Climate Anxiety Counseling: Kennedy Plaza/Burnside Park, 6/5/18

Weather: Warm, breezy, delightful, bright with gathering clouds

Number of people: 4 stoppers, 1 walkby

Number of hecklers: 0!

Pages of notes: 10

People who got the Peanuts reference: 1

Pictures taken with permission: 1

Pictures taken without permission: 1

Conversations between previous strangers: 2

People I’ve seen before, back for more: 1

Dogs seen: 2

Dogs pet: 0

Money raised for Environmental Justice League of Rhode Island: $0.10



Nonhuman animals: many a pigeon, sparrows, a small flying ant (?) that landed on my hand.

Faced west. No food trucks upon arrival; also no Del’s. First food truck arrived at 11:20. I left 45 minutes early today because of the rain.

A police car went by around 11:15. I try to note police presence (city/state police and other roles like park rangers and parking officials) but I’m also aware that it’s different for me because my safety doesn’t depend on noting them, and I do miss some.

To people’s recycling obsession from previous years I’ve noticed an addition of a plastics obsession in general, which is probably material for its own post?


Some conversations:



[This is the person I handled a conversation with badly on this day. I still want to write about our two conversations at greater length; in the meantime, here are excerpts from the second one. For new readers, the italics are me.]


I want to apologize.

Me too, I was a real jerk last time.

I was thinking about our conversation, and I wanted to ask you: what do you do with the knowledge you have, how do you live with it?

If I didn’t have some sort of spiritual life, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d probably be a serious environmentalist—but I don’t think collecting plastic bottles is gonna help much … A lot of stuff that’s going on is not necessary, [and] it can become a little bit hopeless. I have outlets for my epistemology but I mean—the report yesterday by the Washington Post, or maybe the New York Times, they actually want to change the scaling for hurricanes. It goes up to 5 and they want to add a Category 6, because they’re expecting what they’re calling superstorms. They’ve known this for ten years, but you’re starting to see it drip into the mainstream news. The government’s preparing people for this with Hollywood—movies like San Andreas–[the] New Madrid [Seismic Zone] is gonna go. It would be illogical to think that Yellowstone is immune, and if that goes, we’re all in deep shit. The government is worried.

So you mentioned Hollywood as a way of preparing people. How do those stories usually go?

They sort of rally you around certain heroes. And then you’re happy when those people survive, never mind the fact that 250,000 people died. Like, don’t you see all those dead people?

There were two asteroid impacts last week, and this is coming from something that is disturbing the asteroid belt. We’re in a massive ecosystem—the earth’s weather is not caused by the earth. That’s something the weather report—they don’t get into that. This is solar weather. So what do you do with all that? I don’t know. You make your personal peace.

You also share this information, though. Why do you do that?

I do it for spiritual reasons. Really for me it’s about the individual. The individual should know and be able to make their spiritual peace with it. … I have faith. I don’t think the world’s gonna end. But … you ask some people now, they’ll say, “The world ended. My house got swept away by lava.” Some people are forced to do that. It can show [you] how transitory and fleeting life can be. Don’t hold onto the basket too tight.

… Yeah, I’m a little concerned. I’ve had dreams of my town completely underwater. I had to swim for a while to get to it.


Plastic. Tons and tons of plastic. Car tires dissolve faster than plastic. I’m a professional diver, I go out, I see bottles half-full of water floating on the surface. Plastic so thick in the river it’s rolling, the surface is rolling. I mostly dive off the West Shore, also out by Prudence Island—it’s disgusting. It’s gotta stop. … But the good thing is, I’ve seen species rejuvenating that I haven’t seen for 20, 30 years. Starfish are coming back. Baby lobsters. But then when the water’s cleaner, the invasive species come in. By 2052 there’s gonna be more plastic in the ocean than fish.  … The bottles get flattened in the streets and go through the storm drains. There’s nothing down there to catch them, and if there was, within a week there’d be at least a ton. They find their way into the ocean and into the mud. I’ve been a commercial fisherman since 1984 and already, as far as Georges Bank and Hudson Canyon, you’d see these gallon milk jugs, and we wouldn’t tow ’em out. They need to go back to wax cartons. You try to dig quahogs and you get a tampon applicator. … If I was to take it to the Bay Commission they don’t wanna hear it—too much money involved.


[Person 1 was talking with me for a while before Person 2 came up.]

Person 1: You can’t do much. In terms of taking care—you got all these plastics. When you go to Dunkin’ Donuts for an iced coffee, around the cup they give you another styrofoam cup. And then you get this beautiful long straw that ends up in the ocean. I try to help out in any way I can. I take caution, but not too much—I wish I could be more cautious when it comes to buying stuff. Companies and businesses are not concerned. With those plastic water bottles, they’re like, “Oh, don’t reuse it.”

… I call myself “boots on the ground.” I see what the person behind the desk talks about and makes the changes, but just because it’s on paper doesn’t mean it takes place on the ground. They talk to make people feel good, but action speaks a lot louder than words. … Okay, maybe there’s a fee associated with [littering], but is there the manpower to take care of all these laws? …

We could have cows. They take care of the grass, then there is no manpower. How many cows can you put in a park like this?

… What’s needed is for each individual person to take action. These people that you’re reaching, get them all together—you have your family, you have your kids, you have your friends. …

[Person 2 came up at this point.]

What are you anxious about today?

My job. I have to give free phones to people, and to make my numbers I have to work nonstop. … It’s harder when people aren’t really interested or eligible. They tell us to get these numbers, but I have an issue with talking to people—it gets to me, I need to take a breather. I got dropped off today with ten phones. … As a salesman, I don’t take no for an answer, but I don’t want to keep prodding them to do it—it just makes you look bad. I get paid $7.00 an hour, I’m supposed to sell ten phones. To keep my base pay I have to sell six phones a day. People don’t adhere to me—they’re like, “It’s just a salesperson.” … It’s hard to hit those numbers and be held accountable. The convincing part is terribly difficult. I’m losing my hair—I was taking a shower and big clumps fell out.

[Person 1 made a couple of suggestions about sites to try selling, and timing, based on their observations. After Person 2 left…]


Person 1: We’re all humans and we depend on each other and that’s how it should be. If you can lend a hand to someone without jeopardizing your well-being, then why not?


climate change diagram

I drew this picture to show someone the way that greenhouse gases work, but upon reflection I’m wondering if their repeated “Why is that?” was less about how it works and more about why people allow other people–relatively few people–to keep doing it.

map 6-5-18

On the map, one of the people who talked with me about plastic drew one of Rhode Island’s watersheds and the places that plastic collects within it.


Alternate Histories: 5/11, 5/17

(If you’re a new visitor to the blog, you can read this explanation of alternate histories.)



We don’t kill the fish ’cause the fish have toxins in ’em by the time they come up this far. I tell people not to eat ’em. I tell people, there’s three discharge stations up there, three. … We just put ’em back. Stripers, if they stay out of the water too long, they get stressed and they die.



Two stories here: the story of H and the story of the fish.

The fish was born in a big river. (I’m sorry, but I have to use human names for the things the fish knew.) It swam with the current. It snapped at tasty fragments first, then smaller fish. Its siblings schooled together with it. The water brought it temperatures, pressures and flavors, currents and other currents. It moved like a muscle inside of a muscle. It tasted metal, plastic, rank things. Older fish of its kind came to the river–big shadows, muscling the water aside–and ate most of the food, but it managed to find enough. It was fish-wise, fish-strong. It inscribed itself on the currents briefly, repeatedly. For lice, it was a country; for smaller fish, it was the end of the world.

Seasons passed. The fish’s third winter, the water cooled less, it didn’t grow as torpid, it stayed hungrier. Some of its schoolmates died and the decay of their flesh flavored the water. When the fish was old enough and strong enough, it moved along a particular current, following the taste and itch of salt, passing the changes in plants and other animals, riding the rapids and pushing through the slow shallows, until it reached vastness.

H is a human, so he knows time and survival differently. His birth is a long time back, in what, up North, he calls the South. He rides his bike, he gardens, he works as a guide for kayak fishing. Sometimes he takes his kayak through the river some humans call the Woonasquatucket out into the bay and beyond, to get to where the stripers are that his fellow humans want to catch.

The fish wants to live and H wants to live. Once, he would have let the fish live long enough to grow big and stout, and maybe mate and make more fishes, before catching, killing, scaling, gutting, cooking, eating. Now he coaches his customer how to put it back without any intention of ever eating it, gently, reverently. It will still probably die from something humans have done–plastic in the water, carcinogens in its own body–but not this human, not this thing

But now trace the stories back upstream. Dredge out the plastic, by hand if necessary, all the able and available hands maneuvering small craft and squatting on the tangled banks; go to the houses, collect the plastic, go to the factories, don’t make any more. Find the places where the sewage outfall or industrial discharge enters the river, diverge some of it or plant them up with the cordgrass or phragmites that will filter the water (we’ll need to rip it out later, since it likes to spread; we’ll need to bind and weave the reeds into boats when our kayaks and canoes spring leaks we can’t fix because we’re not making plastic compounds anymore and the spruce sap won’t stick to the fiberglass properly). Pay the reparations that are due to H on behalf of his enslaved ancestors, before we get rid of money entirely. The window is small; we need to do it soon.

The fish has died, long since, drifted to the bottom to be devoured by the scavenger snails and hermit crabs that have managed to survive the increasingly warm oceans. Other fish spawn in the river, tastes their way to the ocean. They know all that fish know: the water reteaches it to them, along the lateral lines that run down every fish body from generation to generation. A blurred or interrupted lesson is still a lesson, and many fish have come to grief. Others have learned in their bodies how to digest new kinds of food, how to endure greater warmth and less oxygenated water, how to float low and weather out the turbidity and violence of storms.

Humans live longer than fish; H is old in this part of the story, and history has injured him in many ways, but his life is full of sweetness and he has access to all the medical care he needs. He kayaks out for the pleasure of survival; he lets out his line. The fish he hooks late in the day will feed him and six or seven of his neighbors; it thrashes with all its weight, because most things want to live. He says a reverent prayer of thanks for its life and its flesh, knocks it sharply on the head, and paddles back upstream.



Climate Anxiety Counseling: 5/11/16

Weather: Warm, sunny, breezy, perfect in the shade at the beginning, a little chilly toward the end.

Number of people: 13 stoppers, 7 walkbys

Number of hecklers: 0! One walkby might’ve muttered “it’s not real” but I can’t be sure.

Pages of notes: 8

People known to me, and I to them, from past seasons: 3

People who commented on the Peanuts reference: 1, returning from last year

Picture-takers with permission: 2

Picture-takers without permission: 2

Number of dogs seen: 2, belonging to a friend

Number of dogs pet: 2

Number of times people called me “honey” but not in a way that made me want to kill them: 2

Money raised for Environmental Justice League of RI: $2.50



Still not always remembering to do these things.

Pushing the handtruck (for new readers, I pack the booth in and out on a handtruck) was surprisingly not that hard.

Not a lot of people talked about climate anxieties directly, but quite a few people brought up climate change, extreme weather, ecological degradation, as if incidentally, while talking about their primary anxieties.

13 stoppers in one session is actually a lot (comparatively), and I’m wondering if this was because it was the first day in a long while–I was a novelty. We’ll see.


Some conversations:

I get anxious on buses. I start coughing, breathing heavy. I used to be on Klonopin but they took me off it now, I don’t know why. They got me on some other pill that doesn’t have a [word I didn’t catch] effect.

When you start to feel it, do you have to get off the bus?

I want to, but I have to get to my destination. If there’s somebody I know on there, I talk to them. Or I talk on the phone, I call people. Sometimes I pretend to talk on the phone when nobody’s there. I’ll say, Hi ______, that’s my daughter.


I love biking, I love working in my garden. Love kayaking. I’m planting celery, melons, some kale. Not doing tomatoes this year … I live in East Providence and we have a lot of squirrels, so I planted onions around everything. If you plant onions, they don’t like that. Or you can use pepper and water. I’m from down South, growing up we didn’t have pesticides, so you just put pepper and water in a spray bottle and spray it around the garden. It kills the grubs and things.

[Talking about fishing from a kayak]

We don’t kill the fish ’cause the fish have toxins in ’em by the time they come up this far. I tell people not to eat ’em. I tell people, there’s three discharge stations up there, three. … We just put ’em back. Stripers, if they stay out of the water too long, they get stressed and they die.



There isn’t much we can do about the climate, honey. That’s all in God’s hands. But the government here in Rhode Island needs a shakeup. Communication, communication is just horrible in this state. I moved here after losing my home in Sandy and I had to go through six months of hoops just to get an ID. I’m a veteran, and they put all the veterans in one box: either you’re full of drugs that are given to you legally or you’re just brushed off … the capitol is right here, and I don’t see the people up there

Have you been talking to people about this?

I’ve been trying to connect with veterans and servicemembers. I got my resume done over at Amos House, and they asked if I had a history of mental illness, and I said, Other than the emotion of losing everything from the storm, from having hundred-mile-an-hour winds pick up my car and drop it…


I get anxious because I’m not anxious–because when you walk around on a beautiful day like today, there’s nothing to remind you of it. When you hear the scientific spokesman for Congress saying there’s nothing to worry about, and then most of the scientific community does say there’s something to worry about–We went to see a movie where this guy took a photo in the Arctic every day and you could see the ice disappearing.

But does that feel close to you?

No, it’s just like watching a war, it’s all happening on TV.

Have you noticed any changes that have to do with the climate since you’ve moved to the States?

Well, this last winter was the most unusual winter since we’ve been here.


I need help. I feel like the fumes from the buses are making me sick. Not only that, but you can’t see the stars from Providence anymore.

Did you grow up here?

No, I grew up in New Hampshire, but it’s troublesome to me that you don’t see the stars. Today I woke up a little sick–I’m biking in Downcity and I feel like the fumes kinda cluster at the lower levels. It makes it difficult to breathe sometimes. I know they’re supposed to be clean engines or whatever, but when a big burst of it hits you right in the face–I worry that it’s shaving years off my life, like when I’m 76 I’m gonna lose a week with my grandchildren … I understand that RIPTA–they’re trying to help people [drive less], it’s not RIPTA’s fault. But I love nature and I love the birds and the trees. I wanna be on earth as long as I can.


[Person 1 started out as a walkby, then Person 2 came up and Person 1 decided to stay a bit]

Person 1: Honey, you would charge a hundred dollars for what I’d have to tell you.

Tell me a nickel’s worth.

Person 1: Three dead husbands: diabetes, diabetes, suicide.

Person 2: This is cool, what is this?

[I explain that I want to know what people in Providence are anxious about, whether it’s climate change or something else]

Person 1: Oh, in Providence.

Person 2: Homelessness, unemployment.

Person 1: Thank God I got a job, thank God I got a home. There’s a lotta issues here and it’s too bad, because it’s a great city, it’s a beautiful city. I have some really good people in my life, and I have my kitty cat. [He tells her story.] My partner and I, we were on the street for three years, I don’t know how we ever survived. It was not a good time. Then we got an apartment–four months later, I crawl into bed and I realize he died. Diabetic shock. Then our upstairs neighbor, who was a crack addict, decided to burn the house down. … I have some great people in my life and I’m lucky because they keep my heart open.

[I give him a card with a hermit thrush on it.]

Oh, I know these! My mother lived in Jamestown, she had a flock of those. They’re buggers. They are buggers.


Today’s poem:


Three dead husbands

Homelessness, unemployment

Three hundred dead husbands

Homelessness because there are no homes

Unemployment because everything is undone

Under the bodies of someones

Who tended someone elses at one point

Undertake, overwhelmed: the number


Climate Anxiety Counseling: Providence International Arts Festival, 6/13/15

Weather: Hot and bright, windy at times.

Number of people: 38 stoppers, too crowded to really hear walkbys

Number of people who read the sign out loud without coming close: at least 13

Pages of notes: 18, but I had to use the fat blue marker again because I forgot to bring down spare ink cartridges for my usual pen

Alternate histories: 2!

Pictures taken with permission: 3

Pictures taken without permission: at least 8

Dogs spotted: too many to count

People who commented on the Peanuts reference: 1

Flyers for other concerns proffered and accepted: 1

Money raised for Environmental Justice League of RI: $16.85

Also contributed: a handful of chamomile flowers


The parade included many beautifully costumed contingents, marching and dancing; even more delightful for me was seeing people in their costumes after the parade was over, walking regular, back to wherever they wanted to be.

Something I noticed in another context was also striking here: when some people feel overloaded and helpless, their attention jumps around, so that they start talking about one thing they can’t really handle and then, when I try to respond to that, jump to another thing they can’t really handle either. I’d be interested to hear if there’s anything other than anecdata that has tracked or studied this response.

I got more irritated with more people than I usually get, and showed it. This may have been partly a volume problem. I apologize. I also got very, very sad and helpless-feeling again toward the end of the shift. My poet-friend Brenda Iijima and I have been trying to talk about sadness and stillness as potentially generative, potentially fertile, instead of just something to try to avoid; I tried to bring those ideas into a couple of conversations, but I don’t think it worked very well.

I saw the Mayor, but he didn’t see me.

Special thanks to Thompson Webb III and S. Hollis Mickey for being part of this day’s session in multiple illuminating ways; to Rachel of the Free Pass Project for the generous and unprompted gift of a blueberry lemonade; to Yesica of the Avenue Concept for incredible facilitation; to Jen Long for holding onto the umbrella for me, for the loan of your jambox, and for your lovely and lengthy company.

Some conversations:

Money. The fact that I–obviously we need it to survive. I’m afraid that I won’t have a dime in my pocket again, it’s happened before, and I have to figure that out. But sometimes you have to question it–some people have so much, and some people have to decide whether or not to buy food.

Can you imagine what a world without that worry would look like?

It would be more primitive [sic], more focused on sharing each other’s talents, instead of being such a self-centered society. But if you just started doing it by yourself, it wouldn’t work–you need other people to join with you. They need to see how they can benefit too …

What are you good at, what could you contribute to something like that?

My time, my art. I’m good at writing, listening, dancing.


Climate change doesn’t bother me that much, but then I think, I wanna move to parts of the country that are close to water, and when I’m thinking about that I don’t think about the fact that the sea level is rising and that the coastlines will be–not where they were.

When you start thinking about it, why do you stop thinking about it? Or like, what if instead of stopping, you kept thinking about it?

I feel hopeless, like, Well that’s a thing that’s probably going to happen. If I thought about it more, then I think it would become this dystopian fantasy, and then it might get exciting, kind of morbidly thrilling because then I could write a story about it.


You wanna do it?

Well, I did it before.

That’s right, I forgot. Do you wanna give me an update on your anxieties?

There’s still so much trash. I was on the east side when Brown and RISD students were moving out, and they were just throwing out so, so much, and that’s just one or two small schools in one small city. I’ve been out to the landfill before, that’s not getting any smaller. I know that the Johnston landfill upgraded their recycling so you can just put everything in the bin together, and that improved recycling by like 25% or something. I think it’s about tackling stupidity, how do you do that?

Well, how come you aren’t–like you obviously don’t do this thing you’re noticing, how come?

My mother is something of a packrat, but she would always be like, This goes in the recycling. I can’t say what’s keeping people from doing it. Maybe there’s a stigma, like it’s like a hippie thing? A lot of [why people change things] comes down to cost. Like in manufacturing facilities I’ve been to, the distance between 2 machines will be more efficient because it saves money, not because of some holistic [didn’t catch the word]. How can we make it cheaper to recycle?


The drought in California. I joked about it, but then I was like, Maybe I shouldn’t joke about that. Maybe joking is my way of coping or maybe of being ignorant, using jokes as a way to hide my ignorance.


[This was a family who came up together]

Daughter: I know it’s the Ocean State, but I don’t want it to be an ocean state. It’s hard to evolve the ability to breathe underwater–it’ll take us at least four, five generations. I can’t swim very well. I can doggie paddle but I can’t swim, like, strokes. I’ll just have to sit on a log raft for the rest of my life.

Dad: I’m gonna put Mashapaug Pond on the map.

Mom: It’s already a toxic waste dump.

Dad: I know, I wanna protect it.

Can I ask–since you know that the things you just described are probably not what’s gonna happen, why do you bring them up that way, instead of things that are more likely to happen?

Daughter. Because a lot of people are very complacent, people aren’t paying attention. Hyperbole is a way to get them to see that it’s totally affecting them, it already has affected them. Maybe they don’t need it, but maybe they should.


Little Compton would be an awesome place to start conserving.

Can you say why Little Compton in particular?

Personal reasons. My brother and I used to go there together in the summer, and we called it the Shire, from the Lord of the Rings. It looks like the Shire in summer bloom. I hope it stays that way.

What could you do to help it stay that way?

My life is full–I could make more room in my life [for conservation].


I worked at Apeiron, I worked in Woonsocket. Life is so totally out of balance, so disconnected. We’re all implicated. It makes me so unutterably sad.

What do you do when you feel that sadness?

I try to put parts of my body on the grass and connect with Mother Earth … A lot will survive, but I think it might not be us. I try to breathe. I think about the bad things I do and how they contribute … I believe that everybody cares, given the opportunity to care.

I’ve been trying to think about what sadness might make possible.

Sadness leads to the desire for connection. Sadness informs reaching out. But I don’t share sadness often, because I want to make opportunities for people to perform their own responses, to facilitate a journey to authentic response. I want to be careful how I influence people–to promote why it’s good to be green [sic].


Once I dreamed that penguins were walking on the frozen ice of Lake Erie. They were zombie penguins, and they were hunting. People–not other penguins … There are a few dreams stashed in my memory about Lake Erie–I grew up on Lake Erie, and it usually registers strongly in my dreams. I like the name, Erie, the eeriness of it. I remember seeing something on TV about a place above Toronto that was melting, and people were seeing the opportunity to create economic profit from climate change, like, Bring on climate change, it’s gonna be good economically. My dream did the opposite–it froze the lake. I also dream about tornadoes, and when I dream about them, the air pressure in my ears always pops. I don’t know if that happens in a tornado, but I know the air pressure change can blow out windows. I’ve seen a lot of tornado aftermath–I remember working one night in the design office [in Ohio], I heard something, and I came out and there were trees all over the road. There was a lot of tornado anxiety–we lived in a ranch house with no basement. One took off my grandparents’ porch, and a fireball from a tornado burned the house across the street from my aunt’s house … Tornado season in Ohio is mainly in the spring–warm air and cool air just collide together and the sky just starts to roll over itself. That’s something every Ohio kid knows–the sign is that the sky turns green and it turns sideways.


Not having water, and burning from the heat. I come from another country, and in my village, we show respect to nature. We make sure that we use the land in a proper way. I’m quite aware that it isn’t done the same way here–the same level of respect is not applied. People here make fun of me–I even save my dishwater, and put it on my plants. Now I see that people are actually doing these things here more, and it makes me happy. I’m not such a weirdo after all … I’m not going to let ridicule undermine me. I do it out of love and care. If I can influence one person I will have won. Only for them I feel bad–I’m okay! I have Mother Nature’s approval and that’s much more.


[These two were mother and daughter.]

Mom: Warming in general. Typical stuff that you hear all the time. We’re connected together, so once one thing gets out of sync, the whole thing falls apart. I live in Pennsylvania, and this past winter was so cold, and a lot of people in the neighborhood suffered–they lost plants or trees. Nobody has any time to do anything. I just keep on going. But–I know how it sounds to say this, but I have faith in the next generation coming up.

Daughter: They say you’ve already screwed it for us.

Mom: Anything they tell me to do, I would do.

Daughter: We learn the limitations of humanity. In Rochester, the winter there every year is like this winter tenfold. I live up here, and this winter, we had federal emergency aid, we ran out of sand twice–if something actually catastrophic happens, we’re hosed. We’re not ready. We’re comfortable.

How can we get better at being ready?

Daughter: We’ve been conditioned out of it. It’s not an education issue, it’s an agility issue. “Here are the things that are in my capacity to do.” … And the media hype–I was at the grocery store before one of the big snowstorms, not because of that, I was just like, “I need some food, let’s go to the grocery store,” and there was someone from ABC in the parking lot asking me, “So, are you terrified of the big snowstorm?” We have the tools we need, it’s a mental thing.

Mom: I turn off lights, I do those kinds of things. It’s just the scientific things–now this is approaching, what am I gonna do? Now they’re saying that ethanol is not the solution because they may not want to use corn for fuel if they can use it for food–

Daughter: What, because you read one article? We’re really uninformed, and there’s not somewhere to get informed about this stuff clearly. We’re being slackers.

Mom: I’m being serious, I’m not being funny.


[These two came up together.]

Him: My big anxiety is that if you look back 65 million years, when the temperature jumped, it jumped in a span not of 100 but of 15 years, 8 degrees Celsius. We couldn’t adjust for it.

Her: The sea level rise from that–

Him: Basically if you melt all of [the] Greenland [Ice Sheet]* you get 8 meters of rise. If you melt East and West Antarctica, you get an automatic 300 feet. Countries other than the U.S. are gonna push for geoengineering, but that has massive negative consequences. And the other thing is methane. There’s a tipping point with methane release as polar ice melts, and it’s greenhouse gas with 27 times the power of carbon dioxide. That’s really the thing that’s gonna put us over the edge. No policy can stop that. Barring geoengineering, this will happen.

Her: Based on the models.

So if this is definitely happening, what does that mean–

Him: For civilization?

I don’t think you know that. For you.

Him: It would be very sad, because we’re of the generation that actually had a chance to have an engineering impact for future generations. Cheap agricultural production is gonna collapse, and there’s gonna be an expansion of people who are denied their basic human rights.

Her [to him]: I’m done, I’ll see you later. [Leaves.]

Do you think there’s structures we could set up now that would reduce the chance of that?

Him: When I was younger, I went to Cuba and I looked at agricultural reform that was part of the reaction of the government to Russia’s collapse. All the imports of things like grain stopped. So they had to move from an agriculture that was focused on producing coffee, sugar and tobacco to a diversified local agriculture that could feed the population of the island. They were overall able to adapt the food supply, shift away from state-run agriculture. If we could facilitate such a shift–but agriculture runs off fossil fuels and glacial meltwater … I got burnt out on international development. Now I’m just trying to make money enough to make sure my family is safe. I’m building nonmilitary drones–they make 3D plans of buildings … I don’t see a total extinction event, I just see a very rough period for human rights. We have a tendency to hunt till there’s no more, drill till there’s no more. I personally think that humans are awesome, because humans make awesome things–humans are grasping the fundamental nature of reality in a way that no other creature has.

*Doctor’s note: Follow Ruth Mottram on Twitter to learn more about the Greenland Ice Sheet.


I work with fishermen–for example, I try to develop different fishing gear to solve some sort of problem, ways to catch this but not that. So one guy tells me that the times when he’s allowed to fish for whiting have shifted away from when the whiting are actually running–he wants me to help him shift the season so he can target these fish.

So let’s say you were successful in doing that. What other changes might you expect to see?

I can’t answer that, because if the population is changing because of something other than what he’s doing–there’s just too many factors. There needs to be a step back before that question. One of the buzzwords right now [in the fishery] is switching from population-based management to ecosystem-based management, but no one has defined the ecosystem they want. First you need to define that–if you don’t know where you’re going, what are you doing? So in fisheries management, we know historically the highest population of cod, and we also know the highest population of dogfish. But were they ever the same? Can they both be at their peak at the same time? Instead of the maximum sustainable yield, what do you want your world to look like? We have a strong dogfish population right now, but we have problems with other species–it’s not even necessarily that one’s eating the other. They could be competing for the same food. As a fisheries guy I try to take an unbiased stance–not saying this is good or this is bad, but let’s make things sustainable … if it’s not sustainable, it’s a losing game for everybody.


My sons are gonna be adopted. I have two sets of twins and they’re all gonna be adopted, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop drinking every day. Other than that–I just got a job, I’m okay.

You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want, but is it the kind of adoption where you can see them?

I can see them one day every month, and that day I can see them all day long. I’m friends with the lady who has them–she’s my babysitter.


I have several anxieties. I can’t grow stuff in my garden–there’s too much lead in the soil. I just got a notice from the water department about lead in my water at the same time as a notice about a rate increase. The environment is so compromised that it’s beyond repair. But then there’s the people who rebuild Jacob’s [Point] Saltmarsh–they rejuvenated a thousand-year-old ecosystem. I wanna be involved with something like that.


Person 1: I recently decided not to have children, and I’m worried that no one will be able to take care of me. I think it’s partly the influence of society–when I tell people this, they’re all, “Who’s gonna take care of you when you’re old?” I have two elderly friends, and I’m actually their caregiver. I’ve been a CNA before, and one of the things that made it hardest for me was actually the lack of compassion and creativity in my colleagues–and losing friends.

Person 2: There are a lot of professional caregivers in my family, and I’ve learned that the caregivers need as much stress relief as the patients do. The people in my family who do it have high blood pressure, they’re overweight, a lot of them smoke–

Person 1: I’ve started and quit smoking several times.


I have a job interview on Monday in account management.

What are you doing to get ready for it?

I’ve talked to someone who’s a current employee, and I’ve been doing meditations. I’ve been listening to those subliminal ones about confidence.


When people can’t afford to just move away from problems–like, when the sea levels rise and you can’t afford to just leave your beach house because that’s your house … Have you done anything with You could send some of this stuff in to them.


More storms. But it doesn’t feel personal to me, not like a personal fear. It’s more like the collective weight of an increasing level of disaster. It feels like a heavy weight, a collective weight of too much–too much happening at once. I have some sense of the fallout of that kind of [event]. I think there’s a lot of people that would vanish, would fall away, would die, and then the few people who are left would have to sort it out.


I remember in 1978 Louise and I were discussing, and I said, It’s justice, we gotta work on justice, and she said, No, we gotta work on the planet. She said, If there’s no planet, what’s the goddamn point? Well, I went and worked in the justice system, in prisons, tried to clean things up a bit. I did good work, but now I think she was right. I’ll die before it’s dead. I’ve got about 15 years, I think. But it’s just getting more and more dead. My generation lives with it all the time–I don’t know about this generation, I don’t know how they see it. I can’t bear to see the trees being cut down. I can’t watch anything about the Amazon. It distresses me.


[While talking with me, Person 1 saw her friend, Person 2, and called her over.]

Person 1: Are all the trees gonna go away?

I don’t know. That’s one of the things that scares me the most, and I have the hardest time thinking about it.

Person 1: It’s even hard to be in New York, where there are trees, but just so few. It feels like dying when I think about it.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to do when I feel sad and scared like that.

Person 1: I personally have to heal first and then do things. Sadness is not an action on its own for me–I’m still, I can be quiet, I can listening, feel whatever I can–but I can’t act out of that. I wish I could desensitize a little.

Person 2: Today there was a dead seal on the beach, and it didn’t have a head. I think maybe some scientists came down and decapitated it? Would a human decapitate a seal? I feel helpless when I think about [climate change], I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.

Person 1: When I’m in traffic to Boston, for my job, I feel so helpless. How many trees am I killing, just sitting here? Like who am I now? That’s when I get angry.

Person 2: I just landed this lifetime in this world, I didn’t make it this way. I can’t allow what I’m not doing to [didn’t catch the word].

Person 1: I feel so overwhelmed by all these years of, Let’s have a garden! Let’s ride our bikes! I don’t wanna say I wanna give up, but I’m exhausted.


The East Bay Bike Path is done for. It’s too close to the water, and it is my daily commute. I think about it a lot. … I think it’s not really valued enough–these are the types of things we’re gonna lose first, because things that can be profitable, people who can profit from them will protect them.

I didn’t write a poem for this day.