lion or serpent or mathematician

The World and The Magician

This is, perhaps, the sharpest tragedy of our existence: that we have scoured the globe, and sent our ships out to search among the stars, and there are no utopias to be found. Oh, we have tried to build our own–the little Horais and Cockaignes and Zions of a thousand hopeful dreamers–but they have foundered sooner or later, for the simple reason that all things really in the world are subject to division and change. The current age of exploration and technology has brought with it a new breed of utopian, one whose spirit I cannot help but admire. They are willing to build not just new towns but new worlds, to brave hundreds or thousands of light years, to hazard generations living in what be marginal environments, for the chance to realize their visions. Yet I cannot think of one that has not failed, in most or all of the things it set out to do. We behold, often, a vision before us that seems so vivid, so immanent, that it must necessarily be real; and yet when we go to capture it, in words or in pigment or on a new world, it disappears.

The failures of these utopian colonies is usually quite civilized–there are no deaths, no revolts, no disasters. It simply evolves away from what its founders intended, all the careful tinkering of its architects, and all the resolute will of its governors, unable to stem forces which were unaccounted for in the original designs, or changing circumstances which could never have been forseen. Many of humanity’s most notable colony worlds began as such utopias: Teegarden’s World was founded by socialists seeking to create a truly stateless communist society; Proxima b was originally settled by techno-utopian transhumanists, who dreamed of a teeming Hive beneath the barren rock; Luyten Anchorage was built by Sufi mystics, who wanted a world apart for the contemplation of God. These facts are simple historical curiosities now.

More spectacular failures have occurred–the civil war among the schismatic sects of Kepler-62f, for instance, or the notorious mass cannibalism incident in the commune at Umbriel Station–but typically the failure of a utopia is more subtle. It is not just a failure of politics, a failure of planning, a failure of systems. It is the slippery mismatch of souls which are at variance against the universe, souls which necessarily suffer and strive and dream, but must dwell in a cosmos where not all their suffering can have purpose, where some striving must be in vain, where to be able to imagine a thing is not necessarily for it to be possible to build. I do not advise wholly against utopian dreaming. The instinct that a better way of doing things, even a better world, is possible, must be possible, is a perennial source of renewal and growth, the fierce goad of salvation. But perfection is a process, and not a state. And the perfectibility of mankind is a process that acts on two different problems: the hurts of the world around us, and the hurts of the world within. Many, many utopians have struggled with the latter in vain, mistaking them for the former; and many complacent in their own happy position have supposed all utopians are fools, because they make the same mistake in reverse.

I have been asked often what my utopian world would be like, if I could build one. The short answer is that I would not attempt it. Were I brave or foolish enough to try such a thing, I am afraid the answer is quite boring, and not much in keeping with the spirit of the question. I am only a little schooled in philosophy, and a dabbler in political economy. After all my long years of life, I feel often I understand the world less than ever; if I have gained any wisdom, it is principally a wisdom of my own faults and failures. Were all things possible, I should banish disease and want and death, I think, as most would. But I cannot say how. And beyond that all that comes to mind is that I should like to have tree-lined streets, and the sound of lively conversation from a little way off. And the knowledge that not far away, the friends I lost long ago were waiting and eager to see me; and always would be, and I need never be long parted from them again.

“Star trails of brighter stars in Orion.” An introduction to astronomy. 1916.

Like I feel like there are two options here:

1. They did not have mean girls in their school

3. They’re probably skinny and able-bodied with no significant scarring on their bodies 

Silent figures with landscapes • Woman With Full Moon • Moon Cloud • The Drowning • The Moon Only Shines For The Lonely • The Deers & The Crane • Ashes To Ashes • The Waves At The End Of Time

My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.

Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.

I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.

I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.

There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.

But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell

and on the other side, I see a tree

There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.

It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.

Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die

in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.

I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).

I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.

That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:

Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home

say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now