Cuthwulf’s Dragon

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It was a warm spring day when the dragon took Cuthwulf’s father. The family had been roused from a breakfast of boiled oats and peas pottage by a clatter of metal and the drum of hooves outside. A loud voice was shouting. “Dragon ships are on the river! The fyrd is raised! All able men to their lord!”
Inside the hut, Cuthwulf’s mother looked at his father. “Do not go again, Averill. What do kings ever do but take our crops and our men?”
His father shook his head. “You know it is the law, Cwen. We would forfeit what little we have.” He nodded at Cuthwulf. “Fetch my shield, son. I will be leaving for a time.”
Cuthwulf ran to the wooden shield leaning against the wall, lifted it carefully and brought it to his father.  “\Where are you going, father? Will there be a battle?”
His father grimaced, pulling a heavy leather jerkin over his tunic. “Our masters go to war, boy, and we go with them. Still, better to fight the Danes far away than in our home. It will not be long, I think.”
Cuthwulf pushed out his chest. “I want to go with you. I’m not a baby – I am six.”
Averill chuckled. “No doubt Alfred would take you, were you an inch taller. But you’ll stay here and look after your mother. She will need you for the planting, if I’m not back soon enough.”
Cwen reached into her hair and pulled out the comb made of sheep’s bone that had been given to her by her mother. Unlike most villagers, Averill had learned to read and write from an uncle who was a monk, and he had carved his wife’s name into the comb handle.  “Take this token, my love” Cwen said. “It will bring you home safely.”
Averill tucked the comb into his belt. “I will return, though every Dane in the land stand between us.” He walked to the door and took the long spear that was always propped at the entrance to the hut.
Cuthwulf followed out the door behind him, to see a man on horseback in mail and a helmet shouting at a group of some fifteen men from the village. Most were carrying spears and wooden shields, while Edburga, the largest landholder, boasted a helmet and a sword.
In a few minutes the men filed out of the village, the young men laughing and singing, the older ones resigned, with sombre expressions and backward glances.

Ten days later, Cuthwulf and the other boys were playing when they heard a woman’s voice shouting. “They are returned! The men are returned!” 
Cuthwulf’s heart leapt with joy, and the boys sprinted to the edge of the village to see a group of men trudging down the path.  But as they drew closer, Cuthwulf saw that his father was not among them.
That night, he heard his mother talking to the other women around the fire as they prepared the evening meal. 
“He is gone, Cwen. There is no use pretending otherwise. It was a great battle and many died.” said Sibbe, an older woman who looked after the young children when the villagers were all in the fields.
“A great victory, Sibbe. The Danes fled the field. And no one saw Averill fall. He could be injured, or captive.”
“If he was injured, he is dead by now. And the heathens do not take prisoners unless they can be ransomed for silver.”

Soon after, Cuthwulf was sitting alone on a stone at the edge of the village, watching and waiting, as he had every day since the other men had returned.  In the distance he saw the figures of a man and an animal approaching. 
As they neared he recognized an old man of some forty years, who travelled from village to village with his donkey, trading tin plates, cups and other wares for spun wool and cloth. He was known to be a seer, and when in the mood, for a piece of bread and some cheese, he would tell you of your past and your future. He stopped as he reached Cuthwulf.
“Why are you here alone, boy? Should you be helping with the chores?”
“I am waiting for my father. He went to fight the Danes, and has not yet returned.”
“Ah” said the old man. “He was at Ethandun then. Many men did not return that day.”
“I know, grandfather. But he promised.”
The tinker looked at Cuthwulf with solemn eyes and nodded. “Can you come closer, boy? You need not be afraid.”
Cuthwulf thrust out his chest and stepped closer. “I fear nothing.”
The old man smiled and took Cuthwulf’s hand “I see.” He closed his eyes and was silent for a moment.
“You are right, lad. Your father lives. He was taken by a dragon who holds him prisoner.”
Cuthwulf pulled his hand back. “Where is he? I will find him.”
 “Dragons favour mountains and caves to hide. This one lives near the hills, by Cyrneceaster.”
Cuthwulf frowned. “I have not heard of it.”
The tinker shook his head “It is many miles in the direction of the rising sun. It would be too dangerous for one so young to travel there. Leave it, he may yet escape and come home.”
Cuthwulf looked at him without expression. “A boy may slay a dragon.”
The old man shook his head. “So say the stories told in the great hall, but in truth… come lad, let us go into the village. Your mother will wonder where you are.”

That night, while his mother slept, Cuthwulf rose quietly from his straw mat on the floor.  He took a flint and iron strike-a-light, his sling, and the small dagger his father had gifted him, and placed them in a small bag belted at his waist. He looked down at his sleeping mother and whispered “I will bring him back to us, mama.” The moon was full enough to see clearly as he headed off through the fields.
Cuthwulf walked east for days, keeping to the woods and fields, and away from villages and the camps of strangers.  He drank from ponds and streams, and ate the roots and plants he had learned about from his mother or small animals he killed with his sling.
On the sixth day the landscape changed from flat woods and fields to rolling countryside. In the distance, he saw tall hills which he thought must be the mountains of Cyrneceaster. And vast as the landscape seemed to the young boy, he reasoned that a dragon must be easily found, giant creature that it was and always roaring, growling and belching smoke. That night he made a bed of leaves underneath an oak tree and slept, hopeful that the next day he would find the lair of the beast which had stolen his father.

He was awakened early in the morning to the rough feel of a foot pushing him. A tall, fair-haired man stood above him, speaking words that Cuthwulf could not understand. Seeing his incomprehension, the man nodded and spoke in Cuthwulf’s language.
“A Saxon? What is your name, boy?”
This must be a Dane, thought Cuthwulf, and his heart began to pound. He had heard that the pagans roasted Saxon children to eat at their victory feasts.  He rose to his feet and tried to look brave and fierce.
“I am called Cuthwulf, lord” He reached into his bag and snatched out his dagger, holding it in front of him as his father had taught him.
The Viking laughed. “A wolf indeed. I am no lord, boy, just a warrior finding my way home.  And you may put down your sword. Not all Danes are beasts.”
Cuthwulf eyed the man towering over him, and the battle-axe hanging from his belt, and lowered the knife.
“Why are you sleeping in the woods alone, lad?”
“I…I…seek my father. He was taken by a dragon, and is held in the hills near Cyrneceaster”
“A dragon? I have not seen such here, but there are many hills so who is to say? Come, lad, join us in our camp. We will be at Cyrneceaster tomorrow, and perhaps we will see this dragon along the way.”
Cuthwulf nodded. “I will join you, lord…er …”
“You may call me Birgir.”
“Birgir, then. But fair warning that we are still foes.”
“Indeed, young wolf, I will sleep with one eye open.”
They walked for a short distance through the woods to a clearing, where a fire had been laid in the centre of some rude tents. A half-dozen men sat by the fire talking or cleaning weapons. They looked up at Birgir and Cuthwulf. One, a large dark-bearded man with a fresh scar on his cheek, called something in Norse.  Some words were close to Cuthwulf’s own tongue, and he heard one that he recognized as “slave”.
Birgir shook his head no, and replied quickly, saying something about “Saxon”.
The bearded man scowled, and stalked over to them. “Are you a spy, boy?” he growled in heavily accented Saxon.
Cuthwulf wanted to cry but held his ground. “I am neither slave nor spy, Norseman. I am a warrior!’
The man crouched down and looked Cuthwulf directly in the face. “Are you, boy? Because we kill enemy warriors.”
Birgir stepped between them. He spoke in Norse, but Cuthwulf could understand enough to know that he was asking the big man – whose name, it seemed, was Einar – to leave him alone. Einar scowled and spit on the ground, but went back to his seat by the fire.
Birgir gave Cuthwulf some dried meat and weak ale, and the group broke camp to begin the trek to Cyrneceaster.

They walked through the woods for half a day before coming to a road which would take them into town. Cuthwulf walked swiftly, and his captors generally ignored him. As he listened to the men speak among themselves, he realized the language was close enough to his own that he could understand much of it.  It seemed these men had fought at the great battle, and were retreating ahead of the victorious Alfred.
Cuthwulf kept a careful watch for any dragons in the sky or roaming the nearby hills but saw nothing. At midday, they stopped to rest, and Einar approached him.
“You say your father was stolen by a wyvern?”
“He was. And I will find him, and bring him home.”
“No, boy, there are no dragons in these hills. I think your father was in the shield wall at Ethandun, and was slain. I myself took the heads of three Saxons before the cowardly Swedes broke and we were forced back. But we killed thousands, boy, thousands. ”
He strode away, chuckling.

Cyrneceaster was a bigger town than Cuthwulf had ever seen, crowded with people and movement.  Both Norse and Saxon could be heard in the crowded marketplace through which Birgir led him to a small building. They entered a room stuffed full of all types of goods, from weapons to cooking pots.  A stout, compact, man greeted them in Norse from behind a counter.
“Gentlemen! Have you something to trade with me today?”
“What is this place?” Cuthwulf said to Birgir.
The small man looked down and spoke in perfect Saxon. “Lad, this is where the spoils of war are brought and tallied. I buy and sell and keep the accounts for King Guthrum, so that he may have his share.”
Birgir reached into the leather bag at his side and retrieved a large dagger, the hilt inlaid with intricate designs.
“How much for this?”
The man looked at it closely. “Very nice. One piece of silver.”
Birgir shook his head. “Two pieces.”
As they spoke, Cuthwulf spied something on a low shelf, and almost cried out. It was a comb, with “Cwen” carved into it, the same one his mother had given his father when he left for war.
“Where did you get this comb?”
The bookkeeper turned.
“It just came today. It belonged to a man who was taken at Ethandun.”
For a moment Cuthwulf could not breathe. “The man is… dead, then?”
“No, lad. He could read and write the Saxon language so they brought him here as someone who might be useful to Guthrum.  He is being held in the gray house across the road with some other slaves.”
Birgir grunted. “Do you like the comb, lad?”
Cuthwulf nodded.
Birgir looked back at the little man. “One piece of silver, then, and the comb for the boy?”
The shopkeeper nodded. “Fair enough”.  Cuthwulf grabbed the comb from the shelf, and thrust it into his pouch.
The sun was falling as the two left the building and walked to a nearby inn. Birgir spoke with the landlord, then brought Cuthwulf out to the stables. He pointed at a pile of straw. “Time to rest, young wolf. Stay here, the streets are not safe for you.”
Cuthwulf lay down and closed his eyes. As soon as he heard the footsteps receding in the distance, he leapt up from the straw and ran out of the stable, racing through the narrow streets to the building where the new slaves were being held.
Out front, a bored-looking man with an axe stood guard. Cuthwulf, remembering a story he had once heard around the fire, approached the guard and spoke in Saxon. “Please, lord, my sister asked me to speak with you. She saw you earlier, and wanted me to ask you to visit with her. She is in the inn with the three lanterns, over in the next street.”
The guard understood enough. He grinned, and replied in Norse. “A Saxon wench, eh?” He cast a look at the locked door next to him, and shrugged before sauntering off down the street.
When the man was out of sight, Cuthwulf took out his dagger, pried open the lock, and entered the house. Five men sat against the wall with their eyes closed and hands and feet bound with ropes.
“Papa!”
Averill opened his eyes. He was thinner, and his arms and legs were covered in bruises, but he was otherwise unharmed.
“Praise God, Cuthwulf…how did you find me…you should not be here, the Danes will kill you!”
“I will cut you loose.”
Cuthwulf used the dagger to loose his father. The pair freed the other prisoners and slipped out of the building as darkness fell.
The Danes were busy licking their wounds, and no one pursued them. In seven days they were home, and Cuthwulf’s mother hugged him so tight for so long that he thought he would die, and then shouted at him for so long he wished he had. And for years afterward, the villagers told the tale around the fire of the boy who had saved his father from the dragon.

The Monkey’s Paw: An Alternate Ending

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The following letter with attached manuscript was found in an attic in Essex, England, apparently unsent. It’s signed by W.W. Jacobs, the well-known writer of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Although he wrote in diverse genres, he is perhaps best known for his tale of the macabre, “The Monkey’s Paw.”


W.W. Jacob , Feltham House, Loughton, Essex

Mr. C.B. DeMille, Hollywood California


Dear Mr. DeMille;

January 4, 1914

Thank you for your letter of December 2.

Per your enquiry, I would be interested in pursuing discussions on having a motion picture made of my story “The Monkey’s Paw.”

I understand your concern that the conclusion of the story may have limited appeal to American audiences. To that end I am enclosing a draft of a revised ending which you may find more suitable for your purposes.

Please advise if the enclosed meets your needs.

Yours truly,

W.W. Jacobs

============================================================ 

“For God’s sake, don’t let it in,” cried the old man trembling.

  “You’re afraid of your own son,“ she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

  There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

“Welcome home” she whispered. “We’ve missed you.”

One Week Later

Mrs. White entered the drawing room and addressed her son, gently but with a decided firmness.

“Herbert, are you going to spend the whole day just sitting there looking at the stereopticon?”

Herbert glanced up from his device. ”It’s very interesting, mother. The Eiffel Tower in Paris is quite remarkable. Did you know that it’s more than twice as tall as the Great Pyramid? I should love to visit it one day”.

He twitched, shedding some rotted skin from his shoulder. “Mother would you be a dear and just nudge my left eyeball back into the socket? It’s very distracting from the binocular effect that’s required.”

She leaned forward, and with a sigh picked her son’s detritus from the carpet, before reaching over and gently nudging the errant orb back into its cavity.

“That is fascinating, Herbert. Just imagine.” The old woman paused, and a sadness entered her voice.

“Still, perhaps it’s time you began looking for work again. It’s very hard on your old father to support the three of us only on his army pension.”

Herbert picked up the walking stick next to his chair and attempted to stand, his full leg creaking under the strain.

“Of course, mother, I understand. But surely it’s not so costly. After all, I don’t eat anymore.”

His mother walked towards the window, and gazed out at the dreary, wet lane.

“No, that’s true. How we all laughed when you first tried and it fell right through your ribs and stained your shirt. And you must know we begrudge you nothing. But still, the costs of laundry, bedding, other things…” She trailed off.

“We know you’re not in condition to go back to the factory, but surely some office would hire a smart boy like you for accounts or such.”

Herbert collapsed back in his chair. “Mother, please. You must imagine how shocking it was to awaken and find myself in such a strange situation. Not to say a greatly diminished condition.”

Just then front door slammed, and the sounds of coats and boots being removed could be heard from the hallway.

Footsteps sounded, and the ruddy face of Mr. White appeared in the doorway.

“Ha, another wet one outside. Won’t be doing much gardening this week, I’ll warrant.”

The boy nodded curtly, and lurched up from his chair. “I believe I’ll do some reading in my room.” He hobbled out with a half-hop, half-shuffling gait.

The old man frowned at his wife. “What’s troubling the boy?”

Mrs. White sat, heaving a deep sigh.

“Ah, well, I just told him it might be good to make himself useful again. We’re not getting any younger, and surely he can’t be happy just lounging around the house all day and night.”

Mr. White nodded. “It can’t be easy for the lad.” He paused.

“Forgive me, but I sometimes wish this would never have happened. You had the paw – when you heard him, did you not think of taking the last wish to …to put him at peace again?”

She shook her head.  “No. The wish was gone, I used it up for the new stove. You remember, it fell off a cart out front. Crushed the dog.” she added helpfully. ”Nothing to be done.”

The old man shook his head. “There must be something he can do to keep himself occupied.”

Two Weeks Later

Mrs. White looked out the window and dabbed at her eyes with a frayed kerchief. “Poor Herbert. I already miss him so. Perhaps this was the wrong thing.”

Mr. White spoke softly from behind her. “Of course not, missus.  The circus life is wonderful – always travelling, seeing strange places, having adventures that any young man would be envious of. And circus folk are the gayest group in the world, always laughing and singing.”

The old woman turned. “Oh, I’m sure you’re right and I’m just an old fusspot. But he didn’t seem very pleased when they came for him.”

“Aye, it’ll take him time to get used to it. But he’ll have his own tent, and folk coming from all round the country to look at him. Plus we have one pound ten, and more to come if he can bring in a crowd regular.”

She nodded. “Very true, my love, and most helpful that will be. And surely he’ll come back to visit when they allow.”

The old woman sat down in her chair and picked up her knitting. “I wonder, do you suppose the Sergeant-Major has any more of those paws?”

Why kids should be on public transit

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North Americans generally tolerate rather than embrace public transportation.  It’s often crowded, slow, and inconvenient,  an option of last resort for those who through disadvantage of age, infirmity, or credit rating don’t drive their own vehicle.

The pain-in-the-ass factor is is multiplied with kids; go to any subway station in Toronto to witness stroller-pushing parents fruitlessly searching for a elevator, or swaying on the bus, whimpering toddler in their arms, while commuters feign sleep or stare dead-eyed at electronic devices. It’s even less appealing in the suburbs, where transit ridership is normally an indicator of financial hardship or Kanye-level eccentricity.

As result,  except for the occasional Santa Claus parade or similar child-friendly mob scene where parking is impossible, those who can afford it mostly stick to the family SUV.

And yet public transit is exactly where kids should be.

Michael Chabon wrote that his was “the last generation of children to be left alone – mostly – by adults.” Mine too, I think. We’d get up on a summer morning, hop on our bikes and spend the day in parks, playgrounds and streets, playing with kids we knew, and kids we didn’t know, no grown-ups in sight. Games were spontaneous and chaotic and sometimes dangerous, but that’s how we learned to live in a society.

Public transit is like that.  It can be dirty, noisy, and uncomfortably populous, but it’s also the way to somewhere new.  When my friends and I starting taking the bus downtown, it was a rite of passage, that ability to travel miles from home without parents,  and to feel the liberation and the danger of being on our own among strangers. But we trusted ourselves, and we trusted each other.

Finding your way out of the bubble of friends and family, exposed to a more diverse world, is important when you’re young. And public transport does that.  The world and the people in it aren’t what you’re used to, but that’s fine. And better than fine – educational.

My son is almost six, and though I’m not quite ready to send him on the subway unaccompanied, he loves travelling on it with me. He’s so proud when he marches down the aisle, steadying himself against the rocking of the car as well as any grown-up, and calling out the names of the stops ahead of time.  It’s a confidence he won’t develop strapped into a car seat.

Not living life on autocomplete

By | Food for thought, technology | No Comments
When does technology top assisting our actions and start directing them? And what can we do about it?
A while back, Gmail started suggesting responses for me. They’re generally pretty solid – when asked if I can make a meeting, it offers up “Sounds good, I’ll be there!” and “Sorry, can’t make it” as options;  a document for review triggers  “Got it, thanks!” and “These are great!” (Gmail-bot is unwaveringly enthusiastic and considers exclamation marks the default punctuation for ending sentences).
All this is super-convenient, especially if I’m punching out a reply on a mobile device with my stubby sausage-fingers while walking down the street carrying a hot beverage. But it’s also insidious.
Communication is about more than just responding with the fewest possible clicks. It’s about tone, feeling, and personality. It’s about connecting.
When we let an algorithm answer for us, we save time. But what do we lose? What would that response look like if it were human? Are there questions that could be asked, or social niceties beyond “thanks!”?
And remember, regardless of how the product people at Google pitched it, features like this aren’t added out of altruism. If Gmail saves me keystrokes, I’ll use it more, meaning Google can scrape the details of my virtual life more effectively, the better to follow me around the internet with advertising for variable rate mortgages and dad jeans and other non-needs that occupy my online time-wasting.
Still, all in all, pretty harmless. and if I eschew  a personalized “Hey, Marlene, thanks for the feedback,  do you still have that cottage because I’m free all summer” reply in favour of an automated “Great! Thanks! This is the best thing ever!” it’s not the apocalypse.
So to cycle back to the original question, should we worry about this?
Damn right we should, because it will own us if we let it.
Want to buy a thing? The machine will help.  It will use all that it knows about you – which is a lot, because even if you don’t Facebook, Google, or Amazon much, your friends, family and demographic cohort do – to guide you through the online maze and make sure you land on products and services that you are predisposed to buy.  The machine will serve you the ad, tell you where to buy, and if you need the thing RIGHT NOW and can’t wait for next day delivery, it will point the way to the store.   When you leave the house, the machine will turn off your lights, play soft jazz music for the cat, then queue up some TV for you to watch when you get home. Hell, it knows you so well that you’d be crazy NOT to do what it suggests.
Meanwhile, it’s recording all your responses and storing them in a massive server farm, the better to flesh out its predictive model.
The machine knows the things you want it to know (when’s my next meeting?) and the things you wish it didn’t know (once your spouse walked in unexpectedly while you were creeping your ex’ Facebook page and your heart rate spiked like a triathlete in the final stretch) and the things that you don’t even know yourself (last month you spent more money on wine than you did on books and clothing combined).
And it knows how to make us do what it wants, because like any good boss, it aligns its needs (to sell stuff) with our own (to fill the aching void in our lives with consumables.).
While it’s unclear just how much free will we have anyway (some science suggests that our brain makes decisions for us before our conscious mind is aware of it), it seems preferable to have decisions taken by our own neural synapses rather than the great porn and bling vending machine that is the wired world.
But let’s face it, we’re not going to sacrifice this kind of convenience, anymore than we stopped using the bags from the grocery store just because we saw a picture of a dying sea turtle belching plastic.
So what can we do?
There’s been a lot of excitement about mindfulness in the corporate world over the last few years, with everyone from professional nerds to jocks jumping on the neuroplasticity brain train all the way to meditation station.  And while it’s sometimes oversold as a grand panacea that will keep your employees healthy, cheerful, and efficient for the cost of an hour’s training and a few yoga mats (it won’t), there are tangible benefits that are helpful in making peace with our digital overlords.
Mindfulness isn’t just crossed legs and chanting, although you can do that. Just as important is learning to live in the present moment, to be always aware of what you’re doing, and not dwelling on mistakes of the past or fears of the future. To be thoughtful. To be awake.
And that’s the key to managing all your polite but pushy devices and the algorithms behind them. Ask simple questions: is this really how I would answer an email? Is bingewatching seventeen hours of Peaky Blinders really the best way to spend my Saturday? Do I really need a samurai sword and a year’s worth of freeze-dried lasagna?
All these and many others are reasonable questions that if asked and answered honestly, can help us reap the benefits of technology without becoming simple commodities to be exploited.
The machine is a wonderful servant, but a terrible master. We forget that at our peril.

Climate Change is Here and We Need to Do a Whole Lot More

By | Climate change, Environment, Politics | No Comments

 

Last year, three record-breaking hurricanes (Harvey, Irma, Maria) plowed through the Atlantic, turning Houston into a poison lake, wiping out entire Caribbean islands, and sending thousands of Floridians on a reverse Snowbird flight north in emergency evacuations.  South Asia was battered by a devastating monsoon which killed at least 1200 and forced millions from their homes. Massive wildfires, attributable in part to record high temperatures, burned through unprecedented acreage from BC to Texas, sending smoke wafting across the entire North American continent.
By now it’s obvious to anyone with the wit of a golden retriever that anthropogenic climate change is here, and it’s pissed.
Everyone, that is, who isn’t running the US government or an oil company.
The GOP and the Trump administration in the US set the gold standard for climate ignorance, of course. President Trump famously tweeted in 2012 that climate change was a Chinese hoax, and doesn’t seem to have changed his views since.
The Republican base, against all science and simple observation, follow their leaders and Fox news, with only 15% believing that climate change contributed to the increased ferocity of recent storms.
We’ve been ignoring warnings about the catastrophic effects of our greenhouse gas emissions on the planet’s climate since1988, when NASA scientist James Hansen testified before the US House of Representatives of the strong correlation between rising temperatures and human emissions.
Since then the evidence has gotten stronger, with only the timing and scale of our self-immolation in dispute.
The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change say there is a greater than 95 per cent certainty that the eccentric behaviour of our climate is tied largely to human activity.
97 per cent of climate scientists agree that it’s real and caused by greenhouse gases, not sunspots or cosmic rays or Satan or whatever the right-wing crazynet is pitching these days.
The World Bank, which has cheerfully funded a host of environmentally disastrous mega-projects over the decades, has identified a warming planet as one of the greatest threats facing humanity today, and called for immediate action.
Even the Pentagon, which spends hundreds of billions annually figuring out more efficient ways to kill people, thinks that climate change is probably a bad idea.
While such reports are often swaddled in the soothing language of bureaucracy, the between-the-lines message is clear: we have very little time to act before we are unavoidably and irreversibly pooched.
Consider that global average temperature has risen less a degree and a half Celsius since the start of the Industrial Revolution, and  we’re already seeing the predicted heatwaves, superstorms, dustbowls and deluges all around the world.
Scientists say that an increase of less than two degrees Celsius is necessary if we’re to avoid a civilization-threatening disaster (although some believe even that modest increase is too high). In spite of this, our international climate change conferences and even the heralded Paris treaty, have devolved into expensive vacations for bureaucrats, where non-binding commitments are made and ignored and action deferred.
As it stands, our business-as usual-approach will see temperatures rise at least 4 degrees Celsius by the end of the century. Start building your Thunderdome now.
And floods and fires are just the tip of the melting, flaming, iceberg. Recent research suggests that reduced oxygen levels from overheated phytoplankton could wipe out humanity within a century or so,  and an unrelated study from MIT finds that we’ve set ourselves up for a mass extinction in the same time frame.
To avoid disaster,  we’ll have to dramatically  reduce our carbon-spewing habits. A study published in the journal Science found that most known fossil fuel reserves would have to remain unburned if we’re to stave off catastrophe, and that new sources like the Arctic cannot even be contemplated.
All of this is bad news for those of us who plan to continue living on earth, but since we’re aware of the problem, and technologies exist that could pull us back from the brink, we’ll just fix it right?
You’d think.
But at odds with what Bill McKibben called “global warming’s terrifying new math”, and the host of justifiably panicked Cassandras shrieking from the wings,  is the unbridled enthusiasm of governments around the world, including Canada’s own grinning hypocrite Justin Trudeau, for more and more extreme efforts to find and burn carbon, from fracking to deep sea drilling to the Alberta tar sands.
In support of this multi-billion dollar suicide machine, governments, fossil fuel companies and their PR minions engage in upbeat, green-tinged marketing campaigns to assure the public that these efforts are “ethical” and that the continued use of fossil fuels is benign and necessary for “energy security.”
Since there are few things in the human experience less ethical  or secure than the reduction of civilization to bands of scavengers roaming the fetid swamps north of the Arctic Circle,  it’s bewildering that so many of our captains of industry and political leaders apparently want to take us in that direction. Because whatever their flaws, these people did not get where they are by being stupid.
How then, have so many jumped on board on the most massively self-destructive enterprise in human history?
The least charitable explanation would be that our leaders are simply sociopaths, who understand the risks but reason that the short-term personal benefits are enormous, and that they and their progeny will insulated from it by wealth, geography, or luck.
This idea is delusional. Even if you’re going full prepper and dropping a couple million on a converted missile silo, our collective future of  massive storms, collapsing infrastructure, food and water shortages, and migration of environmental refugees is not going to be good to you, a realization that will probably hit home as you’re wheezing your way up a hundred flights of darkened stairs to your penthouse before the neighbourhood kids catch you and turn your perfumed 1 per cent ass into Soylent Green.
It’s also possible that the Republicans and their fellow travellers genuinely believe, in spite of the in-your-face evidence, that anthropogenic climate change isn’t really happening,or at least that the risks have been wildly exaggerated by the Big Green Conspiracy.
There are a plethora of online echo chambers, comforting virtual Disneylands for the ignorant and the delusional, where non-scientists can spout non-science “proving” such things.  Such an explanation would also account for the Canada’s last Conservative government’s zeal for closing labs and destroying research libraries (policies now being emulated by the Trumpists) –  it’s much easier to believe something when you’re not being constantly confronted with irrefutable evidence to the contrary.
And self-interest can be very convincing. The fossil fuel industry has trillions locked up in infrastructure and reserves, which must make it easier to convince yourself that the planet isn’t actually warming, or that if it is the outcome will be less Dune meets Waterworld and more sunbathing in Nunavut.
But now is the time to face facts.
Whatever your reason for ignoring the reality of climate change, whether you’re a bonus-bound executive running a colossal fossil fuel company, or a politician whose next term in office depends on contributions from said company, or a comment troll who thinks climate change is too annoyingly liberal to be true – it’s time to end the fight and join the rest of the human race.
Because no amount of  money or self-righteous blather or value to shareholders is going to shelter you or anyone else from what’s coming if we don’t act now.
So rich folks, while you’re sacrificing interns to Cthulu at Bohemian Grove or pantsing your fellow plutocrats at Davos, remember that you and your kids and grandkids have to live here too. Noone is going to Rapture you. Elon Musk is not taking you to Mars. And we’ve run out of time.

Welcome to Guesswork

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The overall purpose of this site – blog sounds too 1990’s – is described under Bio, so I won’t repeat it.   I’ll post content on topics that appeal to me, which in no particular order are sustainability, science, technology, philosophy, family and absurdity. I may occasionally write and post fiction, which I started doing recently and enjoy, though I claim no great skill.