Water from a stone

Group Field Exercise #1 performed October 10, 2010

River Access Point #1: Second Street /Valley High SW—

A river is life. Flowing, eddying, meandering, providing, transporting, emptying—eventually. It is, simply, there.

Robin, Marie, and I parked on a patch of dirt just above the ditchbank, crossed over the bike path, and followed a wide dirt path through the cottonwoods’ grand entrance toward the bank of the Rio Grande. The cottonwood trees seemed larger and greyer than at other places where I’d seen them along the river. Some with trunks so large, two or three people might be challenged to connect their arms around and encircle onecompletely. And there were weeds that I blithely disregarded, some trampled by the edge of the path, some growing knee-to-waist high interspersed beneath the cottonwoods. Closer to the river are willows, tamarisks, and of course, elms, which stray and are invaders everywhere. And there was trash, a lot of it, everywhere.

Just as we approached the river, we met three boys and their German Shepherd dog. They were headed home, most likely, with their catch of the day, a fairly scrawny-looking catfish that they said they were going to eat.

After the boys headed out, the river was, for a moment, organic and pure, and peacefully quiet except for the hum of some unknown insect crescendoing from across the river. Strangely, there didn’t seem to be any insect sounds on our side of the river—why didn’t our side of the river have any insect sounds? The moment passed as car sounds, airplane noise, and the sound of an ice cream truck filtered into hearing range.

The Rio Grande is a fixture on the map of New Mexico. From the air, it isa strip of color that cuts the state in half. From within the Albuquerque area, its tree-lined banks separate east-siders from west-siders—a line of demarcation that residents of either side refer to when explaining context or location.

The water in the river was very low, in fact, at its lowest level since 2004, and we were able to walk on areasof sand and mud that were the river bottom when the Rio Grande had plentiful water. There were areas of fine-grained sand, hard-packed and cracked sun-baked mud, areas of thick, moist clay-like mud, and large areas of medium-grained dirt that revealed the river’s flow pattern from the ripple impressions and tiny polished stones and even a few small shells that formed designs on the dry surface as directed by previous water flow. I was fascinated by the patterns in the dirt, following their courses, squatting down and becoming absorbed by the tiny, tiny colorful, polished stones and the occasional shell, astounded that this was all revealed to me because of the lack of water.

What is the fate of the Silvery Minnow if the river flow lessens? How will the cottonwoods along the banks thrive? And the ducks and the dragonflies? Will small, brightly colored, polished stones spew from my tap one day and surprise me? Why should I be surprised?

River Access Point #2: Central Avenue at Tingley Drive--

The next stop on our south side of Albuquerque river tour was the Central Avenue bridge at Tingley Drive by the BioPark. South of the bridge is Tingly Beach, a reconstructed area with fishing ponds, duck ponds, and parking and picnic facilities. The train that runs from the zoo to the biopark has a station here. When we drove by, there were hundreds of people out enjoying a variety of activities in the warm October afternoon sun.

We parked and walked out to the middle of the bridge. The cars speeding by so close to us on Central were disconcerting as we reviewed the artscape of the bridge: the painted metal cut-outs of dinosaurs and saber-toothed tigers, the informational signs at the observation points, and the stuccoed benches with their odd messages. There was very little water flowing under the bridge, and we could see people walking on the dirt out towards the middle of the river. Perhaps in the world’s destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence. –Cormac McCarthy, The Road.

More river explorations next trip…

Tecolate--Chama Haiku

Omen of endings
feather-perch on dusk rises,
lofts into blue chill.

Chama, New Mexico
October 18, 2010

Moon Dance--Chama Haiku

Indigo, white, gold

magpies dance in cottonwood

melancholy fall

Blog 6 - The world being made

John Muir said, "One learns that the world, though made, is yet being made. . . . When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe." [As quoted by Ken Burns in "The National Parks: America's Best Idea.]

It seems that humans, in particular those who deem themselves civilized, often consider themselves separate from nature. The poor and working class are sometimes viewed as essentially closer to nature, more vulgar and common. As noted by Burns, in Europe ordinary people are not entitled to fully experience grand lands, which are held by those of wealth and royal status, rather than by the populace in common.

In "civilized" societies, the rich have carved out playgrounds for themselves. For example, if one visits Moose, Wyoming, just south of Grand Teton National Park, that person could look in any direction and see lands currently or once owned by the Roosevelt family for their private recreation. Much of the land around Pinedale and Boulder, about 100 miles south, bordering the Jim Bridger Wilderness Area, is now owned by Japanese businessmen for their private retreats. Places we rode on horseback over open lands and grazing range is now private and fenced. Land that sold for $450 an acre in the late 1960s was made available for a thousand times that much 25 years later.

Had the National Park system not been created, the same thing would have happened to those places.

The lands that comprise the National Parks have been trod for thousands of years by humans, yet each person who comes upon a place discovers it for him/herself and it is new again. Newcomers sometimes name the place on their own terms, as though naming for the first time.

How separate are we from nature? The Bible that John Muir memorized painfully tells man to subdue the earth in one place and, in another, states that if man is silent in praising God, the rocks and stones would cry out. Muir listened to the rocks and stones and heard the waters sing.
He came to know non-human life that populated the places he valued.

How much of our DNA is actually different from those with two legs and wings, or four legs, or six, or eight? How much kinship do we share?

A couple days ago, I met her in my garage. Her eight legs were long and elegant and she curled them around her glistening bulb of a black abdomen as she tucked herself into the box housing the electric eye of my garage door opener. My dilemma was how to extract her without either of us being harmed. [A little over a year ago, one of her relatives bit me on the hand while I was depositing compost in the bin, and my husband and our neighbor went hunting. For defending her new home, she paid with her life.] I reasoned that, if the web was disturbed, she would emerge. The next time I saw her, a few hours later, she was poised on the garage wall. Reasonably docile for a black widow, she climbed into the proferred plastic jar. I put on the lid. Within 48 hours she was deposited in her new home in a place where where she would find plenty of food and a place to build a new web apart from humans.

Arachnids of all types are integral to the environment and dine on creatures that are capable of causing extensive harm, even to humans. It was my determination, however, that the widow's place was not in my garage, but in a more open space where she could potentially thrive.

Perhaps that is managing nature on a small scale. That management aids my sense of place and personal peace.

For Muir, Yosemite became a familiar landscape over time. For me, the desert in the west of Rio Rancho is becoming familiar. Kent Ryden stated, "A familiar landscape provides tangible reminders of the past, solid anchors for memory, and thus invites contemplation of the self who lived in that past, whose acts provided those memories. . . . Contemplation of place brings an awareness not only of time but of self and of the evolution of that self, evoking the simultaneous presence of past and present versions of one's identity and thereby illuminating the full chronological depth of that identity with a new and poignant clarity" (Mapping the Invisible Landscape 259).

Field log #1

This summer
While we were at the Rio Grande
in Pilar

fishing …

… and playing with -
and in – the river,

I met a creature who reminded me it was almost time to get firewood for the winter:

So I purchased my permits for 4 half-cords of dead-and-down firewood
(from the BLM),

& loaded my daughter, our dog, the borrowed saw (trading homemade pies for its use), and plenty of fuel for all of us
into the truck
(photo removed) (which is another of the critters we have heard called a ROAT),

And headed for the hills,

with nearly the same view as seen in Off the Map –
the Sangre de Christo mountains from across the Rio Grande from the village of San Cristobal (or so).

Cutting firewood is strenuous physical work. I am alive, pulse strong, veins visible in strong hands and arms.

I am aware of the dangers: inattention to the saw leads to cuts and maybe, someday, bad cuts; trees can fall slightly off the path I planned and injure; branches twist and spring free as they are separated from the trunks, scratching and clawing as they do.

But its fun and rewarding and in the end, we are all happy (beer helps) …

With good-sized loads of wood ( I think I could have stacked more up there but was overruled by the sensible, temperate majority).(photo removed). The trip home takes over an hour on the rutted dirt roads. But the views are phenomenal and I can enjoy them while I let Santana drive (well, steer) out to the highway.

My woodpile today may seem pretty impressive. I have a good 4 cords.

But I need more

Because my house is pretty roomy

And I get cold easily
So I keep a fire going
Most of the winter
Starting now
Today:

Its an annual ritual
Invigorating
to heat only with wood we gather ourselves.

Friends and family head for the hills in the summer and fall
to groom the hills of dead wood, felling the trees, piling unwanted branches,
pulling even the stumps (with chains) to burn.
Hauling it all home to for the comfort of live heat all winter,
pushing back against the inhuman cold of long brittle nights,
and into the windy spring of the north.

Its an annual rite
Affirmation
that we still are here
harvesting from the land
leaving a sign that says
“this area cleared of dead trees
means we are still here
to take care of our home.”

Our pride in accomplishment, the satisfaction of caring,
Is remembered in the warmth all winter

and more immediately
in the reminders
on our bodies,
proof of purchase,
if you will

and a small price to pay
for a satisfying job well done.

Speaking of Axes. And Chainsaws. And Destruction...

Josh just emailed me these YouTube videos of tree harvesters.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89L8ZEC14Ec&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix7kWFwpLvg&feature=player_embedded

He says, "I came across this video today and it made me a little sick... I thought it might be interesting to show to your environmental class and see what kind of reactions people have to it. ... Hyper efficient means of deforesting a planet. I sat watching this and a couple of similar others thinking to myself 'this is progress?'"

Thought I'd share and see what you all think.

METANARRATIVES

I confess that before last Wednesday’s class and the Killingsworth and Palmer reading, I had never heard the term metanarrative before. The idea of narratives within narratives or stories within stories, however, immediately interested me. I was curious to understand what metanarratives were at work propping up the voices of this course’s reading list. I decided to investigate the term further.

Multiple definitions always help me when approaching a new concept.

Definition #1

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a metanarrative is “Any narrative which is concerned with the idea of storytelling, spec. one which alludes to other narratives, or refers to itself and to its own artifice. Also: a piece of narrative, esp. a classic text or other archetypal story, which provides a schematic world view upon which an individual's experiences and perceptions may be ordered.” The term is first documented as appearing in 1976 in a discussion of film as a rich narrative medium with a “tendency to express an awareness of the storytelling in the story.” The postmodern French philosopher and literary theorist Jean- François Lyotard evolved the concept of metanarratives. He argued that large-scale metanarratives or “grandnarratives” are inadequate in representing and containing all of our stories and experiences. Because of this post-modernity is defined with micronarratives. In “Ecospeak,” Killingsworth and Palmer suggest a similar evolution.

Definition #2

Killingsworth and Palmer claim “Metanarrative is distinguished both from the plain narratives of folk communities and from the denotative discourse of science. Its purpose is hegemonic; its aim to bring other discourses under the control of its broad explanatory power and thereby to influence the use of such discourses in a community that includes smaller communities—such as the Roman Empire, the university as it has developed over the last one hundred years, or the global mass public created by modern communication and transportation technology” (129.) According to Killingsworth and Palmer, “The metanarrative that prevails in American political (and psychological) life is the ideology of progress (which includes aspects of both Enlightenment and human liberation)” (129). According to this master narrative with progress being the ultimate ideal, Ecospeak, environmentalism, and its championing of sustainability and the "rights of nature" is subversive. Killingsworth and Palmer propose the dissolving of this domineering world view and the creation of new micronarrative-fueled metanarratives.

I’m still curious about how metanarratives even come into being.

-Who controls the metanarrative of a society?

-Can it be controlled?

-Does a writer always realize the metanarrative they’re operating under?

-Is it necessary to realize?

-Can a writer ever break out of their inherited cultural metanarrative?

-Can a writer invent their own personal metanarrative?

It seems as though a lot of the writers we’re reading come from similar schematic world views. All of them write in English. All of them come from a Western tradition. All of their narratives were produced in the last 100 years.

-What should we make of this?