Modeling Our Demise

It is not often on Bard Owls that I post short fiction but today it seemed appropriate. Largely because it is also not every day that I find an artist as good as James Vincent McMorrow. The first song of his I heard was his new single Cavalier. I recommend you give it a listen and point your eyeballs at my short fiction ode to The Nine Billion Names of God by Arthur C. Clarke.

Modeling Our Demise 

The model ran through the night, a peculiarity worth noting. The computing power long ago made short work of explaining the earth’s and indeed many other planets’ biogeochemical cycles. The even greater step of predicting the outcome of these systems for the next several billion years had originally taken most of the computational power on earth to calculate. Now, even that once monumental task could be completed with any number of iterations and down to an infinitesimally small degree of error in no more than a margin of a second.

The model that currently occupied the network of earth’s supercomputers had been built upon these past two accomplishments. All of the data that was ever created on earth was fed into the model. All existing predictions made by the previous models, all the butterflies flapping of wings and all the hurricanes in the pacific that ever were and all that ever would be until the earth’s destruction by the sun had all been neatly factored into the model’s consideration. When the last number of ephemeral rainbows, drops of ocean water on the side of every last fjord and the forces of every last subatomic particle in existence had been rounded to last significant digit, the universe blinked. For with nothing left to be found, understood, or created the process of the universe was complete and with that it promptly started to condense, collapse and close up shop, waiting to once again bang into existence and be learned anew. 

Between One Red Lantern and Another

Oh hey, cold weather. Are you getting ready to freeze my hands solid for a full two seasons and turn me into a whimpering baby? Yeah? That's cool. I'll live. Batten down the hatches. I've taken to drying my hair for warmth. And listening to Bon Iver. Who needs circulation or decibels above a whisper? Not this girl.

Lantern in Missouri, looking out toward my friends.

But here's something that warms my heart (aww) (you'll never take this away from me, Weather!): Nick married another fantastic forester earlier this month. Double forest power! Ask him about the proposal sometime.

For the ceremony, Nick asked me to read this beautiful passage from Walt Whitman:

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

The two lil' lovebirches needed a proper gift, and I fortunately have some truly antique and personal items befitting our friendship. These past few months, I've helped clear out the house where my great-grandparents and I lived since 2000. I'd never seen this pair of old red lamps in Grampa's shed until last month, but I instantly knew where they belonged. After some work, of course.

First, I had to clean off the outside cobwebs and grime. Then accept the inner webs as "character." And finally, give a symbolic gift. Telling Nick and Megan to "keep a light on for each other," and "I'll keep a light on for you," I gave them a lantern and hung the other on my porch.

It's funny, that as I searched for a quote to write on their card, I came upon Aldo Leopold's essay, "Red Lanterns," from the October chapter. It could only have fit better if Mr. Leopold were writing about actual lanterns and not the red leaves of a blackberry bush. Or if the Mustoe wedding featured blackberries instead of lavender and wheat. But I digress. Their wedding was perfect (right down to the Midwest bouquets, homemade dress, and offbeat readings), and this coincidence was just perfect enough.

Nick and Megan's lantern in Arkansas.