the human, nature separation delusion.
We as humans can save the planet, somehow. According to them.
The language used helps the illusion of separation from nature.
As pointed out on a site I found the other day, the very fact we have the word ‘nature’ shows the delusion that nature is something separate from us. Scroll to II THE SEVERED HAND
The sentence “lets get back to nature” is the epitome of that delusion.
It’s pretty clear why emotionally I would want to side with the environmentalists and believe that technology could save us.
How could it not be wrought with emotion?
As I’ve pointed out previously I’m alive from that technology.
But as someone else in a comment section of a youtube video pointed out so is most of the western world now.
But I can’t help feel I rely on it more. Surgery, powerchairs…
Some ‘recovering environmentalists’ have the ability to live a life that shows their recognition of what modern technology is doing.
And some say that is the only way to go because even though not many people are currently following their trend, there will be a catalyst that is coming and we will see a massive change.
Maybe I’ll be long dead before that moment.
But I can’t help feeling like it’s just another thing that will inevitably leave me behind.
Because while we can’t possibly remain sustainable using technology the way we do, and future depictions in science fiction of further advanced gizmos and gadgets or how we save ourselves by utilising resources on other planets are science fiction and probably always will be…. Where does that leave people like me?
This is one of those unanswered question.
Because the answer is dark and no one wants to acknowledge it.
It was chilly out, and snow had started to swirl in a heavy breeze. I’d sat down to eat my dinner when my golden retriever, Darwin, raced to the windowsill, standing on his hind legs with his front paws on the sill. I slurped soup off my spoon and some if it dripped back into the bowl on the table, “What’s going on?” I asked Darwin.
Darwin turned his head to look at me, his paws still on the sill, his ears twitching. Then there was a knock at the door.
I dropped my spoon into the bowl with a clatter and headed towards the door.
Snow softly fell and clung to the fabric of his peacoat, his hands deep in his pockets for warmth.
I stared at him blankly for what in hindsight feels like too long. His blue eyes stared back at me, and a strand of hair hung above the rim of his glasses, his forehead creasing with tension.
“Mr Ashworth?” He leaned in.
I licked my lips, “Yes, whose asking?”
Darwin sat next to me, his head tilted with curiosity.
“I’m Jerry, Jerry North.”
He told me his name with a look on his face that suggested I should know who he was. I shook my head, “I don’t know any Jerry North!”
“I know your son,” He turned back to me, “Well, I know him very well actually,” He bounced on the balls of his feet and looked down at his shoes with a meek smile curling the corners of his lips.
“How,” I frowned, “He…” I faltered. It had been a long time since I’d talked to anyone about my son.
He held up his hands placatingly, “I know what you’re thinking,”
I gave him a scornful glare, “You have no bloody idea what I’m thinking!” I hissed and started to close the door on him.
He jutted his foot in the door, “I know he died when he was five,”
I swung the door wide open again, “What?”
“He died when he was five but,”
“But?” I asked him, bug-eyed, “But what? He died when he was 5, and that was that. What do you want?”
“Have you ever heard about the Soul retrieval facility, Mr Ashworth?”
I scoffed, and my face reddened in anger, “You,” I pointed accusingly, “Stop with this sick prank!”
“Have you heard of it?” He asked sternly, his hand on the door.
“I’ve heard the conspiracy theories!” I spat, “It’s nonsense!”
“What if I said that it’s true?” He leaned further into the doorway, “And,” He held up a hand to ward off any protest, “And that your son was retrieved there not long after his death.”
“I’d tell you what I’m telling you now; you’re sick! Playing a sick joke on an old man who still…” I could feel it in my throat. The hot swell of tears.
The blue-eyed man placed a hand on my shoulder gently, “Listen,” He looked me straight in the eyes. His stare was intense, and despite myself, I found something trustworthy about his eyes.
“Your son is 35 now,”
“Would be,” I hissed still not giving entirely into that trust.
“I’m his husband.”
My jaw dropped, and I scanned his face for answers.
“Listen, he was retrieved along with a lot of other children in the facility and,” He took a long breath and looked down at the ground sadly, “They were experimenting with this new technology. Downloading souls into clones.”
I baulked at the absurdness of what he was saying with a wry smile tinged with sadness, “Downloading souls? Clones?” I shook my head with a sigh, “I don’t know who you are but leave me alone!”
“I swear,” He shivered, and his lips tinged purple, “I swear it’s the truth!”
I would have slammed the door on him, but his foot remained on the step, and he held the door open with a strong looking hand. “Listen,” I started dejected, “Maybe you did know my son, maybe you knew him from the nursery,” I looked at him sadly, “But you’re clearly ill or,” I raised a brow at him, “On drugs?”
He shook his head, “If you’d just let me in!”
“No,” I held up a hand, “Next you’ll be telling me Elvis isn’t dead!”
“He isn’t,” He replied earnestly.
“What? See! You’re just like those usual crackpot conspiracy theorists!”
“Bowie isn’t dead either!”
I snorted, “You’re kidding me! Surely if either of them were still alive, they’d have been seen!”
“No! Their bodies are dead; they got cloned into different bodies to help them blend in unnoticed!”
“So those crackpots that reckon they’ve seen Elvis?”
“They’re just that, crackpots. He’s still alive, but he looks nothing like Elvis anymore!”
I didn’t know what to do. What was I supposed to believe? It was snowing, and we were both getting cold, “I don’t want to speak with you anymore,” I told him waving my walking stick at him, “Don’t ever return, do you hear?” I stepped forward and got in his face, “Do you hear?” I enunciated the question carefully.
And that was that. He held up his hands as if surrendering and stepped back. But there was sorrow in his eyes, and for a moment I nearly cracked and opened the door again. But in the end, I locked it up, put the chain on the latch turned the lights out and went to bed.
I warned thee
stupidity is contagious
now its spread
and we’re all shameless
claiming to be blameless
dressed in rags
With faces lit by screens
Almost on the verge
of becoming nameless
© Silverbackgorillapoetry 2016 August
*note: this may be a duplicate. i can’t remember if i posted this one yet