River of Dust

Dear Readers,

It has been some time since I posted here on Poetic Cartography, and I intend to do so again in the future when I am once more mobile and exploring the geography of water. However, at the moment, I am working to cultivate a practice of activism with the hope of joining SustainUS, “a youth-led organization advancing justice and sustainability by empowering young people to engage in advocacy at the domestic and international levels” at the COP24 in Katowice Poland. To apply, I am starting a new blog, River of Dust, a place to develop the narrative of climate justice in an ongoing manner. Please, if you follow Poetic Cartography, take a moment to do the same and follow River of Dust. https://riverofdust.wordpress.com

Thank you very much,

Galen Hecht

¿Homecoming?

 

Middle America

A river’s leisure

My mother’s home

Where the corn

And black eyed susans

Ear and eye forever

And Chicago

Steals the show

Glimmering

On Lake Michigan night

 

New England

Maine land

Where my ancestors

Early for Europeans

Set foot on

Rocky coast

That watershed moment

Where the fingers

Of the sea

Are laced upon land

Pondering the tide

Where I learned

To be a grown person

To plant seeds

To read forests

That a small farm

Is as rich with lessons

As a hall of brick and ivy

 

Driving

With my second half

In a fishhook

Of the American West

The vastness

The rocky spine

Of Colorado Plateau

The shark tooth Tetons

Afire above Aspen

Populus Tremuloides

Bursting gold

Rustling

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The once Oregon Territory

We followed the Snake River

Then the Columbia

Such a work of earth

And fire in the gorge

Tea with my grandma

Gardener’s dream

 

To the California coast

Lost among

Sequoia

Jack pine

Poison oak

Douglas fir

Lone Pine

Snyder’s words

Sinkyone

Joni Mitchell

Internet

Airshow

Music

Hardly strictly

Nothing

Brother

 

 

My brother lives in Berkeley

He is a painter

We worked on his bicycle

And drank watermelon juice

Such nectar

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Drove south

Chased by fire

Through Pacific night

Through Salinas

Listening to Steinbeck

Passed LA

At midnight

Into the desert

 

Phoenix sun

Is reborn a day

And grandparents

Illuminate

The good of life

Without ignoring

The bad

 

We ate sushi in Scottsdale

And then gelato

 

The Grand Canyon

A stop too much for

Words

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Colorado River

Fertile ground

For the revelation

That made this life

The best landscape painter

In all the Southwest

The mud rapid runner

I just wanted

To wash my face

 

Then home

It still feels like home

Santa Fe

Where parents

Bring musicians

Where clay and chords

Entwine harmonious

And early morning

Smells of piñon pitch

Juniper smoke

Green chile roasting

Aspen leaves

Chamisa brush

I had a fragrant childhood

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The Press

Taught me freedom

Bluesky

Taught me infinity

Red earth

Taught me time

 

Nothing in land

Everything inland

Even outland

Is homeground

And I am homecoming

 

A River of Self

Dear Readers,
This is the last post of my Watson year. It comes as the first drop in a river of reflection that will only grow and meander from here forward. Before we dive in, I want to thank you for reading my work; writing for me is solitary only in action, but in larger scope, it is shared and made possible by all who inspire and all who read and pass it forward.
Today as I sit, a year of experiences abroad is set upon my table, and I have to prepare a meal. To begin, a question:
In what ground does life grow? From what river is it watered? 
I am recently enthralled by the ideas of Israeli writer and historian Yuval Noah Harari. In his book Sapiens, Harari questions how a species of big headed, relatively weak apes could take over as the dominant species on the planet in a fairly short period of time. Harari credits our immense success to our ability to organize ourselves in masses around particular intersubjective fictions – money, myth, and law to name a few. Homo sapiens means “wise humans” in latin, and I am humored to think that maybe we should call ourselves Homo fictas, “humans of fiction.”
As a writer, storyteller, and student of language, I am concerned with words, their purpose and manipulation to form interpretations of the world, to compel action and incite emotion, to unify, to uplift, and to protest, to tear down. Language and writing are the fertile ground on which the great narratives of humanity are built and stratified, fortified with time and power.
Part of the work for survival is to compete, to make it in a harsh world, and there is only so much room for one species before others begin to disappear; we are seeing extinction on a major scale, a global scale, and at a rate unprecedented by any other blossoming of a single species ever. While the examples of extinctions caused by humans are staggering, I want to lead you and myself on the road to despair only so far as to find ourselves honestly weighing the components of life.
Because of our ability to tell stories, we are not only prone to biological evolution, but to the evolution of consciousness. Just think about technology for a moment; in 20 years, the global paradigm has shifted, the internet became a global wildfire and is bursting culture at the seams. Can we cocreate a story about the environment as compelling as that of technology? As common vocabulary moves from nature into digital reality, is it possible to entwine strands of our ancient reliance on land, water, flora, and fauna into the sphere of binary code and complex computation?
One metaphor of the river has to do with the movement of time: a child growing up along a certain stretch of river cannot perceive the full scale of the river, but a pilgrim who has walked the river’s length many times will have a longview, a longerview at least. We must look for those with the longview for guidance, and I, in the estuary of adulthood, am looking for those Sapiens who truly have wisdom. Is evolution necessarily competitive? Where do empathy and stewardship fit into the narrative of biology? 
At this moment in my life I feel it is necessary to assign myself a task. I will think of this in the shadow of Buckminster Fuller, a human of extraordinary courage who worked during World War II as a naval engineer. Post-war, depressed and losing capacity to live well, Fuller decided to take his own life. Standing on the shore of Lake Michigan pointing a gun at his own head, he had a revelation. He thought, why take my own life and deliver suffering to all the world around me when I could similarly sacrifice myself but for the good of others? From that moment on, Fuller dedicated himself to a 50 year experiment – how much good can one person do for the rest of humanity and the earth? His experiment lasted 56 years until he passed away and left us the foundation of nanotech, the language of synergetics, a plea to prevent buildup of greenhouse gases in the 1970s, and an inspiring legacy as ripe fruit for the world to pick and revitalize.
I hereby dedicate myself as a writer, ardent student of nature, and dedicated member of society to such an experiment – to live as a positive actor in pursuit of what promotes good life. How much can I do for and with the world around me? I must not take knowledge or ignorance for granted and need to bear in mind that money, fame, and power are fictions, tools for certain ends and at times too alluring. Above all, I must always remember that life is the essence of existence, beyond comprehension and at the heart of every moment – there is always room to grow.
With so much work to be done, I must be patient to settle into my place in the wonderful puzzle of chaos. I mean that literally, for chaos theory outlines how the smallest differences in initial conditions in a dynamical system create vastly different and unpredictable outcomes. Each of us has in our power the capacity to create initial conditions in a reaction of life to transform the world around us. This could be planting a seed, writing an essay, passing a law, preparing a meal. Now I am working as a farmer, working with soil, water, and plants. Perhaps next year I will be a student of law, exploring one of the great fictions that shapes our vision of the world. Angela Davis, a woman at the core of the civil rights movement says that “Radical simply means ‘grasping things at the root.’” It is powerful to be discerning about what is fiction and what is objective reality, and ironically it is radical to speak truth to power, to see beyond the fictional river, and swim in the real one as polluted, dammed, lively, or clean as it may be. 
Jumbled as all of this may sound, it is a document of my life view from the age of 22 as I land on homeground with the richness of a year in the world fertil on my mind. The urgency and difficulty of so many situations we face on earth, while affecting and at times despairing, give me a deep jolt of motivation to continue downstream into the unknown.
Thank you for this year.
Galen

Rivers of What? My Watson Presentation

This poem is called Fishing

 

What are we looking for

Standing on sand or stone

Fishing into the waves

Getting our feet wet



What are we looking for

When we turn our eye

To the orange moon

The ironbound cliff

Fire in the place

Where fire burns

 

When we look at our hands

Lined with life

Telling stories that nobody writes

Our hands are truth

Look at your hands

 

When stars

And shadows on the deck

Don’t point North or South

And a dead reckon

Is all we have

 

When I was so afraid of the water


What the burning sun

Says to the corn

When it decides to grow



When grandma opens

The canned corn

And you take the kernels

To go fishing in the river

When the river fishes back

And pulls you in


What is it in the river

That speaks

To the soul

About moving on

About the ocean

About no end beginning

About loving the dirt

About what moves Earth

 

We begin when the Ganges River descended from Heaven.

 

When King Sagar wished more power, he decided to sacrifice a great horse. Jealous, Indra, the King of Gods, stole King Sagar’s chosen horse. To find the horse, Sagar sent his 60,000 sons who interrupted the great Sage Kapila in meditation, mistaking Kapila for the horse thief. Infuriated, Kapila incinerated the 60,000 sons. When Sagar found out, he broke down weeping, and Sage Kapila told him that to purify the incident, he must bring River Ganga to earth for salvation. Bhagiratha, the great-grandson of Sagar, convinced Brahma that Ganga must descend to Earth. Insulted to be expelled from heaven, Ganga wreaked havoc, flooding the world. Bhagiratha prayed urgently to Shiva, please entwine Ganga in your hair to hold her back, to save us. Hearing the call, Shiva agreed, and braided the great river as seven streams into his matted locks. Pleased at the union with Shiva, Ganga washed away the ashes of Sagar’s sons and filled the oceans and continues to bring salvation to India to this day.

 

Here is where she begins.

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In June two years ago, I went looking for a book by environmentalist, Edward Abbey. Instead, I found Abbey’s friend Jack Loeffler – his big white beard and blue eyes and a universe within them. Jack Loeffler is a river man who spent his life recording geomythic mapping songs of people all over the world. He urged me as he urges everyone to think like a watershed.

 

A watershed is a community of life and land unified by water. A watershed is the whole body of a river system, and surely in that there is some soul.

 

This year, I wanted to find terra incognita and anima incognita, the margins of my map and the margins of humanity only charted with wild creatures and ideas, with water at the center. I wanted to map the unmappable, a sort of anthrocartoraphy to find out what anchors us in place. Of course, mostly I failed, hindered by so many human things. But, like Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, I had the opportunity to listen to the great river when I felt lost.

 

To think like a river. Like a mountain. Like the wind. First, one must listen.

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The youth of India. Do they see Ganga as a goddess? Do they feel salvation in her waters?

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In India, it was at times difficult to hear the river, for the fugue of humanity there is a lot to attend to. I do not have images of the garbage and sewage and bodies that Ganga carries, but one can imagine.

 

A river, a goddess.

 

There is Ganga and there is Torne.

 

Mikael rowing on Torne.

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And Mikael skiing on Torne.

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Mikael is on the river everyday. He rows, swims, iceskates, and skis. Mikael has surely listened a lot to the river; he picks berries and mushrooms to feed his family and knows the forest as a neighbor; he can name the things all about and he knows where the ice will be thin and how to survive in the winter woods. He is a philosopher, a naturalist.

 

We drank Torne’s water in confidence, without purification, a rare privilege. I think Torne is divine like Ganga, though she has less humanity to carry and no dams to clog her up. I also think that Hinduism is wise to anchor the gods in natural phenomena, for what miracle is more available to all of us than the gangetic river dolphin, mycelium, a blueberry, a pine tree, or a man on skis.

 

Another miracle, in Atacama one can find towns where no rain fell for 40 years. It’s as surprising to see green and water in Atacama as seeing a sadhu acetic on a cellphone.

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Rio Loa, river in the great expanse of Pacific-bound desert serves the needs of a very large hole in the ground.

 

Chuquicamata, one of the largest open pit mines on earth is Loa’s neighbor, producing copper to electrify the world. Calmly, Loa quenches Chuqui’s thirst, and carries away Chuqui’s toxic detritus.

 

In Werner Herzog’s film Lo and Behold, about internet and connectivity, Ted Nelson explains the internet as dragging one’s hand through water. The most interesting thing about Chuquicamata is how it physically links water with the web.

 

These days, as we here testify, humans are globalizing. To think like a watershed leads to the realization that all water is cycling, interconnectivity is. And so seems the path of global civilization.

 

Ralph Waldo Emerson considers ethics as a system of human duties like religion but without the personality of God.I feel that the imaginings of Gods are but human personalities divined to voice human ethics in the face of Nature which does not observe morality with human eyes but rather offers us eyes and intelligence to observe the universe.  Yuval Noah Harari suggests that Silicon Valley is a new sort of Vatican. And I agree, but what will be our book of Proverbs?

 

Our ethics about technology and our ethics about rivers are part of the same phenomenon; reformation. We are a species overwhelmed by our inventions and we need a philosophy of nature that includes the internet and smartphones and plastic garbage.

 

My grandmother Irene says this is Planet Life; we are in the terrarium of divinity, and in that, if in anything, we are unified. If the true cost of a thing is the amount of life expended to make it, what is the true cost of life? This is a question we must ask ourselves as rivers are declared dead and black, as the vocabulary of nature is disappearing from mouths and minds into libraries or worse.

 

My quest to create a linguistic cartography of humans and rivers was futile, alone. It is asking a painter to paint her soul. Such work is a worthy endeavor, but to be a force of nature it must be done together. We are all charting a cartography of place all the time, we are all painting our souls. We are poets of existence. Along with the rest of the universe, we create nature along this rapid of time we happen to be paddling. As messy as it will be, as dissonant as jazz, I want a poetry, a manifesto, to synergize nature and technology.

 

Let’s be the manifesto, let’s be the poetry to merge nature and technology, lets call on Shiva and Ganga to help braid this flood into a river of salvation.

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Welcome Home

Walking on the green grass

A buzz overhead

A plane flying by

With a large banner.

I read it:

$3000 Dollar Breast Implants

But no phone number

What if I want breast implants?

I remember another sign

That I saw in the morning:

Welcome to the United States

Welcome Home.

River

Where the river knows no end

Is in kindling flames of family

It is the poetry of the river

To unite mountain to plain to sea

And in that synchronous flow

Where beginning is never nor end

Is the promise of passing

A promise of time

Which holds us all

Together

The Blue

A distant mountain

Pretending paradise 
Blood in

The rivers of my hands
And looking up

We are everything

Meat

I walk to the corral

Outside Antonio

Clears gravel and sand

From an area the size

Of a sheep

And digs a small hole

On one side

 
I follow him through

The pallet gate

And stand by

While he finds

The one
Roughly he grabs it

Holding its forelegs

Walks it to the gate

Through and onto the ground
Tells me to tie the legs

And I fumble

He gets tense, tenser

I continue to fumble,

Bastante, says he,

Enough
I hold the legs together

Tight
Antonio draws the knife

Clean over the neck

Again and again
Fire ignites in the legs

I can’t hold on

And the movement is wild

Spastic
We step back

And the small hole

Becomes a red puddle

And the bloods seeps in sand

Like water to the aquifer
I feel so grateful

For the life of this sheep

For the meals it gives us

For the cycles that brought

Us to this moment of siege

The taking of life
Then it is still

And we put the fluffy

Thing in the wheel barrow

To bring it over to

The butcher table

And the sweet birds

Sing the funeral song

As the day begins

Solstice

The sun warms my back

As if to console my column

To soothe my northern spirit

And I believe that today is

Afterall, the longest of the year
But well into afternoon

My appetite grows for dinner

And evening rises with it

Sun to the northwest horizon

Waving goodbye to the desert
The earth cools underfoot

And winter whispers brush

This is solstice

My first southern solstice

Winter after winter

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