#we need a country wide biblical flood

[skeletonpoett]

I vote we all just start ignoring politicians.

They have rallies and no one shows up. They Have like 5 family members following them on Twitter and when election season rolls around we're all like "awe cute"

meanwhile we collectively as American Regular People just started getting shit done.

[biglisbonnews]

By Air, Land, or Sea, Tiny Microbes Transform Our World Excerpted and adapted with permission from Slime: A Natural History, by Susanne Wedlich. Published February 2023 by Melville House. All rights reserved. A haboob is a dust storm. It’s an Arabic word for a phenomenon that struck the American Midwest like a plague of biblical proportions just under a century ago. This storm was not the work of God’s chastising hand, though; it was the worst man-made environmental catastrophe the United States has ever seen. East of the Rocky Mountains, the Great Plains extend like wide corridors all the way from Mexico to Canada. The land is dry and naturally covered by a community of robust plant life—primarily prairie grasses—whose dense root networks stabilize the soil beneath. But then the humans came. The government knew the plains were not arable land and that, at best, only large farms with complex irrigation systems might be able to make a living there. Little family farms without adequate capital, however, would not be able to survive. Nevertheless, the land was advertised intensively into the 1930s and allocated to settlers free of charge as fertile land requiring little more than a “tickle” with the plow to unleash its productivity. The railways, needing to pay off their newly laid network of tracks, joined in the propaganda for the “Nile of the New World.” In the decades to come, around a third of the Great Plains would be transformed into green grassland and pastures, worked intensively with horse and plow, which disturbed the dense root network of the original plant life. As we now know, essential biological glues were lost. Another of the government’s promises was that the rains would follow the plow, but what actually followed was, in essence, the apocalypse. The exposed earth grew drier and hotter, losing its stability, and became subject to droughts and erosion. This was followed by a rare weather phenomenon, reversing the jet stream which usually carried clouds and rain towards the Midwest. Now the rains stayed away, the harvests withered and vast clouds of dust loomed like a black rock face, kilometers high. In 1933 alone there were more than 50 haboobs, which swept across the landscape. Images from this period show houses and farms submerged as if beneath a gray flood, waves of dust and earth washing as high as their roofs. Contemporary witnesses spoke of fine grains grating against the skin like sandpaper, blinding people, suffocating cattle and leaving children sick with the “brown plague,” a type of pneumonia caused by dust, as described by Timothy Egan in his award-winning book The Worst Hard Time. There was no escape. In the evenings, families sealed their windows and doors with damp towels, yet they would still find themselves shoveling dust out of their homes and cottages come morning. The dust in the air muffled the voices of crowing cockerels and the sun hung blood-red in the sky. By afternoon it would be dark again, and anyone out and about in the dense haze would tie a rope around their middle so as to be able to find their way back. The dust was carried from the Great Plains as far as Chicago, and all the way to the Capitol in Washington, D.C. It left a brown coating even on ships at sea. April 14, 1935, “Black Sunday,” brought the mother of all haboobs, during which, according to Egan, twice the amount of dust went swirling across the country in a single afternoon as had been dug up over seven years to build the Panama Canal. For most farmers, there was no longer a possibility of making a living in the Midwest. The photographer Dorothea Lange became famous for her portraits of careworn and gaunt migrants and their rag-clad children making their way westwards. Like the Joad family in Steinbeck’s masterpiece The Grapes of Wrath, they were following another empty promise, that there would be work in the big cities of California and elsewhere, a promise thwarted by the global economic crisis which shook the 1930s. Those who stayed behind had little more luck, as the meager harvests were destroyed by devastating blights and, in any case, the land did not recover from the destruction it had suffered. The consequences are not always so catastrophic when dry soil loses its stability and is exposed to erosion. But even little changes can jeopardize our food supply if they occur on a sufficiently vast scale: if, for example, entire areas of land are exposed to higher temperatures and lower levels of precipitation due to climate change. Most at risk here are the biological soil crusts, ecological communities often unseen or mere millimeters tall which cover the ground in deserts and dry regions, but are also capable of growing on and underneath stones. Where and whether they form depends on precipitation, temperature, and the agricultural use of the land. They are particularly prevalent in deserts, as well as steppes and savannas, especially in southern Africa, Australia, and Asia, and in the American Southwest. They are seldom found in temperate zones, such as those in Central Europe, where vascular plants like shrubs and trees completely cover the ground. According to a study by the Max Planck Institute for Chemistry in Mainz, led by Bettina Weber, biological soil crusts cover up to 12 percent of Earth’s surface, corresponding to 40 percent of actual land mass. Biological soil crusts are Earth’s living skin, a protective barrier. Yet they also accumulate and transform nutrients and play a key role in larger biogeochemical processes, such as the global nitrogen and carbon cycles. “Earth’s crusts are dry, hard, and, well, crusty,” says Weber, “but there’s also a certain sliminess.” Cyanobacteria are pioneers of soil crusts, setting things in motion by secreting exopolymers which will build a slimy matrix. It’s sticky enough to glue particles in the soil together, protecting it from erosion. This hydrogel also binds and stores the small amount of water that is present—for example, after rain—before it evaporates or trickles away. Biological soil crusts are complex ecological communities which science categorizes according to their developmental stages. Cyanobacteria are the vanguard, paving the way for other microbes like bacteria, as well as archaea or fungi, which join the young community, doing their part by breaking down organic matter. These might be followed by lichen and mosses, possibly even by worms, slugs, snails, or springtails, and other arthropods as well. It can take years or even decades for a soil crust to become this diverse, potentially boasting many hundreds of different species. However, there are differences between these communities in the crust, not only in regard to the level of maturity they achieve over time, but spatially too: Soil crusts are separated into layers. Strongly pigmented fungi and all photosynthesizing organisms, such as cyanobacteria, generally colonize the top layer because they require and can tolerate UV radiation, while shadier characters live lower down in the ecosystem. They must all be able to survive long periods of drought. Specialists in this area include, for example, the tardigrade, which can enter a state of dormancy before quickly reactivating as soon as water is available. These days, however, biological soil crusts are under threat. According to Weber’s calculations, up to a quarter of this protective coating could soon disappear. Climate change is as much a factor as population growth, which requires the expansion of arable land to include dry and previously unused strips, hitherto covered by biological soil crusts. This development could have consequences across the globe, affecting the nitrogen cycle, among other things. Nitrogen is present in the ground and the atmosphere but cannot be taken up directly by plants. Plants rely on soil microbes which fix nitrogen, making it available for plants to use. Weber has calculated that as much as half of this essential service may be provided by soil crusts. Disturbances to the structure would hit many ecosystems in nutrient-poor regions particularly hard. But the loss of the soil crusts would also expose the ground to intensified erosion by water and wind, enriching the atmosphere with the tiniest of particles. It doesn’t need another dust bowl like that of the Great Plains in the 1930s to pose a risk to human health, and not just for people with allergies and hay fever. The notion of miasmas transmitting fatal infections such as malaria (from mal aria, bad air) has been put to bed. Yet the air around us is filled with microbes, pollen, and other particles which have the potential to cause us harm. The great microbiologist Louis Pasteur was the first to prove that open wounds could be infected with germs from the air. In a sense, this made him the founder of aerobiology, a discipline which witnessed its first and—to date—last golden age in the 1930s, when farmers in the Midwest were facing a global financial crisis, devastating haboobs, and plant pathogens thrown in for good measure. Fred C. Meier of the U.S. Department of Agriculture happened to be the right person in the right place at the right time. A tremendously charismatic man with a pilot’s license, he hoped to discover how the deadly rust fungus—or its spores—was spreading, and to what extent weather and the atmosphere were contributing factors. To this end he recruited American aviation’s shining stars, including Amelia Earhart. She was joined in her aerobiological efforts by a celebrity couple, the Lindberghs. Charles Lindbergh’s pioneering flight across the Atlantic overshadowed his wife’s success somewhat, though Anne Lindbergh was one of the first female pilots in the U.S. and steered the plane on their joint flights as well. In 1933, the couple flew from the U.S., over Greenland, and as far as Denmark. As discussed with Meier beforehand, they used “sky hooks” as airborne traps. Charles had constructed them himself out of a metal cylinder containing oily, sticky glass slides which would catch solid particles in the air. In fact, a kilometer above Greenland they found spores of exactly the same rust and other fungi that were growing on the ground thousands of miles away, causing vast agricultural damage. The findings were clear: These spores were nomads that traveled by air, high up in the planet’s atmosphere. And they were not alone: The Lindberghs also collected grains of pollen, fragments of fungal mycelium, single-celled algae like diatoms, insect wings, volcanic ash, and glass particles in their sealed traps. Like the microbes of the deep biosphere in Earth’s crust, other bacteria and spores define the limits of life high beyond the clouds. The living inhabitants of the air, which drift with the wind and cannot fly themselves, are sometimes referred to as aeroplankton, inspired by the ecological communities which float through the oceans. We already know, to some extent, where these airborne microbes come from, or at least where their journey begins. They can find their way from the ocean into the atmosphere when air bubbles rise through the water and burst at its gel-like surface, which is densely populated by microbes. Even the leaves of plants can be a starting point for propelling matter into the air. Many pathogens that affect humans are transmitted via the air we breathe, or via coughs and sneezes, as the coronavirus pandemic has taught us all too well. This is known as droplet transmission. Lydia Bourouiba at MIT demonstrated that plants spread pathogens in a similar way, with fungi, for example, traveling via spattering droplets of rain. They cover themselves in a slimy coat of mucilage, which protects them and prevents them from being carried high up into the air on the wind. If a raindrop strikes an affected leaf, the water splashes off, carrying the pathogen with it, maybe to its next host. Pseudomonas syringae is an economically devastating pathogen, infecting hundreds of plant species, which also specializes in life in the air. This bacterium is present across the world, including in water, but can also survive for several days in the atmosphere, where it is thought to live on fragments of plant matter swept up into the air. Spanish researchers have shown that microbes can travel ensconced in atmospheric dust, even between continents. Their vehicles of choice are iberulites: dust particles made from different minerals that reach considerable size and are glued together by bacterial slime. These kinds of aggregates from mineral and biological components occur all over the world. The ones that were studied in detail this time were found in the city of Granada but held dust grains and microbes from the Sahara. In the atmosphere they had been caught in a water droplet as a bioaerosol and had then taken on the characteristic shape of iberulites, a little like a dented cannonball. Some strains of P. syringae, however, produce a protein that causes water to freeze at unusually high temperatures. Like other microbes and particles, this bacterium acts as a crystallization point for ice formation. One hypothesis is that P. syringae may be able to return to the ground inside a self-made hailstone or snowflake when conditions at altitude become too uncomfortable. Thanks to its freezing proteins, a harmless version of the pathogen is also used to make artificial snow. A harmless version of the pathogen is also used to make artificial snow. Soils, and especially their biological crusts, are closely tied to aeroplankton, too. And they’re equally threatened by disruption through climate change. The expansion of agriculture is another danger, and even smaller damage can have lasting effects. Shoes, hooves, and tires are capable of destroying these fragile biocrusts, which may take decades to regenerate—if they ever get a chance. To lose them would mean losing what were probably evolution’s first ecological communities. Not only do they occur on all continents and in all climatic zones, but they were probably the first ecosystems to venture onto dry land, forming along the edges of bodies of water before moving further inland. They still play a vital role in shaping the habitat of many other organisms, by fixing nitrogen and binding carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. They are also important for weathering processes, breaking down mineral underlayers. Since the cyanobacterias’ slimy matrix stores the little water there is, the soil-crust community and higher plants benefit, even on grazing land. Sometimes, however, less is more. The Atacama Desert in Chile is one of the driest places on Earth. Very few bacteria, algae, fungi, and lichen are able to survive here, in the soil crusts or as part of the soil microbiota. When the first rainstorms for decades made their way across this region in 2017—a consequence of climate change—it seemed that the born survivors which inhabit this area would finally be granted a well-deserved embarrassment of liquid riches. In fact, the episode culminated in a microbial massacre as the unprecedented excess of water caused the organisms to burst. Of the microbes which normally occur in and on top of the soil in Atacama, only a handful of species survived. https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/aeroplankton-soil-crust-microbes

[colsonlin]

“The Moral Infection” (2010)—a horror story. (Warning: all the trigger warnings. All of them. Not a false alarm. All of them.)

I.

Leadership only goes as far as “commonality of purpose.”

Labor, for instance, is a commonality of purpose shared by employer and employee—the employer wants to eat, and so does the employee. In the early days of the pandemic, we passed the time by watching a lot of prestige TV. I myself watched a lot of dystopian fiction, zombie shows and trash like that. What I didn’t like about the zombie shows was how they romanticized the post-apocalyptic worlds they depicted—the main characters always turned into heroes. Families didn’t turn on each other. Tribes cohered. Hierarchies solidified. Hollywood operates under a misapprehension of the animal kingdom—in a world of unshared Power, commonalities of purpose will be hard to find. I want to tell you now what the color of the apocalypse will be.

The apocalypse will be Satanic red.

A Satanic mist is settling over the United States—Satanic possessions make commonalities of purpose hard to find.

In the existential setting where there is no afterlife (“And countless odd religions too”), it’s natural to “maximalize.” When one person maximalizes, the people around them start to maximalize too. And when a society loses its moral foundation, the principle of maximalization becomes a tone-setting deluge. Dog-eat-dog scrambles become a Biblical flood.

At first, leaders will emerge. Tribes will cohere. Hierarchies will solidify. But then the hunger sets in.

Not the hunger to live.

But the hunger to eat.

Speaking of hierarchies, why do minorities always die in zombie shows disproportionately first?

(And what is “proportionate” anyway?)

The principle of maximalization is the first sign that a Satanic possession has settled over your country.

The worship of money is the second.

Labor survives by creating a commonality of purpose between employer and employee (they both need to eat). The only question left is: how scarce are the resources? When resources are abundant, societal fragmentation swallows only the weak. When resources are scarce?

Social fragmentation will swallow everyone.

II.

It’s August 6, 2042.

Brianna is forty-one years old—born in 2000, she was a child of the internet. The internet was sort of like a global neural network: it revolutionized how ideas spread. All the moral values humanity had evolved over two hundred thousand years to cohere as a species, were now suddenly up for grabs (blame postmodernism). Countless odd religions rose. Everybody maximalized—everyone except Brianna that is, who’s knitting a shawl for her daughter on the kitchen table.

The apocalypse began on June 6.

Brianna has the soul of softness in her.

A soul of softness is humanity’s only defense against Satanic possession. At the table next to her, Brianna’s fifteen-year-old daughter is listening to music. “Mom?”

“Hm?”

“A caravan was just blown up trying to cross the border.”

Brianna doesn’t look up. On top of the table, a white cat stirs. “Mom, did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Nobody can get in or out of the city anymore. We’re barricaded in.”

Sexual dimorphism is one source of inequality.

“When’s Dad getting home? How long has he been gone anyway—it’s been a few hours now, hasn’t it? He’s never taken this long before, has he?” Caileigh, her youngest, was born in 2027. Brianna was married to Jorge by then. When Brianna was a teenager, skinny jeans were all the rage—now the trend is to wear wide-legged pants, to hide as much of the body as possible. The cultural liberalism of the twentieth century had sparked so many backlashes—until at last, in 2040, authoritarianism won. Authoritarianism always wins.

It’s encoded in our DNA.

“Mom?”

“Hm, honey?”

“I’m scared.”

Brianna looks at her daughter.

The Satanic possession—that’s what the biologists called it, then the mainstream media picked up the term—spreads informationally. Biologists called the particles B. Satanichryium. They weren’t so much fungal as they were fundamental—they bonded to massless photons and traveled at the speed of light—but inside a microscope, they looked like bright red yeast cells. B. Satanichryium turns everything it touches red. Brianna studied nursing in college—she was lost and fearful in her early twenties, but those years are long behind her now. She found God in 2028. Her hospital unionized in 2029, and Brianna was one of the founding organizers. “We’ve known this day was coming for a while, sweetie,” Brianna says as she loops the yarn into the needle, her movements careful and precise. “We take each day as it comes. Day by day, we strengthen our minds.”

Human beings strive toward perfection.

        Why?

At an early age, Brianna realized she wasn’t pretty. She tries to remember what her teenage years were like—Kim Kardashian was the most popular woman in the country back then, and Barack Obama was the most popular man. They each looked like the parts they played.

The feminine sex symbol.

The masculine role model.

All of our fears stripped down boil down to the same fear—the fear of deformity.

Deformity represents the unknown.

Death is a deformity of life—pain, likewise, is a deformity of pleasure. What the mind praises above all is a sense of correctness. In isolation, she wants to remember this moment as a blanketing correctness—her kitchen, sturdy and calm. Her daughter, strong and true. Back in June, Brianna read a comprehensive account in The New York Times about how B. Satanichryium was studied. Biologists who were willing to lay down their lives took turns examining the bright red spores inside of a microscope—within minutes, they’d “turn.” The colleague behind them would inject them with pentobarbital before taking their turn in front of the microscope, continuing where the previous scientist had left off.

Sentence by sentence, a report was produced.

All 154 biologists who participated in the creation of “Novel human pathogen with quantum-fungal qualities,” the first academic paper about B. Satanichryium (June 19, 2042, Nature), were listed in The New York Times. A girl who Brianna had met at the University of Florida, Yong-Zhen Wang, was one of the names on the list.

By then, society had entered into full lockdown.

The monsters invented by every society are an expression of whatever the society happens to value at the time. Zombies were an efficient expression of the minimalist-naturalism embraced by the West in the early twenty-first century, as idealized by modernist architecture and IKEA design cues—they’re human deformities stripped down to its barest parts. A deformed twitch. A deformed walk. A deformed appetite. Regan MacNeil in The Exorcist was the first modern zombie to feature in a mainstream Hollywood production.

Brianna saw The Exorcist with her first boyfriend, Henri, at a drive-in movie theater in Ocala, Florida, in 2018.

Brianna was always on Instagram back then.

Even during The Exorcist.

Which had upset Henri—they had gotten into an argument about it afterwards.

“A shrub of nerves.”

Underneath our skin—we’re nothing more than muscle tissue, organs, and bones. A skeleton can rotate its head all the way around, one-hundred and eighty degrees: our muscle fibers alone constrict us. The human nervous system resembles strands of fungi, which sort of resemble the roots of trees (“Bronchi sort of look like branches,” Brianna remembers her ninth-grade science teacher once pointing out in class, before saying: “We share half our DNA with trees”).

A shrub of nerves.

Overseeing our muscles.

Overseeing our blood.

Overseeing an orchestra.

Brianna earned her nursing degree from the University of Florida in 2024. She moved to Boston later that year.

She met Jorge at a nightclub in Cambridge.

Day by day—that’s all a human life is. A helicopter is flying over their apartment. It’s Day 62 of the pandemic.

III.

On the table next to the cat is a bowl of oranges. (The last supermarket in Boston ended operations three weeks ago.) Brianna selects an orange from the bowl, then drops it.

“Mom—what?”

“Nothing,” Brianna says, looking at the orange in her lap. Its underside is covered in white mold.

Days before the Nature article was published, The Daily Mail published a detailed article about what an MRI scan of a victim who had succumbed to B. Satanichryium looked like. The brain glows bright pink. Even in a black-and-white MRI scan—not even Photoshop could remove the pink glow, and anyone who saw it would turn within six days.

Raw fungi inside of animal-sized husks—that’s what you’d call fungi that evolved to grow skin, organs, limbs, and bones—a competitor kingdom to the bushel of nerves concealed inside of animal husks today. Brianna looks up.

Her cat stares at her.

“What are you staring at?” Brianna thinks, staring into the cat’s mouthless eyes. “My nerves are stronger than yours.”

Unsettled by this thought, she resumes knitting.

Two billion people have already died. As of August 6, the size of the global population currently infected by B. Satanichryium is said to be anywhere from six hundred million to four billion—nobody knows for sure.

The animal kingdom shares its domain with many other kingdoms, but we the humans surpassed all of them.

We the nerve cells.

We the bushels of nerves.

When you take away our faces, our limbs, our musculatures—our organs and our bones—we’re just shrubs. An MRI scan of a basketball arena would look ten thousand shrubs in the stands and ten shrubs on the court.

It’s almost four o’clock.

B. Satanichryium can live inside MRI scans. It can live inside videos. It can live inside photographs—it can even live inside certain combinations of words, seen or heard (“Satanic incantations,” they’re called)—but it can’t attach to light-emitting diodes: it survives as a particle of information.

Information travels at the speed of causality.

You learn something about the nature of the Universe when you see it—or you learn something about the nature of the Universe, “that’s how you see it,” Brianna isn’t sure.

She doesn’t want to know.

The Satanically possessed—“Satanists” for short—are taking active steps to self-limit the spread.

They want the strongest minds only from now on.

Brianna remembers the first time she met Jorge—he was a man’s man, yelling into her ears on the dance floor. They hooked up, broke up, got back together, all within the span of a year. Before the pandemic, he worked in IT.

Death was coming, Brianna knew. Maybe death will feel like living all of the intelligences in the Universe at once—defragmented. Unlikely. Brianna examines the white spores on the underside of the orange. I’m a mother, she remembers.

The words come to her like a solemn oath.

The commandment to forgive our children even if they turn evil is the tallest commandment. “And as for me? But what about me?” she allows her mind to wander, stumbling into a sentence that comes to her not as an ineffable mist but as effable language: And as for me? But what about me?

But just as quickly, gratitude bears into her soul—a gratitude she doesn’t have the words for.

“Death is the end of a life well chosen.”

She hears the jangle of keys inside the front door—Oh, thank God, she thinks, just as it swings open.

“Rachel? Caileigh?” a man’s voice calls out. “We’re in here,” Rachel says, as the cat hops off the table.

Coming into the room now is Jorge, rugged and handsome, carrying a black backpack full of supplies and a large metal pipe. Caileigh glances up from her phone. Jorge drops the backpack onto the table with a thud, which startles Brianna, and then goes to the window. He rests the pipe against the refrigerator. “How was it?” Brianna asks as Jorge strips down to his underwear. “I killed someone,” he says.

“Come again?” (“Dad.”)

So it happened.

So it finally happened—so a barrier was crossed.

“A woman. The highway was clogged—there were raiders goin’ up and down with guns. I drove through a metal fence and ended up at a gas station—it was ransacked. There was a pickup truck parked behind it and—there was a lady in it. She had turned. I hit her over the head and found—that.”

Jorge points to the backpack, and Brianna peers inside. It’s bags of meat, all wrapped in white butcher’s paper.

“Enough to last us a month.”

Brianna stands to move the bags of meat into the freezer, still clutching the moldy orange as if holding a primitive intelligence. Jorge says nothing as he watches his wife pack the freezer, and then watches the helicopters in the window.

All he can hear is gunfire.

“Caileigh, give me your phone.”

“Dad—what?”

“It’s not a request, Caileigh, it’s an order,” Jorge says, confiscating his daughter’s phone.

“Dad? Mom!”

Brianna is silent for a second. “Honey?” she says, and at that precise moment the power goes out.

Brianna looks up at the ceiling. From rote instinct, she reaches out to flip the light switch off and on.

Nothing.

Rolling blackouts have inundated Boston since June 6, but what Brianna doesn’t understand yet is that this will be the final one. Decisions will have to be made. It would be life-and-death from that point on—life wasn’t a game anymore, or if it was, it was now on famine setting.

Later that night, Brianna tries to convince Jorge that the three of them should try to make a run for the border.

“How do you get around a military blockade?”

Brianna closes her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says.

“How do you get around a fuckin’ military dictatorship?”

“I don’t know,” she says again.

When Jorge and Brianna first met, Jorge had said one sentence that would ingratiate him to Brianna forever.

“All I want is for all my brothers and sisters in this world to prosper.”

A bushel of nerves, she thought. Bushels of nerves animating human husks—that’s all they are, and yet they think they rule the world. By what right? By what right do these plants think they can rise above all other plants—just because they have guns? In an MRI machine, they don’t look any different from fungi. That’s what the infection had proved—underneath our bones, it’s just a bushel of nerves that animates us—nervous anatomies that when naked look like nothing so much as fungi. What if in a million years fungi evolved faces?

How would we negotiate our common existence?

Brianna looks at her husband inside the dark of their bedroom—illuminated by candlelight. They stopped making love years ago. Raw nerves hulked inside this hull of a man.

Why are we drawn to more beautiful faces?

What is facial beauty trying to tell us? And why does beauty feel so much like a correctness?

Brianna remembers her own face. In her youth, she’d wasted so much time not feeling pretty enough. In fact the purity of her humanity glowed in her face, inside her plainness. After her third pregnancy, her face began to sag. Her eyes—always a little too far apart—now identified herself to herself. “Beauty is the story of a life courageously lived.”

Pure schlock, but what can you do?

The son she had killed was nothing more than a fungal structure—a mass of B. Satanichryium, concealed by the clothing of Adam’s skin and bones. She wants to die every time she remembers Adam’s face. Brianna remembers her first daughter, remembers her face. My tallest child. The soul produced by that shrubbery of nerves—animating Blakely’s limbs, animating Blakely’s compassion—was an angel’s soul.

Lit up by intelligence.

Shrubbery that just wants to make its existence known—do trees have this problem? Do trees have individual personalities? Are all trees everywhere the same?

Or are some trees hungrier than others?

She was at Massachusetts General Hospital when the apocalypse began, on the overnight shift in the psychiatric unit. It was Friday, June 6, 2042. Blakely had called twice from college. “Mom, there’s a video going around—you can’t look at it. It’s a viral video.” Suddenly, there was a breaking news alert on her phone—a second plane had crashed near Birmingham, Alabama, and a third and fourth crash had been reported near Hoboken, New Jersey. Then she heard a blood-curdling scream from down the hall—she’d later learn it was Sandra Bellingham, her supervisor of fifteen years. Over seven hundred planes crashed that night in the United States before all planes were grounded by the FAA.

It clicked like an on-off switch. All of a sudden, the End Times turned on.

Envy.

Envy causes plants to grow, causes men to grow muscle and women to go to the gym.

Rachel had spent half her life at the gym—and for what?

The power never came back on.

For the next few weeks, Jorge used a hand-crank radio and lithium battery packs to receive communications from the outside world. Rachel boarded up the front door, which she spray-painted: This home is armed.

The board was stolen the next day.

Jorge made two more food runs to the outside world, killing five more people. Every person he encountered had the same sentence written across their face: “I am the star of my own post-apocalyptic T.V. show.” Adrenaline inside Boston’s quarantine zone ran high—anybody unafraid to leave their home was also unafraid to kill.

Brianna only left the apartment at night.

After Jorge and Caileigh were asleep, she’d climb out of bed and smoke by herself on the fire escape.

In the absence of air-conditioning, they slept underneath single bedsheets—summer nights in Boston reached 100 degrees. Apocalypse morality had undone two hundred thousand years of human morality. Anyone who watched the wrong video or heard the wrong combination of words would contract B. Satanichryium—B. Satanichryium was a particle of information that traveled at the speed of light.

The hallmark of Satanic possession is Power.

Humans were as Powerless against B. Satanichryium as trees were to humans. Any human who encountered a Satanist in the wild had only one choice—try to kill the Satanist, or beg the Satanist for mercy. Brianna decided after Adam’s death that she would choose the third option.

She’d let herself die.

“Better to die an angel than live forever as a demon.”

All there was left to think about was what awaited us after death—and Brianna did, every night, alone on the fire escape.

She wondered if it’d be an Intelligence unlike any that even a Satanist could imagine. Unlikely.

But why?

At night she read the Bible. The Bible bored her, but she compelled herself to read the Bible—she read the Bible without understanding what the parables meant, but with total awareness of what the parables were supposed to make her feel, and without even realizing it, she was able to induce in herself the feeling—forgiveness and grace.

Forgiveness for the world.

Grace for her species.

She had to forgive herself every day for what she had done to Adam. Never again. She knew in her heart never again, because she’d have no more children left to protect.

She didn’t cry.

Jorge didn’t either—they looked sad all the time, but they never cried. They ate beef twice a day for two days.

Day by day.

IV.

B. Satanichryium, like the kingdoms of animal and bacteria, was Satanically possessed.

Plants and fungi?

One morning, Caileigh woke up with a fever of 106.6° F (41.4° C). It was September 11, 2042—Day 98. Brianna was in the kitchen clutching a bottle of ibuprofen, boiling a kettle of water for her daughter, when she heard the scream.

“No-o-o!”

“Give it to me!”

“No-o-o!”

Brianna, still clutching the bottle of ibuprofen, sprints down the hallway and toward her daughter’s bedroom.

In the doorway, she gasps.

Jorge’s hand is bloody, and he’s clutching Caileigh’s phone. “Give it back to me!” Caileigh says, her face smothered by her father’s right hand. “Where’d you get that?” Brianna says, trying to stay calm.

“She stole it from the safe! Stole a battery, too.”

“Give it back to me!”

“Is she bleeding?” Rachel asks from the doorway.

Jorge, with his right hand still compressing his daughter’s face, looks at his wife and says, “What do you think?”

The first video of B. Satanichryium was recorded in Hollywood, California, on June 4, 2042. Kanye West, while visiting his attorney about an ongoing lawsuit, bit four people. Three of the victims died of organ failure. The fourth transformed after forty-eight hours, and so did anyone who saw any frame that captured West’s pink glow.

Caileigh stops resisting.

“I wasn’t using the internet,” she sobs, “I was just listening to music. Music is the only thing I have left. Jeannie’s dead—look at us! We’ve been trapped inside this apartment for three months! I wasn’t using the internet—look at my phone history! Mom, you have your knitting. Dad, you have your food runs—what do I have? How we supposed to go on like this—just—existing?” From the doorway, Brianna no longer saw her husband and daughter: she saw two plants—two erect, fibrous shrubs of nerves that had grown limbs around their skin. Plants and fungi need to grow limbs too, if they want to survive. Limbs are a solution to a timeless problem.

Mobility is a timeless problem.

So this was it.

Day 98 was when their luck would run out—and so what? They had outlasted the majority of the human species.

Brianna looks at her daughter.

Satan is red because blood is red, and blood belongs on the inside of the body, not on the outside. Blood on the outside of the body signals a deformity.

B. Satanichryium, an ancient particle, is the oldest living spore in existence—its spores are in all bacteria and in all animal cells. B. Satanichryium is the repression of submission, and humanity relied on B. Satanichryium to solve problem after problem. B. Satanichryium, meanwhile, relied on human intelligence to grow stronger and stronger.

Telekinesis.

The ability to levitate.

The ability to contort one’s body into impossible forms. The Satanically possessed were a whole new species entirely. They weren’t invincible—shooting them in the head was enough to kill them—but they were difficult to kill, because they were difficult to find. Unlike the zombies of Hollywood, they were hyper-intelligent: more cunning than any human.

They were post-human altogether.

A proof existed inside B. Satanichryium that had never existed at any point in human history before.

Something taller than man existed.

As the Mayo Clinic’s website put it, “Anyone who observes the red particles, or reads or hears a red sentence, will develop a B. Satanichryium infection within ten minutes to six days,” depending on the size of the initial dosage, and on how soft their souls are—depending on how hard the human soul inside them can resist the pull of Satan. A murderous hunger to eradicate all human beings sets in by day six—even your own parents look like trees that need to be razed to make room for a supermarket. Human compassion was B. Satanichryium’s sole evolutionary roadblock, and murderous hunger is the ultimate expression of Power.

The murderer gets to live.

The murderee has no choice but to die.

“I’m not infected, Dad, I swear! I was listening to music! Mom! Dad! Listen to me—I didn’t see anything!”

Deep down she knew.

Deep down Brianna knew why her daughter had stolen back her phone. “Tie her to the bed,” Brianna says.

Jorge looks up.

“What?” Caileigh says.

“The incubation countdown begins today. In six days, we’ll know if she’s infected or not,” Brianna says.

My loyalty is to my species, Brianna would later explain to Jorge. My loyalty was to my children all my life, Brianna would explain to Jorge with violent clarity. There was a time when I would have died for them.

But I’ll kill her myself if she turns.

Just like I killed Adam.

“We give her food. We give her ibuprofen. What we are not doing is losing our daughter to an infectious mushroom called Satan.”

Why this year?

Of all the years humanity’s ever existed—why 2042?

Why did I have to see this?

It took Jorge and Brianna ten minutes to tie Caileigh to the bed using bedsheets—Caileigh at one point tries to run out of the house, but Jorge catches her. After she was restrained, they barricaded her bedroom door with a bookshelf. “We’ll need a transom at the top of the door,” Brianna said.

“What for?” Jorge said.

“To put food through.”

I’m the main character now, Brianna thought as her husband rummaged the closet for his power drill—five fully-formed words that were like music to her ears: I’m the main character now. Brianna was born twenty-seven years after The Exorcist, but she knew every word of The Exorcist by heart.

She saw it with Henri twice.

Power.

Unchecked power is a good thing, as long as “I” was the one holding it. Over one hundred million people died at the start of the pandemic in the United States alone. The New York Times, before it went down, estimated that only ten percent of the dead were Satanically possessed. Children and the elderly were killed in disproportionate numbers.

So were racial minorities.

On September 2, 2042, the Satanically possessed took control of the federal government.

Full control of the police.

Full control of the borders.

The Satanically possessed were ready to cut a deal with the surviving humans. For one month only, they would absorb any human being who agreed to turn their back permanently on a morality of submission and shared power. In city after city across the United States, the power came back on.

But not in Boston.

Boston, being a stronghold of the Catholic Church, had become an international site of resistance. Almost every major religion across humanity—with the notable exception of the Scientologists—called on surviving humans to resist the Satanic spread. The raiders who had mauled the highways at the beginning of the pandemic had all transformed into B. Satanichryium by early September. Bands of human resisters meanwhile organized into rebel factions. The first faction to break away from the rest was the atheist faction, who refused to use the name “B. Satanichryium.”

They called the particle “C. Darwinium.”

On the first night after Caileigh’s door was barricaded, Brianna tried to kill herself. Her hopelessness was more total than any hopelessness she’d ever known.

Adam watched the video on July 4, 2042.

He died two days later, after trying to bite Caileigh in the living room. There were five rooms in the apartment at all, not including the closets, and the living room was the room they never used. It didn’t matter. Brianna’s sobs could be heard in every room of the house. Jorge, holding his wife on the floor, told Brianna: “We’re no longer living for happiness anymore. We’re in prison, and we’re going to be imprisoned for the rest of our lives. The sooner we get used to these cell walls, the sooner you’ll recognize: beauty is the story of a life courageously lived.” Brianna wailed upon hearing this.

But she didn’t kill herself.

That night she fell asleep on the kitchen floor—it was 104 degrees outside. Jorge put a blanket over her legs and went back to their bedroom, and at his table he sobbed.

What did he want to do to B. Satanichryium?

If it were just him and B. Satanichryium alone in a room, what did he want to do to the substance that had destroyed his wife, destroyed his children, destroyed his life, and destroyed his species? Pathetically, he cranked his radio until he could no longer feel his arms, searching for new frequencies.

On “Catholic Resistance Radio,” his arm stopped.

A Whitney Houston song was playing.

He hated the Catholic Church.

His reason was personal.

He himself had aligned with the atheist faction all his adult life—but most resistance factions, including the atheist faction, had been decimated in the past two months by internal discord. The largest surviving factions united into a group called Merrin, named after the titular priest in The Exorcist.

It was nominally nondemoninational.

V.

On September 14, 2042, a new frequency came online on the hand-crank radio. The entire island of New Zealand’s South Island had been liberated by the Catholic Church—all computers and cell phones on the island had been destroyed, and the Pope had taken control of telecommunications. Beginning September 16, any survivor who could present a government ID of any kind with an ID number that ended in the letters X, Y, Z, or the numbers 7, 8, or 9, would be granted free passage from Boston Logan International Airport to Christchurch, New Zealand—up to four family members were allowed to join, but only if valid birth certificates and marriage licenses could be presented.

Jorge put down the radio.

Brianna was in the kitchen, making a lunch of roasted earwigs and termites. As if he were a parasitic larva commanding a host organism, Jorge impelled himself to go to the closet, unlock the safe, and open his wallet. The first thing he saw upon examining it was his employer-issued ID. The apocalypse’s only bright side—he no longer had to log into work every day. He looked at his driver’s license.

His ID number ended with a 6.

In a fury, Jorge rummaged through his wife’s clothes until he found her old handbag.

Her ID number also ended with a 6.

Our passports, he thought. Jorge went back to the safe, located the manila envelope with three passports stuffed inside, and examined each passport carefully.

1, 3, and 6, respectively.

On the floor of the closet, he had a hunger cramp.

The human will to survive—why bother? Why try? “Beauty is the story of a life courageously lived.”

But why be beautiful, if nobody else could see it?

In the nightclub in 2024, Brianna was the most beautiful woman Jorge had ever seen—not physically.

But gravitationally.

Her presence felt like a warm mitten that fit his hand perfectly. He felt so relaxed around her that he eventually felt nervous—he didn’t want to fuck any part of a good thing up. All the most interesting people I know are only ever passing through, was the first thought he had immediately after kissing her goodbye on the dance floor—and so he did something he had never done before. He did something courageous. He ran out of the club and caught up to Brianna right as she was entering her car with a girlfriend.

“Rachel,” he said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Hi.”

One week earlier, Jorge heard a rumor on the radio that the federal government would establish death camps for all surviving humans after the September armistice. “You have to remember, they’re Satanists,” the man on the radio said. “When a man cuts down a tree, he takes a moment to admire the tree’s beauty as it falls. That’s how the yeast-zombies feel about us. They enjoy the feeling that lights up their yeast-cells every time they huddle a new group of women and children into the gas chamber, force them to strip, and delight in their screams.” Early on in the pandemic, Jorge and Brianna made a list of all the things they wanted to do before they died—the list was all different video games they wanted to play. Six billion people had been slaughtered by September 2042.

Over ninety-nine percent of them were human.

Less than 0.01% of the death toll were Satanists.

The tribes of human resisters continued to fragment as a result of internal power differences.

In the doorway of the kitchen, Jorge appears.

His face has aged ten years in two months. Brianna listened patiently as Jorge explained the transmission to her. “How do we know we can even trust the transmission?” Brianna asks. “What if it was hijacked by Satanists?”

“It could be,” Jorge says.

“And what about the Catholic Church?” Brianna continues. “Even if the transmission is real, even if the transmission is accurate—it’s the Catholic Church.”

“Caileigh,” Jorge says.

“Where are you going?”

“Caileigh!” Jorge calls out, storming into the hallway.

Brianna follows him.

It was hopeless.

Brianna knew it was hopeless. The human race would end—there was no way around it: the less Powerful couldn’t beat the more Powerful. That wasn’t Brianna’s definition.

That was the definition.

“Caileigh,” Jorge says, knocking on the bookshelf.

“What?” a faint voice answers from behind the door.

Brianna reaches her husband. “It’s only day four,” she reminds him. What a sad and unbelievable end to the human story—six million years of evolution and this was how it all ends? Did plants and fungi feel this way? Were plants and fungi jealous that they couldn’t produce limbs?

Mobility.

Mobility was the timeless problem that animal DNA solved, and that human ingenuity had taken to the next level.

Human faces were so complex.

“Caileigh, I need something from you.”

“What?”

“Do you know where your driver’s permit is?”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I need to know where your driver’s permit is!”

“Jorge, stop,” Brianna says. “It’s hopeless.”

Caileigh had received her driver’s permit on June 1. Jorge had driven her and Adam after school to the DMV.

Three days later, West went viral. Two and a half months later, shots rang out inside the Arizona Statehouse, signaling the first takeover of a government institution by hyper-intelligent zombies with murderous intentions.

Three statehouses fell that afternoon.

The Pentagon fell five days later.

Zombie movies are fundamentally reassuring to watch, because zombies aren’t intelligent. Hyper-intelligent zombies wouldn’t stop at eating our flesh—they’d control our empire.

And that’s not fun to watch.

A bookshelf blocked the entrance to Caileigh’s room—above the bookshelf, Jorge had used a power drill to carve a small transom into the door. Twice a day, he dropped a paper bag filled with cooked insects into Caileigh’s bedroom.

In the first three hours after she was restrained, Caileigh’s sobs filled the apartment.

Then she fell asleep.

When she woke up, she began sobbing again. Her restraints had been loosened, but her door had been barricaded. “I need to go to the bathroom!” she yelled, but it was no use—the cat’s litter box had been dropped through the transom. “Caileigh, do you hear me?” Jorge says.

“I don’t know where it is.”

Jorge looks at his wife: What have we done?

What have we become?

What has Satan done to us except make us afraid—except make us distrustful of each other? Empathetically, Brianna could read this thought on Jorge’s face, Jorge thought.

No more lies.

“Remember what the priest said in The Exorcist?” Brianna whispers into Jorge’s ears.

At the very beginning of the pandemic, Brianna had told Jorge: “The Devil will mix lies with the truth to try and confuse us.” Only angels always tell the truth, Brianna suddenly realizes, staring at her arms and hands in a new light.

They glowed brown with angelic possession.

No more lies.

If I could go back in time, I’d share every part of myself with you. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“How do you think I’m feeling? It smells like shit in here—the cat sand doesn’t hide shit! I’m tired and I’m hungry and I just want to go to the bathroom. I’m not infected. If I wanted to watch the video, I would have watched the video along with everyone else three months ago.”

“She’s our child, Rachel,” Jorge says.

“Please, daddy! Open the door! If I haven’t been infected by now—why would I have the infection?”

“Do you have any fungal markings?” Jorge asks.

“No, my skin is clean! I just showed you yesterday! Mom! Mom! Please open up! Please—I’m your daughter! Please! Open up! Open the door!”

Nearly everyone in the world who wanted to become Satanically possessed had watched one of the two million videos on the internet that captured on film one of the scenes of violence and carnage—pink-hued zombies shooting indiscriminately into a bar or outdoor plaza in early June.

What a time to be alive.

Brianna closes her eyes and begins to pray. “The incubation period is only two or three days. Please, dad—please let me out? Mom? Please!” The soul of an angel—and now I finally have one. How lucky am I, Brianna thinks to herself formlessly, helplessly, to have the soul of an angel? But this recognition, once molded into words, embarrassed her humility—so they stayed suppressed inside a self-recognition that she refused to touch: she just let it glow across her face like a newfound pregnancy. The first song she and Jorge had danced to at the nightclub was “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)” by Whitney Houston.

Brianna was there for her friend Sara’s birthday.

Jorge was there for his friend Adam’s birthday.

They had created three children: Blakely, Adam, and Caileigh. Brianna had dated three men before Jorge.

Jorge had dated no women.

Empathetically, they were growing into each other for the final time. She had lived a good life. If she were forty pounds lighter, she’d still be plain—but she had the soul of an angel.

“Why did you do it—why, why-y-y?” Brianna had screamed at Adam, on the night of July 4, on her knees.

Adam looked at his mother but had no words.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he finally stammered out.

“Why-y-y? Why-y-y?” Brianna’s sobs reverberated throughout the house. Jorge had tried to throw Adam out but Brianna wouldn’t let him, so she threw Jorge out instead.

(“I don’t care if you die!” was the last thing she said.)

“Why did you watch the video—oh God, kill me! Just kill me! Somebody kill me! Somebody please, just ki-i-i-ill me.”

Blakely’s death was never confirmed. She was at the University of South Carolina when the nuclear bomb dropped over Columbia. This isn’t a life I would’ve ever consented to.

So why were we born?

Toward her parents, she felt nothing but a murderous rage. “So why was I born?” she demanded to know, as Adam just stared at her. “Why this life? Why this world? Why this hell?”

“I’m going back to my room now,” he mumbled.

“Qua-ran-tine!” Brianna yelled, but she was too weak to pick herself off of the floor.

Suddenly, Rachel felt the weight of Paul the Apostle coursing through her veins. “Open the door, Jorge.”

Jorge looks at his wife.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Please—I can’t breathe in here, everything smells like shit!” Caileigh sobs as she pounds on the door.

All of her coworkers at the hospital were dead, and the hospital’s ex-CEO was now an upper-level Satanist.

Grace and forgiveness.

To have grace and forgiveness for even B. Satanichryium was a courage she had never known.

A quantum-fungal particle that desired so much to live, to live on its own terms—what madness to witness.

Life.

White-hot life—only an angel could see it, forgive it, and remain an angel. Brianna lowers her knees to the floor and begins to pray. “Dear Lord, thank you,” she thinks, her hands clasped in prayer as sincere tears stream down her face. “Thank you for every joy I’ve ever had—it was too much and I didn’t deserve any of it. Thank you for my mother. She was too regal and I didn’t deserve any of it. Thank you for my brother and sister. They, too, are regal and I didn’t deserve any of it. Thank you for my husband—he is too pliant and I didn’t deserve any of it. Thank you for every friend I’ve ever had—they are too much fun and we didn’t deserve any of it. And most of all, thank you for Adam and Blakely and Caileigh. It was my selfishness that caused them to endure this Hell. They didn’t deserve any of it. Thank you for every moment I’ve gotten to spend in angelic company. Thank you for this white-hot life.”

To forgive even the apocalypse was the angel’s courage.

A sublime doom, outlandish and symphonic, had transformed itself into a sublime forgiveness.

Jorge stares at his wife on her knees, wide-eyed, tears coursing down her cheeks, and says: “The night we met, I didn’t have any friends to go with to that bar in Cambridge. I went alone. There was no Adam. I told you I was there for an imaginary birthday because I was too embarrassed to tell you I had gone there alone.” Brianna looks at her husband. She has never loved him more than she did in that moment.

“Adam isn’t yours,” she says.

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” Brianna laughs through sublime tears.

Jorge looks at his wife. He can’t bring himself to laugh, but his arms, strengthened by laughter, heaving and grunting, pushes the bookshelf away from the door. As soon as Caileigh hears this, she stops pounding.

“Okay. You can come out now, honey.”

Behind the bedroom door, Caileigh’s face, arms, hands, and legs are covered in giant white pustules—fresh blood trickles down from every part of her body. Her face is as pale as paper. B. Satanichryium doesn’t feel any of its host body’s pain—it desecrates the human body the way a teenager in love might carve a pair of initials into a tree.

There is a pause.

All of a sudden, Caileigh springs open the door and leaps onto of her father, embracing him with a giggle. “Daddy—it’s so good to see you again!”

Brianna watches as Jorge falls backwards.

Caileigh reveals a knitting needle she had stolen from her mother’s sewing kit along with her phone. She stabs it through her mother’s neck: “Mama—aren’t you glad to see me again?”

Brianna’s eyes widen.

She pushes the knitting needle through her mother’s throat, pulls it out, and then stabs her father in the eye. This he didn’t even see coming. Even after everything he’d seen on TV in the early days of the pandemic—“Do not watch the videos, do not search for the videos, do not let your children search for the videos,” the news anchors warned in unison, but it was no use, the videos were all over the internet—he still didn’t see this coming. “Caileigh,” he says one second before he realizes he’s been stabbed through the Adam’s apple.

This, too, he hadn’t seen coming.

How dumb am I, Jorge thinks before blacking out, in a torrent of thoughts that all come to him as a series of successive recognitions. How do you fight Satan? It’s impossible. We’re overpowered. How dumb am I? I should forgive myself. This was inevitable. I wasn’t strong enough.

And Satan is all too powerful.

Caileigh tosses her head back and laughs demonically. Jorge lets out a blood-curdling scream and collapses to the floor—Brianna, still on her knees, falls to her hands and vomits. Caileigh’s head spins around one-hundred and eighty degrees—just like West’s had in the viral video.

Just as forests were razed to provide resources for humans, humans were raised to provide resources for Satanists.

A small percentage of humans are immune to the Satanic mist, and some of them—teenagers, mostly—begged the Satanically possessed to transform them by biting them and infecting them with spores. The Satanists complied happily. All the immune who agreed to serve B. Satanichryium for two years would be transformed into Satanists themselves at the end of the two-year period, the Satanists promised. (In 2045, the teenagers learned that Satanists couldn’t be trusted.) Meanwhile the Merrinists continued to fragment into smaller and smaller factions—by 2046, they had fragmented completely. Some disputes were purely semantic.

The rest were purely nostalgic.

The last of the human resisters—in Micronesia—were eradicated by the Satanists in 2048.

Six million years of human evolution.

Wiped out in six years.

Gone in sixty seconds.

Hyper-intelligent zombies that can raze a species like humans raze a rainforest—what a bittersweet end to the human symphony. And what an unfilmable nightmare. There were no protagonists. There were no heroes—there was just raw power trying to figure out what to do with itself. No human being can survive for long in the face of something that is both stronger than them, and that has no pity for them. Plants and fungi don’t have the intelligence to fear or envy us, but almost every human has the capacity to either fear or envy hyper-intelligent zombies with murderous intentions—some sacrifice themselves to avoid betraying their humanity. While others submit and fight—irrationally—for the chance to serve Satan. “Take me!” Caileigh had already decided.

“Take me!”

Caileigh had already made up her mind.

It was either Satan or a slow and painful death by starvation. Every day Caileigh hoped a nuclear bomb would drop on their city. How many people had starved to death before the Satanic possession even began—how many in India? How many in Syria? How many in China?

How many on the continent of Africa?

A loud, stabbing hunger.

A maddening desire to eat, that can’t be satisfied except in the mind’s wildest imagination: meat. Fresh meat—not even sweets would do, the hungrier she was, the pickier Caileigh became as an eater—not even sugar would do, she’d spit in the face of anyone who tried to offer her some, for what she wanted was bowls and bowls of pasta with marinara sauce squeezed from the freshest tomatoes, and meatballs the size of turkeys.

“Take me!”

Starvation is unlike any other hunger in the world.

The mouth longs to swallow.

The stomach longs to be filled.

With self-disgust, Caileigh even wondered at night what her cat tasted like—her cat who she longed to bite into after the mere foreshadowing of a days-long hunger. On September 1, 2042, Caileigh’s ex-girlfriend Caitlin showed at Caileigh apartment. Caitlin’s parents were dead. “You’re not opening the door,” her father had yelled, and Caileigh had screamed.

What if her father had been a little less adamant?

What if her mother had stepped in? Well then—Caitlin would be in this apartment with Caileigh right now.

Ready to die together.

This final act of cruelty was what had convinced Caileigh to turn her back on her species altogether. Humanity—what a joke! There was nothing worth saving in this species. There was nothing worth saving about a family that would let their own daughter’s ex-girlfriend starve alone after she had made it all the way across a city that was being actively firebombed, in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, in the middle of nuclear winter. Caileigh hadn’t turned her back on humanity.

Humanity had turned its back on Caileigh.

In the final analysis, what a sad but predictable outcome to an all too predictable species. Human civilization began in the Fertile Crescent eleven thousand years ago and ended in 2042—humanity had survived for several thousand years as a hyper-intelligent species before evolving into something else.

Something stranger.

Something freer.

Something Godly when you think about it—because now that she was alone, Caileigh finally had a chance to practice her powers. She wasn’t strong enough yet to levitate a bookshelf, but she could remove her mother’s knitting needle from her father’s throat without even touching it. Alone and bloody, Caileigh dances and elongates on the floor of the Great Hall. She isn’t hungry anymore—since it’s massless, B. Satanichryium doesn’t need food at all. The only hunger Caileigh has inside her is the hunger to bend the laws of the Universe to her will—she can rotate her head all the way around now, one-hundred and eighty degrees. She can disobey gravity—she can spider-walk up the walls and across the ceiling. She is a nervous anatomy with a higher mastery over Reality than all other human beings. She’s superhuman.

And just like humans who don’t blink when they cut down a tree, despite sharing half the tree’s DNA, Caileigh doesn’t blink when she cuts down a person. Satan frees you from caring about something just because it shares your DNA.

Freedom that Powers the Self.

What else in the world could matter?

VI.

One spring morning in 2048, humanity ended.

The spoils of humanity were inherited by the Satanically possessed. B. Satanichryium is a higher kingdom than any plant, animal, or fungi: they are the blessed neural flowers of the Universe. The microscopic spores of B. Satanichryium has replaced every nerve cell in Caileigh’s body, forming its own branchlike skeleton that can only be seen on MRI. The only animal Caileigh took any pity on that night—her last in her childhood home before she sets off by foot the next day to Logan International Airport, disguised as an orphan—is the cat. She’ll cradle the cat as she approaches the airport.

She’ll transform herself into a beautiful young woman.

“Now, now, Jeannie,” Caileigh says, as the cat circles the corpses on the floor. The cat, without knowing why, gazes up at Caileigh and goes to her.

Caileigh scoops the animal into her arms.

“There, there, Jeannie.”

Ten decisions shape your life.

You’ll be aware of five about.

Caileigh directs the cat’s mouth to the open sores on her arm, which the cat licks greedily.

Twenty ways to see the world.

Twenty ways to start a fight.

A fully intact, fully dissected human nervous system looks like nothing so much as a dead mushroom—minus the skin, minus the bones. Caileigh and Jeannie will cause quite the stir in Christchurch, New Zealand, in about three and a half months—all Satanists will.

But for now it’s only September.

And the winter of our lives hasn’t reached us yet.

— Rachel Redwood-Ramirez

2010

[porterdavis]

A beautifully written statement by Robert Redford:

“I have a lot of vivid memories of growing up in Los Angeles in the 1940s, but one in particular keeps coming back to me today, in these troubled times. I remember sitting with my parents -- actually, my parents were sitting; I was lying on the floor, the way kids do -- and listening to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt talking to us over the radio. He was talking to the nation, of course, not just to us, but it sure felt that way. He was personal and informal, like he was right there in our living room.

I was too young to follow much of what he was saying -- something about World War II. But what I did understand was that this was a man who cared about our well-being. I felt calmed by his voice. It was a voice of authority and, at the same time, empathy. Americans were facing a common enemy -- fascism -- and FDR gave us the sense that we were all in it together. Even kids like me had a role to play: participating in paper drives, collecting scrap metal, doing whatever we could do. That's what it was like to have a president with a strong moral compass. It guided him, gave him direction, and helped him point the nation toward a better future.

Maybe this strikes you as simple nostalgia. I've got a touch of that, sure (who doesn't right now?). But I'm too focused on the future to sit around pining for the old days. For me, the power of FDR's example is what it says about the kind of leadership America needs -- and can have again, if we choose it.

But one thing is clear: Instead of a moral compass in the Oval Office, there's a moral vacuum. Instead of a president who says we're all in it together, we have a president who's in it for himself. Instead of words that uplift and unite, we hear words that inflame and divide. When someone retweets (and then deletes) a video of a supporter shouting "white power" or calls journalists "enemies of the state," when he turns a lifesaving mask against contagion into a weapon in a culture war, when he orders the police and the military to tear gas peaceful protestors so he can wave a Bible at the cameras, he sacrifices -- again and again -- any claim to moral authority.

Another four years of this would degrade our country beyond repair. The toll it's taking is almost biblical: fires and floods, a literal plague upon the land, an eruption of hatred that's being summoned and harnessed, by a leader with no conscience or shame. Four more years would accelerate our slide toward autocracy. It would be taken as free license to punish more so-called "traitors" and wage more petty vendettas -- with the full weight of the Justice Department behind them. Four more years would mean open season on our environmental laws. The assault has been ongoing -- it started with abandoning the historic agreement that the world made in Paris to combat climate change, and continued, just last month, with using the pandemic as cover to let industries pollute as they see fit. Four more years would bring untold damage to our planet -- our home.

America is still a world power. But in the past four years, it has lost its place as a world leader. A second term would embolden enemies and further weaken our standing with our friends.

When and how did the United States of America become the Divided States of America? Polarization, of course, has deep roots and many sources. President Donald Trump didn't create all of our divisions as Americans. But he has found every fault line in America and wrenched them wide open.

Without a moral compass in the Oval Office, our country is dangerously adrift. But this November, we can choose another direction. This November, unity and empathy are on the ballot. Experience and intelligence are on the ballot. Joe Biden is on the ballot, and I'm confident he will bring these qualities back to White House.

I don't make a practice of publicly announcing my vote. But this election year is different. And I believe Biden was made for this moment. Biden leads with his heart. I don't mean that in a soft and sentimental way. I'm talking about a fierce compassion -- the kind that fuels him, that drives him to fight against racial and economic injustice, that won't let him rest while people are struggling.

As FDR showed, empathy and ethics are not signs of weakness. They're signs of strength. I think Americans are coming back to that view. Despite Trump -- despite his daily efforts to divide us -- I see much of the country beginning to reunite again, the way it did when I was a kid. You can see it in the peaceful protests of the past several weeks -- Americans of all races and classes coming together to fight against racism. You can see it the ways that communities are pulling together in the face of this pandemic, even if the White House has left them to fend for themselves.

These acts of compassion and kindness make our country stronger. This November, we have a chance to make it stronger still -- by choosing a president who is consistent with our values, and whose moral compass points toward justice."

- Robert Redford, July 8, 2020

[yobaba30]

A beautifully written statement by Robert Redford:

“I have a lot of vivid memories of growing up in Los Angeles in the 1940s, but one in particular keeps coming back to me today, in these troubled times. I remember sitting with my parents -- actually, my parents were sitting; I was lying on the floor, the way kids do -- and listening to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt talking to us over the radio. He was talking to the nation, of course, not just to us, but it sure felt that way. He was personal and informal, like he was right there in our living room.I was too young to follow much of what he was saying -- something about World War II. But what I did understand was that this was a man who cared about our well-being. I felt calmed by his voice. It was a voice of authority and, at the same time, empathy.

Americans were facing a common enemy -- fascism -- and FDR gave us the sense that we were all in it together. Even kids like me had a role to play: participating in paper drives, collecting scrap metal, doing whatever we could do. That's what it was like to have a president with a strong moral compass. It guided him, gave him direction, and helped him point the nation toward a better future.Maybe this strikes you as simple nostalgia. I've got a touch of that, sure (who doesn't right now?). But I'm too focused on the future to sit around pining for the old days.

For me, the power of FDR's example is what it says about the kind of leadership America needs -- and can have again, if we choose it.But one thing is clear: Instead of a moral compass in the Oval Office, there's a moral vacuum. Instead of a president who says we're all in it together, we have a president who's in it for himself. Instead of words that uplift and unite, we hear words that inflame and divide. When someone retweets (and then deletes) a video of a supporter shouting "white power" or calls journalists "enemies of the state," when he turns a lifesaving mask against contagion into a weapon in a culture war, when he orders the police and the military to tear gas peaceful protestors so he can wave a Bible at the cameras, he sacrifices -- again and again -- any claim to moral authority.

Another four years of this would degrade our country beyond repair. The toll it's taking is almost biblical: fires and floods, a literal plague upon the land, an eruption of hatred that's being summoned and harnessed, by a leader with no conscience or shame. Four more years would accelerate our slide toward autocracy. It would be taken as free license to punish more so-called "traitors" and wage more petty vendettas -- with the full weight of the Justice Department behind them.

Four more years would mean open season on our environmental laws. The assault has been ongoing -- it started with abandoning the historic agreement that the world made in Paris to combat climate change, and continued, just last month, with using the pandemic as cover to let industries pollute as they see fit.

Four more years would bring untold damage to our planet -- our home.America is still a world power. But in the past four years, it has lost its place as a world leader. A second term would embolden enemies and further weaken our standing with our friends.When and how did the United States of America become the Divided States of America? Polarization, of course, has deep roots and many sources. President Donald Trump didn't create all of our divisions as Americans. But he has found every fault line in America and wrenched them wide open.Without a moral compass in the Oval Office, our country is dangerously adrift. But this November, we can choose another direction.

This November, unity and empathy are on the ballot. Experience and intelligence are on the ballot. Joe Biden is on the ballot, and I'm confident he will bring these qualities back to White House.I don't make a practice of publicly announcing my vote. But this election year is different. And I believe Biden was made for this moment. Biden leads with his heart. I don't mean that in a soft and sentimental way. I'm talking about a fierce compassion -- the kind that fuels him, that drives him to fight against racial and economic injustice, that won't let him rest while people are struggling.As FDR showed, empathy and ethics are not signs of weakness. They're signs of strength. I think Americans are coming back to that view. Despite Trump -- despite his daily efforts to divide us -- I see much of the country beginning to reunite again, the way it did when I was a kid. You can see it in the peaceful protests of the past several weeks -- Americans of all races and classes coming together to fight against racism. You can see it the ways that communities are pulling together in the face of this pandemic, even if the White House has left them to fend for themselves.These acts of compassion and kindness make our country stronger. This November, we have a chance to make it stronger still -- by choosing a president who is consistent with our values, and whose moral compass points toward justice."

- Robert Redford, July 8, 2020

[yunathun]

THE END-TIMES ATTACKS OF THE SPECTERS & SHEDIM-(DEMONS)

THE END-TIMES ATTACKS OF THE SPECTERS & SHEDIM-(DEMONS)

FROM THE KING JAMES BIBLE-(KJV 1611) FROM THE BOOK A RACE OF DEMONS REFINED 2017 FROM THE BOOK SPIRITUAL CRIMES

PRESENTED & INTERPRETED BY: MR. J.R.WILLIS

THE ATTACKS OF THE SPECTERS & SHEDIM:

2 BARUCH 26-30-(THE 8TH WOE)

9 And in the eighth part a multitude of specters and attacks of the Shedim-(AN EXPLOSION & INCREASE OF DEMONIC MANIFESTATIONS AND ATTACKS/POSSESSION UPON MANKIND).

DEMONOLOGY 101

DEMON- An evil spirit or devil, especially one thought to possess a person or act as a tormentor in hell. An evil supernatural being; a devil. Also called: daemon or daimon an attendant or ministering spirit; genius.

In this chapter I will be providing you with a brief and short crash course on demonology. I will explain to you who these inordinate spirits are and endow you with a list of demonic names compiled from Johann Weyer. I warn you to not take any of this information that you are about to read lightly or as a joke. These wicked and dark beings are to never be conjured, worshipped, or played around with and to do so is to commit blasphemy against our Great and Holy Father. They are like Lucifer; ancient, highly intelligent, powerful, and evil incarnate. I have listed them to you as a truth seeker, child of Father Ahayah, and most of all to educate you on the true enemies of mankind.

***IMPORTANT NOTES***

THE RELEASING OF THE ANCIENT DEMONS OF NOAH'S TIME HAS HAPPENED IN OUR TIME-(THE 9TH BOUND ARE NOW HERE):

The Book of JUBILEES Chapter 10: 1-11

JUBILEES Chapter 10:

And in the third week of this jubilee the unclean demons began to lead astray the children of the sons of Noah, and to make to err and destroy them. And the sons of Noah came to Noah their father, and they told him concerning the demons which were leading astray and blinding and slaying his sons' sons. And he prayed before the Lord his God, and said: 'God of the spirits of all flesh, who hast shown mercy unto me. And hast saved me and my sons from the waters of the flood, And hast not caused me to perish as Thou didst the sons of perdition; For Thy grace has been great towards me, And great has been Thy mercy to my soul; Let Thy grace be lift up upon my sons, And let not wicked spirits rule over them. Lest they should destroy them from the earth.

But do Thou bless me and my sons, that we may increase and multiply and replenish the earth. And thou knowest how Thy Watchers, the fathers of these spirits, acted in my day: and as for these spirits which are living, imprison them and hold them fast in the place of condemnation, and let them not bring destruction on the sons of thy servant, my God; for these are malignant, and created in order to destroy. And let them not rule over the spirits of the living; for Thou alone canst exercise dominion over them. And let them not have power over the sons of the righteous from henceforth and for evermore.' And the Lord our God bade us to bind all.

And the chief of the spirits, Mastêmâ-(SATAN), came and said: 'Lord, Creator, let some of them remain before me, and let them harken to my voice, and do all that I shall say unto them; for if some of them are not left to me, I shall not be able to execute the power of my will on the sons of men; for these are for corruption and leading astray before my judgment, for great is the wickedness of the sons of men.'

And He said: Let the TENTH PART OF THEM REMAIN BEFORE HIM, and let NINE PARTS descend into the place of CONDEMNATION-(HELL).' And one of us He commanded that we should teach Noah all their medicines; for He knew that they would not walk in uprightness, nor strive in righteousness. And we did according to all His words: all the malignant evil ones we bound in the place of condemnation and a tenth part of them we left that they might be subject before Satan on the earth.

So what we learn from the Book of JUBILEES is that Great Father Ahayah bond 90 percent of the deceases spirits of the nephillim-(DEMONS) into hell and ALLOWED 10 percent of them to remain on the earth to be under the control of satan. With this 10th being under satans direct control he could place these demons upon heads of state and governments upon the earth to keep his dark agendas in advance against the CHILDREN OF ISRAEL and the overall destruction of humanity.

Now what many dont understand is that these 9 parts of the demonic forces bond in hell during Noah's time have been releases with demonic technology such as the CERN HADRON COLLIDER which is a star gate machinery that speeds up the smashing of particles-(ATOMS) which then opens small PORTALS into the second heavens allowing the once bond demonic spirits to enter into our realm-(THE 1ST HEAVEN) therefore unleashing a plague of new evils unto the world. Over the past 25 years they have done just that with the HADRON COLLIDER and other tools of sorcery.

The turn of the 20th century-(1900's) saw an explosion in technology from the automobile, airplane, microwave, radio, television and finally the ATOMIC BOMB. For the past 7000 years or so-(POST FLOOD ERA) man had been utilizing horse and carriage, and animal/horsepower to get most of farming work done, transportation, and boats for long distance travel. All of a sudden with WORLD WAR ONE-(THE FIRST WOE) mankind was able to travel great distances in a matter of hours or days by car and aircraft.

Knowledge during this time would be increased GREATLY and it would NOT be from man's on wisdom but it is because of the knowledge and technology given to man by once bound FALLEN ANGELS and DEMONS.

Daniel 12:4:

“But thou, O’ Daniel, shut up the words, and seal the book, even to the time of the end: many shall RUN TO and FRO-(TRAVEL OF THE WHOLE EARTH BY AIRCRAFT-SHIP-TRAIN-END TIMES TECHNOLOGY OF THE FALLEN ANGELS), and KNOWLEDGE shall be increased-(DEMONIC TECHNOLOGY-ATOMIC BOMB-CERN HADRON COLLIDER-ANTI MATTER WEAPONS-URANIUM TIPPED BULLETS-ECT).”

***IMPORTANT NOTES***

THESE ARE STAGES OF THE BIRTH PANGS:

We are witnessing biblical prophecy occur daily all around us from the MASS DEMONIC POSSESSIONS of people that we are seeing as crimes committed among the people become more deadly, sinister and barbaric, WARS & RUMORS OF WARS as the entire world is at world in the MID-EAST with america being engaged in 8 wars world wide right now, A 3RD OF YOUR WATERS & OCEANS ARE NOW DEAD with 60% of all animal life now estimated to have become extinct in just over the past 35 years. Supernatural weather, & disasters, high level volcanic activity and earthquakes now occurring now all over the earth in divers places are all now common. PLAGUES & PESTILENCES with new man made demonic diseases such as ZIKA, BUBONIC PLAGUE, EBOLA, HIV/AIDS, BIRD AVIAN FLU and to be more precise BLACK WOMEN are the HIGHEST new HIV/AIDS contractors in the US.

LAWLESSNESS among the people, the love of money, pleasures and not the LOVE OF THE MOST HIGH is rampant on the entire earth as the whole world now possesses the SPIRIT OF ANTICHRIST. SODOMITE-(HOMOSEXUALS-A SODOMITE PLAGUE OF DEMONIC SPIRITS THAT SPECIALIZE IN THE SPREADING OF HOMOSEXUALITY) run all parts of your government and control your country this is why you are forced to see these monsters all throughout your media and they even force their despicable lifestyle onto our babies and young children demonically influencing the youth with a reprobate spirit dragging them ALL STRAIGHT TO HELL.

For this TRUTH that I speak of to you many shall hate-(THIS INCLUDES PAGAN CHRISTIANS) and shall be against and deny as Lord Yashaya told us before he died-(MANY SHALL HATE YOU FOR MY NAMES SAKE). The Bible has never been more active and alive in any time period in the history of mankind and it is in my honest opinion, THAT WE ARE HERE. All that needs to be fulfilled now is the MARK OF THE BEAST RFID CHIP and the total NUCLEAR DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON THE GREAT-(AMERICA) which has all been prophesied by Great Father Ahayah.

***CONCLUSION***

THERE SIMPLY IS NO DENYING WHAT'S HAPPENING IN OUR WORLD TO TO HIDE AND RUN AWAY FROM THIS TRUTH SHALL BE AT YOUR OWN DEMISE. WE ARE HERE MY PEOPLE. ITS TIME TO COME BACK TO THE MOST HIGH BECAUSE NOT MUCH TIME IS LEFT AND THE LORD HAS DECLARED THAT 90 PERCENT OF YOU SHALL PERISH-(DEATH). YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND THE GRAVITY OF 90 PERCENT. THAT MEANS EVERYONE THAT YOU KNOW WHO ARE NOT TRULY IN CHRIST SHALL DIE.

ALL OF THE WICKED PEOPLE YOU SEE ON TELEVISION, FAMILY AND FRIENDS, ALL OF THEM, SHALL NOT MAKE IT. WAKE UP PEOPLE BECAUSE ITS TIME AND WE ARE HERE.

NOW WHO SHALL DENY THIS REPORT?

J.R.WILLIS AUTHOR: A RACE OF DEMONS REFINED 2017 AUTHOR: SPIRITUAL CRIMES 2018

AUTHOR: THE PROPHECIES

AUTHOR: DAEMONOLOGIE YEAR 2020

[balonlionardo1992]

oklahoma homeowners insurance

BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare quotes from different companies :insurancefreequotes.xyz

oklahoma homeowners insurance

oklahoma homeowners insurance is designed to help you cover any losses, including damage from extreme weather, theft, storms, vandalism or, most of all, a catastrophic, natural disaster. In addition to standard homeowners insurance, you can also get an extra-biblical addition (after you pay your deductible) for: • For $4,000 or less. • In a pinch – one thing will make it easier . . . The top auto insurance providers in the country offer an array of ways to save on your auto insurance policy. Auto insurance quotes can vary based on where you live. You can see a breakdown of how each of the different policy types will affect your auto insurance rates in advance of starting. Here are the average premiums for basic and basic coverage in Ohio from the 6 biggest most popular car insurance providers in the state. In addition to the auto insurance coverage from these providers,. oklahoma homeowners insurance comes with a few unique advantages which may be a good addition to what you have to pay as the insured homeowner. Here’s an overview of your options and how to buy your Texas homeowners insurance. For more information about your insurance rights of any Texas homeowner, please contact one of the insurance experts in our network. If you don’t have homeowners insurance in place, the will help you save money on your premium. A list of can be found with . A trusted independent insurance agency in St. Petersburg, Florida, We can help you find the best coverage, value and coverage at the cheapest price. Get a now. The average insurance rate in Florida is $1,085 per year, while the national average is $1,433. In Florida, the average annual premium for full coverage is around $884, which is below the national or 35th largest yearly premium quoted by an insurance company. Unfortunately, despite a better-than-average premium, your rate. oklahoma homeowners insurance cost can differ by insurance company. For example, in Oklahoma, a 25-year-old man is getting a quote for $1,937 per year—which is significantly less than the United States’ average, which is $1,252. However, a 25-year-old woman is actually getting a quote for $3,843 per year. While the quotes are fairly standard for the price, they can vary by insurance company. The cheapest insurers in the state for a 40-year-old woman are Texas Farm Bureau at $2,300 per year, and Geico at $2,569 per year. Drivers with a valid Oklahoma driving license may be able to find comparable coverage at the above insurance company. Below, though you’ll find a list of the top five insurers in Oklahoma, according to market share. The state also offers affordable homeowners insurance at bargain rates. The price of premiums will vary, but the overall average cost of a policy by.

Special Home Insurance Situations in Oklahoma

Special Home Insurance Situations in Oklahoma If you are a home insurance holder in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, you have the option of selecting a policy that meets all of the above requirements. For some home insurance companies, we are highly recommended. For more information, please contact an agent. As an Oklahoma home insurance company, we take pride in providing a personalized, comprehensive home insurance policy that meets your needs. Our AAA home insurance policy is the only home insurance policy to receive a rating grade in the industry. In our experience, AAA is the most reliable insurance provider. For this reason, it is our preferred choice for all of your Florida residents. Contact Information In Oklahoma, a homeowner must select the level of insurance coverage they wish to purchase for their home. They are required to obtain insurance protection for the dwelling, personal property and additional structures at least of $10,000 (minimum). This is known as “liability insurance.” Under Oklahoma law a residence should have one of three levels of insurance.

Cost of Homeowners Insurance by Age of Home

Cost of Homeowners Insurance by Age of Homeowners in California CalCar InsuranceCost: $863 $864 Year#20Percent (UP)20.40% Total Cost: $1,898 Homeowners Insurance Cost by Homeowners by Year of Homeowners in California Homeowners Insurance Cost by Homeowners in California Year of Homeowners Insurance CostPC Series Avg Cost Total Cost 20 Years Old$704.09 $767.06 20 Years Old$745.74 $1,132.68 20 Years Old$903.74 $1,140.79 30 Years Old$899.19 $1,154.09 30 Years Old$1,102.79 $1,154.39 30 Years Old$1,134.28 $2,086.19 40 Years Old$1,166.71 $2,014.05.

Oklahoma Homeowners Insurance FAQs

Oklahoma Homeowners Insurance FAQs How do I file a claim with Oklahoma home insurance? If you’re in a car accident and you’re a Oklahoman, you’ll need to contact your insurer, your insurance company or a . How do I cancel my home insurance? You can switch your home insurance policy from six months to one year. In four months, you should see a significant drop in rates.  What happens if I get married? After a few years, you must switch your spouses insurance providers. You can usually see a slight drop in rates if you switch sponsors, move jobs, and get married. Then, you may be stuck with high premiums when your insurance policy moves to a new state. Check your premiums at renewal time. Can I keep an Oklahoma home insurance policy? Yes, you’ll have to make sure to keep a separate insurance policy for your home.  This includes.

Top 3 Cheapest Homeowner Insurance Companies in Oklahoma

Top 3 Cheapest Homeowner Insurance Companies in Oklahoma There are a few other inexpensive home insurance companies to consider and it’s easy to find. But the best part is that the companies in Oklahoma, along with the four cheapest insurance companies in Oklahoma, were chosen based on 813 reviews. » MORE:  » More Ohio homeowners could save with AAA: We selected the lowest possible auto insurance policy to protect the house and cars you share along the way. AAA offered you the same low rates as major auto companies, but now you’re protecting the stuff you’ve worked so hard for in Ohio. Get a quote for the best homeowners insurance in Ohio and consider the other big guys. More Ohio homeowners insurance reviews: Retired drivers: 70% more than the typical homeowner in Ohio Home owners with 10+ years of experience: 3.4 Â●Newer homes: 15-20% more than older homes .

Best Oklahoma Homeowners Insurance Companies

Best Oklahoma Homeowners Insurance Companies · Most Popular “Best” Companies* · Three Companies* · Three Reasons Our Top 3 home insurance providers are in the mix* · A High Net Worth” · One Country’s Top 10 Companies* · Five Ways We Know You’ve Got Your Hands On The Homeowners Seam down on our results from the list of best homeowners insurers in the Blue Cross® and Blue Shield Association Seam down the top five companies in both state-wide as well as in “Other states” based on their location in the western U.S. to check in our top 10 best home insurers Seam down as the top best homeowners insurance companies in Oklahoma for its Seam down as the top 10 largest homeowners insurance companies* Seam down as the top 10 largest homeowners insurance companies in the northeast Seam down as the top 10 largest home insurers in the southwest Seam down as the.

The 5 Best Homeowners Insurance Companies in Oklahoma

The 5 Best Homeowners Insurance Companies in Oklahoma This list features Oklahoma home insurance companies offering some of the cheapest rates in the state. While rates can vary, the companies above are top picks for some homeowners. While rates in Oklahoma above are very affordable, Oklahoma’s weather can be particularly harsh. Though the weather can vary from state to state, for the most part it can be fairly constant. Because Oklahoma has a diverse mix of flood, snow and ground cover, they should be able to offer affordable rates. In addition to the unique nature of Oklahoma’s flood risks, the high annual premiums will come at an additional cost. The cost of insurance in Oklahoma is high because of the high number of homeowners on the land. Oklahoma’s flood areas are some of the priciest in the country, and that is likely why it is required in order to help people in disaster-hit areas stay covered under higher coverage limits. There are some Oklahoma homeowners coverage options that may be eligible for: Rental coverage: This.

Top 3 Most Expensive Homeowner Insurance Companies in Oklahoma

Top 3 Most Expensive Homeowner Insurance Companies in Oklahoma Oklahoma - Insurance Information & Ratings The Best Things to Do in Tulsa For everything we cover on the road (including the roads for vehicles not covered by LARP), this is a to compare rates and make a comparison. If you don t own the car, or you just want to make sure there are no charges or penalties on your policy, you can get cheap auto insurance in Oklahoma by right now! If you drive for a company not listed here, you may still save on your premium thanks to an Oklahoma auto insurance quote from State Auto! In order to legally own a car, you must first have insurance or credit. When you first sign up for coverage, you ll need to be able to show proof of insurance..

Average Cost of Homeowners Insurance in Oklahoma

Average Cost of Homeowners Insurance in Oklahoma City: $1,632 Homeowners in Oklahoma City need to keep more details of homeowners insurance, like policy details. The cheapest homeowners insurance company on our list had ratings from AM Best that show its services were the closest thing to a reasonable rate. The other four companies on this list had ratings of +1—that’s what customers were told by customer service representatives. There’s no single insurer with top-notch service and the lowest annual premium for both state residents and residents on policy. As an option, the company has its own policy. These include standard coverages and: In addition to homeowners insurance, Oklahoma homeowners insurance is offered by a private company called the National Association of Insurance Commissioners. The company offers policies under the following names: For more information on homeowners insurance, refer to this How to Find Cheap Oklahoma Home Insurance: Get an Oklahoma Homeowners Insurance quote online. The company covers homes in all 50 states, but offers affordable insurance through an online partner company.

Home Insurance Add-Ons That Will Further Protect You

Home Insurance Add-Ons That Will Further Protect You from Risk and Will Keep Your Car Car Car Damage Coverage in the Case of a Minor Collision Damage Claim. The best protection in the event that you’re ever hurt someone else in a car accident or stolen car, no matter who causes the accident, is liability insurance. Liability insurance for the parties involved, or your own insurance in case you are held responsible for damaging someone else’s car, is the only thing that’s considered out of the ordinary when it comes to the protection afforded you at the expense of your insurance company. Collision Damage Insurance from USAA is also known as Comprehensive Coverage Insurance. It covers damage to your own vehicle in an accident or when a car that does not collide will be damaged. Collision is the part of Liability Insurance, as you can still make damage to your own vehicle. Comprehensive coverage will also cover you from damage to your own car as a result of certain circumstances. Comprehensive coverage is an important part of both Collision Dam.

The Cheapest Homeowner Insurance Companies In Oklahoma

The Cheapest Homeowner Insurance Companies In Oklahoma Here are the best Oklahoma home insurance companies we found, ranked by market share: State Farm: 43 Geico: 47 Erie: 46 Kansas Farm Bureau: 41 Liberty Mutual: 42 National General: 42 State Farm: 44 USAA: 41 We calculated our average rate based on the following metrics: a married, 34-year-old male with no accidents and injurings reported, a 39-year-old married couple with amassing benefits of $500,000 and a $500,000 mortgage. Widows and widowers may be able to choose from several Oklahoma home insurance companies. Methodology: Insurer complaints NerdWallet examined complaints filed by the state insurance department with the last five years. The rates above are the average insurance rates for each company in Oklahoma based on premiums reported for a 50-year-old married couple. Rates are for $250,000-deductible, as each.

[glittergummicandypeach]

The Power Worshippers: A look inside the American religious right | Religion | Al Jazeera

For 40 years now, the religious right has been a fixture in American politics and for all that time it has befuddled observers who continually misunderstand it, beginning with its support for Ronald Reagan, a divorced Hollywood actor, against Jimmy Carter. Reagan was the first US president to describe himself as a "born-again Christian".

But Reagan - whose wife consulted an astrologer for guidance as first lady - was a virtual saint compared to Donald Trump, the most recent presidential beneficiary of their enthusiastic support, and someone that 81 percent of self-described white evangelical protestants rewarded with their votes.

The secret to making sense of them is simply stated in the title of Katherine Stewart's new book: The Power Worshippers: Inside the Dangerous Rise of Religious Nationalism. It draws on more than a decade of first-hand experience and front-line reporting that began when her daughter's public elementary school was targeted to house a fundamentalist Bible club. 

"The purpose of the club was to convince children as young as five that they would burn for an eternity if they failed to conform to a strict interpretation of the Christian faith," she recalls. 

The struggle to stop them, and what she learned in the process about the broader plan to undermine public education and make way for sectarian religious education led to her 2012 book, The Good News Club.

But that was only one facet of the larger Christian nationalist movement The Power Worshippers explores, complimenting her own up-to-the-minute reporting with vital historical backstories that contradict and correct much of what most Americans think they know. 

Christian nationalists have betrayed what might have been their strongest suit. Christianity, as most people understand it, has something to do with loving our neighbours. But leaders of this movement have thrown in their lot with a bunch of selfish economic reactionaries who tell us we don't owe anybody anything.

Katherine Stewart, journalist and author

She argues (echoing Karen Armstrong's argument about the nature of fundamentalism in Christianity, Judaism and Islam) that it is not premodern, as both adherents and critics commonly assume.

It is, in fact, modern in its methods and doctrines, which "notwithstanding their purported origins in ancient texts have been carefully shaped to serve the emotional needs of its adherents, the organisational needs of its clerical leaders, and the political needs and ambitions of its funders".

Stewart is hardly alone in writing about Christian nationalism, but this formulation of how it fits together as a powerful power-seeking movement is uniquely clarifying, and provided the starting point for this interview with her. 

Al Jazeera: In your introduction, you write that the Christian nationalist movement has been misunderstood and underestimated, that: "It is not a social or cultural movement. It is a political movement and its ultimate goal is power." Can you explain that distinction?  

Katherine Stewart: We are kidding ourselves if we just look at this through a "culture war" framework.

It is helpful, in understanding this movement, to distinguish between the leaders and the followers. The foot soldiers of the movement - the many millions who dutifully cast their votes for the movement's favoured politicians, who populate its marches and flood its coffers with small-dollar donations - are the root source of its political strength. But they are not the source of its ideas. They may believe that they're fighting for things like traditional marriage and a ban on abortion.

But over time, the movement's leaders and strategists have consciously reframed these culture war issues in order to capture and control the votes of a large subsection of the American public. They understand if you can get people to vote on just one or two issues, you can control their vote.

So they use these issues to solidify and maintain political power for themselves and their allies, to increase the flow of public and private money in their direction and to enact economic policies that are favourable to their most well-resourced funders.

As your reporting shows, conservative-leaning churches are targeting voters with messages about how they need to vote with so-called "biblical" values. How does this fit in with the movement?

A lot of people attending conservative churches would not characterise themselves as members of the movement but large numbers of them have nevertheless allowed their voting habits to be shaped by its leaders.

Generalising about what draws people to the movement is difficult because people come for a wide variety of reasons. These reasons include questions about life's deeper meaning, a love and appreciation of God and scripture, ethnic and family solidarity, the hope of community and friendship, and a desire to mark life's most significant passages or express feelings of joy and sorrow.

People also come with a longing for certainty in an uncertain world. Against a backdrop of escalating economic inequality, deindustrialisation, rapid technological change and climate instability, many people, on all points of the economic and political spectrum, feel that the world has entered a state of disorder.

The movement gives them confidence, an identity and the feeling that their position in the world is safe. Yet the price of certainty or belonging is often the surrendering of one's political will to those who claim to offer refuge from the tempest of modern life.

What are some of the ways in which the emotional needs of adherents are exploited by movement leaders?

Among the emotional needs of some adherents is a desire for a certain empowerment as members of a special or uniquely virtuous group of people. So religious nationalism goes overboard in insisting on the unique virtues of the religion and culture with which its followers identify.

An additional emotional need of some adherents, exploited by leaders of the movement, is to validate feelings of grievance and resentment, and to focus them on some imagined impure "other," a scapegoat.

Christian nationalism, like other forms of religious nationalism around the world and throughout history, delivers a set of persecution narratives that represent the "good" religious people as under threat and as victims of an evil "other".

How have the doctrines been shaped to meet the needs of the movement's clerical leaders? 

Fundamentally the doctrines of religious nationalism reinforce authority - of scripture, of course, but also the authority of religious and political leaders.

This is what religious nationalism does around the world. Their doctrines make an absolute virtue out of obedience to a literalist or strict interpretation of their religion.

This is very handy both for the clerics and the politicians and elites that they serve, as it reinforces their authority, power and privilege. 

Who funds the movement, and how have the doctrines been shaped to meet their needs? 

The movement has multiple sources of funding, including small-dollar donors, various types of public subsidy and funding, and affluent donors.

Many of those affluent donors belong to super-wealthy hyperextended families. So it is not surprising that many of the doctrines the movement favours are about money. They say the Bible and God oppose progressive income taxes, capital gains taxes and minimum wage laws. That the Bible favours low taxes for the rich and minimal rights for the workforce. They argue that environmental regulation, regulation of businesses, and public funding of the social safety net are "unbiblical" or "against the biblical model".

In this way, I think, Christian nationalists have betrayed what might have been their strongest suit. Christianity, as most people understand it, has something to do with loving our neighbours. But leaders of this movement have thrown in their lot with a bunch of selfish economic reactionaries who tell us we don't owe anybody anything.

These doctrines, of course, preserve plutocratic, often nepotistic fortunes. This is why religious nationalism often goes hand in hand with authoritarianism, which around the world frequently exploits religious nationalism to suppress dissent and keep the disempowered members of their societies in a subordinate position.

The third chapter of your book is titled, "Inventing Abortion". Christian nationalists did not invent abortion itself, but they did invent it as a defining political framework. How did that come about? 

When Roe v Wade was passed, an editorial in a wire service run by the Southern Baptist Convention hailed the decision.

Most Republican Protestants at the time supported liberalisation of abortion law.

Reagan passed the most liberal abortion law in the country in 1967. Billy Graham himself echoed widely shared Protestant sentiments when he said in 1968, "In general I would disagree with [the Catholic stance]," and added, "I believe in Planned Parenthood". 

Over time, pro-choice voices were purged from the Republican party. That process, which I cover in detail in my book, took several decades.

You note that the pre-abortion origins of the modern Christian nationalist movement defended segregation and you also trace the origins of Christian nationalism back to slavery and its theological defence. Can you expand on this?

The theological defence went in both directions. In my book, I discuss the contributions of maybe a dozen abolitionist theologians, including Charles Grandison Finney, William Wilberforce and Adin Ballou. It is important to note, however, that at the time of the Civil War, most of the powerful denominations in the South had either promoted slavery or had at least made their peace with it, and many conservative theologians of the North concurred.

Pro-slavery theologians consciously refrained from making any judgement to upset the established order or else they supported it outright. For instance, the Georgia Annual Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church said that slavery, as it existed in the United States, was not a moral evil. Episcopalians of South Carolina found slavery to be "marked by every evidence of divine approval". The Charleston Union Presbytery resolved that "the holding of slaves, so far from being a sin in the sight of God, is nowhere condemned in his holy word".

Yes, folks like Wilberforce and Ballou argued for abolitionism, and they did so in the name of religion. But Frederick Douglass observed at the time that these religious abolitionists tended to be a distinctly disempowered minority in their own denominations.

Furthermore, abolitionist theologians also tended to support women's equality, while pro-slavery theologians were unabashedly patriarchal, arguing that the subordination of women, like subordination of Black people, was a part of God's plan. Some abolitionist church services, at which women were allowed to speak with authority, were attacked by pro-slavery theologians as "promiscuous assemblies".

James Henley Thornwell of South Carolina, a pro-slavery theologian, described the conflict this way: "The parties in this conflict are not merely abolitionists and slaveholders - they are atheists, socialists, communists, red Republicans, Jacobins on the one side, and the friends of order and regulated freedom on the other." Here, he is identifying "order" and "regulated freedom" with the enslavers, and "atheists" with the abolitionists.

What is most important for people to know about these origins of the Christian nationalist movement? 

Pro-slavery theologians, like Christian nationalist thought leaders today, were intensely hostile to the principle of equality, plurality and critical thinking. They endorsed an austere biblical literalism and rigid hierarchies, which they asserted were ordained by God. 

The idea the US is a Christian nation, chosen by God; that it should be an orthodox Christian republic; that women should be subordinate to men; that at some point America deviated horribly from its mission and fell under the control of atheist and/or liberal elites - these ideas are still at the heart of Christian nationalism today.

How did segregation fuel the birth of the modern Christian nationalist movement?

Movement leaders may have sold us this idea their movement was a grassroots reaction to abortion. But one of the key issues that animated the movement in its earlier days was the fear that racially segregated academies might be deprived of their lucrative tax exemptions.

Jerry Falwell and many of his fellow Southern, white, conservative pastors were closely involved with segregated schools and universities. The influential pastor Bob Jones Sr went so far as to call segregation "God's established order" and referred to desegregationists as "Satanic propagandists" who were "leading colored Christians astray".

As far as these pastors were concerned, they had the right not just to separate people based on their skin colour but to also receive federal money for the purpose. So they coalesced around the fear that the Supreme Court might end tax exemptions for segregated Christian schools. 

They knew, however, that "Stop the tax on segregation!" wasn't going to be an effective rallying cry to inspire a broad-based hyperconservative counterrevolution. There is a fascinating episode where they got together and basically wrote down a laundry list of issues that they thought might unite their new movement. I'm talking 1979 or so, about six years after Roe v. Wade. Number one was what they viewed as a threat to the tax privileges of racist academies. The women's rights movement was another. There were several others on the list, and they crossed one after the other. Then they came down to abortion and basically said, wow, that could work.  

How do the battles started then affect us today?

The basic question we are still struggling with is whether we can build a republic based on a universal idea, or whether we have to fall back on some kind of petty ethnic and religious nationalism. The idea of the American republic is that we can find unity on the basis of being human and thus deserving of dignity.

Can we find unity in this principle of humanity and equality, or are we compelled to coalesce around mythological ideas about ethnic and religious greatness - an impossibility in a society as inherently pluralistic as ours?

What ails us is not something specific to the United States, but rather a condition that plagues many parts of the modern world. The lesson from history we haven't yet learned is that whenever we try the latter, we spread injustice. And whenever we hold true to the former, we reach for justice. 

This content was originally published here.

[j0sgomez-blog]

By Michael Lanza

“There’s absolutely no one out here.”

I was just a few hours into a solo backpacking trip around Mount Rainier National Park’s 32.8-mile Northern Loop when that realization hit me. It was a cool, clear day in October 2003. None of my usual hiking partners had been available to join me. So I decided to do the trip alone, something I’ve done more times than I could count and felt comfortable with. I had no idea that this time I’d face the kind of situation that solo hikers think about but can never anticipate: a threat that shrinks the margin of safety in the wilderness down to nothing.

When I picked up my backcountry permit that morning, a ranger told me a snowstorm had hit the park just two days earlier. “You’ll probably run into at least a foot of snow on the ground at higher elevations,” he said. That didn’t dissuade me; I was prepared for snow. Neither of us, however, knew about the much bigger storm brewing out over the Pacific Ocean as we spoke, collecting moisture as it barreled toward the Cascade Range.

Mountain goats on Yellowstone Cliffs, along the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

That conversation came back to me as I walked past the rippling water of a tiny tarn in a meadow on my way to Windy Gap. Just a few tiny patches of white remained on the ground at 5,600 feet. Sun and mild temperatures had evaporated the recent snow. But apparently no one had been out there since the storm, because even the rangers had no idea what trail conditions were like.

That’s when it hit me: With backcountry rangers warning anyone considering a trip that they would encounter deep snow, I would probably not see another person out there.

Autumn can be the finest time to head into the backcountry. The foliage changes color, brightening the landscape. There are no bugs. The weather often achieves something close to meteorological perfection: skies clear and dry, affording hundred-mile views, and temperatures not too hot during the day, not too cold at night. I’ve enjoyed some of my best days in the mountains in the fall.

But autumn exhibits a bipolar personality. And in October, you are as close to the mountain winter as you are to its summer. In some respects, it is more dangerous than winter because in fall it’s easy to get lulled into trusting the weather. But really good can turn really bad, really fast.

Looking back, I think that most if not all of my hardest, most wretched experiences in the backcountry have occurred between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. On Mt. Rainier National Park’s Northern Loop, I was about to add another to my list.

  Hi, I’m Michael Lanza, creator of The Big Outside, which has made several top outdoors blog lists. Click here to sign up for my FREE email newsletter. Subscribe now to get full access to all of my blog’s stories. Click here to learn how I can help you plan your next trip. Please follow my adventures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube.

  Approaching Windy Gap on the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

That first afternoon, I watched two mountain goats step nimbly across the crumbling face of Yellowstone Cliffs. Then, perhaps inspired by them, I scrambled off-trail from the little, unnamed tarn just before Windy Gap up a talus slope to the saddle between Crescent Mountain and Sluiskin Mountain. There, under a mostly clear sky, forested hills sculpted by ancient volcanic activity undulated away from me to the always improbably enormous, white mass of Mount Rainier (see lead photo at top of story).

Three of the biggest glaciers on “The Mountain,” as western Washingtonians affectionately call Rainier, pour off the northerly aspects I saw from that overlook: the Emmons, Winthrop, and Carbon. On my third day out there, I would walk past the toe of the Carbon, the lowest river of ice in the contiguous United States.

That night, I found myself cocooned in extremes of quiet and darkness, camped below giant firs, pines, and cedars. I could hear only the wind’s occasional perambulations through the treetops, and sank into a sleep as deep as the surrounding silence and blackness.

  Click here for The Big Outside Trip Planner: Backpacking Mount Rainier’s Northern Loop

Reading the trip planner requires a paid subscription. Not a subscriber yet? Click here now to subscribe and get full access to all stories at this blog for as little as five bucks for a month, or just pennies over $4/month for a full year.

  Lake James along the Northern Loop.

My second morning brought partly cloudy skies—nothing to suggest what was headed my way. I packed up early and headed downhill through cool forest, crossed the silt-gray West Fork of the White River on a log footbridge, then made a 2,500-foot climb up onto a plateau. The meadows of Grand Park sprawled out more than a mile across. A little while later, I reached the cirque of Berkeley Park, where dense copses of conifers mingle with fields of grasses and wildflowers. Though it was long past wildflower season, Berkeley’s rich hues of green give the impression of a meticulously landscaped park.

By afternoon, I was following the Wonderland Trail west across more high meadows. Rainier migrated in and out of clouds, but patches of blue sky let the sun through periodically. The scale of everything felt magnified by a powerful sense of solitude: On one of the country’s most famous backpacking trails, I saw not another human.

But more than that, by that point I had no expectation of seeing anyone else; and once you’ve crossed that mental threshold, you see your world differently. Instead of chatting with a hiking partner or wondering how many backpackers will be sharing the next camp, you are keenly tuned in to every nearby movement or noise, every change in the play of light or shift in the air temperature and wind. It’s not fear so much as a hyper-awareness that we rarely find in everyday life, as if a third eye suddenly sprouted on the back of your head.

Even in the wilderness of many national parks, seeing absolutely no one for days—conjuring a sense of this country’s wild edge before Western settlement—is a rare experience. Most parks, Rainier included, are popular enough that backcountry permit numbers are restricted, both to prevent resource overuse and to preserve some sense of solitude. But that only regulates the numbers of backpackers, of course, not dayhikers. While the number of people you encounter generally corresponds to factors like proximity to major population centers (Rainier’s Nisqually entrance is 85 miles from Seattle) and a trail’s difficulty and distance from the nearest road, during the peak hiking season, you usually cannot walk very far without running into other people.

The Northern Loop of Mount Rainier National Park is a sort of miniature version of the Wonderland Trail, the 93-mile-long footpath encircling Rainier that draws backpackers from all over the planet. The Northern Loop delivers the same Wonderland-esque experience of hiking from temperature rainforest to sub-alpine meadows bursting with wildflowers—in fact, the loop overlaps with a stretch of the WT. But because it’s not nearly as well known, getting a permit for it does not involve the level of competition that you’ll face trying to plan a summer trip on the Wonderland.

By the time I pitched my tent at the Mystic backcountry camp on my second evening, I felt like I’d hit the trifecta. For two clear, crisp autumn days I had basked in complete solitude with jaw-unhinging views of The Mountain and its meadows.

Then the rain came.

  Plan your next great backpacking trip in Yosemite, Grand Teton, or other parks using my expert e-guides.

  Above the West Fork White River along the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

Throughout that second night, wind and water lashed at my shivering tent. In the morning, I ate breakfast inside my cool, damp little nylon shelter, packed up as quickly as I could as rain drummed onto me, and set out in conditions approximating a category one hurricane.

I’ve plodded down trails through biblical-scale rains from New Zealand to Vermont’s Long Trail. On the latter, I was attempting a thru-hike—also in an October several years before this Rainier trip, also solo (yes, I’m a patient learner)—but aborted it after two weeks and 10 inches of rain, heading home with waterlogged boots and spirits.

But I’m not sure I’ve ever seen rain like I saw that day on the north side of Rainier. The unrelenting downpour was punctuated by wind-borne sheets of water that hit me as if hurled from a barrel. Miserable as it was, though, it was hard to not feel awed. Following the Wonderland Trail around the shore of Mystic Lake, I watched the bizarre phenomenon of atmosphere impersonating ocean as visible waves of water rolled one after another through the air above the choppy lake surface. The rain fell torrentially and without pause; I could often see no more than one or two hundred feet before everything bled into a blank wall of battleship gray. Midday was as dim as dusk.

It became clear that I needed to get back to my car as quickly as possible that day—not just because the trip had ceased being fun, but for my own safety. I crossed a rain-slicked log bridge over a creek so bloated that its white teeth gnashed at the 10-inch-wide platform beneath my boots. Had I arrived there an hour later, the bridge might have been gone.

I hurried the miles to my car, anxious to be dry—but not fully aware of the urgency of escaping quickly.

  I can help you plan the best backpacking, hiking, or family adventure of your life. Find out more here.

  Berkeley Park along the Northern Loop.

That October 2003 tempest would become the second of four storms within just 12 years to cause 100-year or bigger floods in the Pacific Northwest, from Mount Rainier to the North Cascades and the Olympic Peninsula. Scientists now know that the warming climate is incubating larger, more destructive storms—in part simply because air can hold more moisture as it warms.

The third storm in that series, in November 2006, dropped nearly 18 inches of rain in 36 hours—the equivalent of getting 15 feet of snow. It triggered record floods in Mount Rainier National Park—destroying roads and trails, burying one backcountry campground beneath a massive lahar, or debris flow (no one was there at the time), washing away at least two dozen log bridges over creeks along the Wonderland Trail, and closing the park to motor vehicles for an unprecedented six months.

That 2006 storm would also swell the Carbon River sufficiently to erase a huge swath of the trail I was hiking on my last day on the Northern Loop, and the road I would drive out to civilization. (The trail was repaired; the road no longer exists.) It’s not hyperbolic to say that, had the 2003 storm begun a little earlier or stalled a little longer over the region, I might have ended up as the subject of the kind of brief accident report that parks issue now and then, which dryly explain that no trace of the missing person was ever found.

  Click here for The Big Outside Trip Planner: Backpacking Mount Rainier’s Northern Loop

Reading the trip planner requires a paid subscription. Not a subscriber yet? Click here now to subscribe and get full access to all stories at this blog for as little as five bucks for a month, or just pennies over $4/month for a full year.

  None of that transpired, of course. I made it safely to my car and drove out of the park, happy to be dry, warm, and safe. I told my wife what happened, but otherwise, almost no one knew how close I came to being a grim statistic.

Absolute solitude in the wilderness is a precious stone that should always be handled with care. It sometimes arrives gift-wrapped in circumstances magical and enlightening, or challenging far beyond what you expected—or both in the same trip.

And sometimes what transpires is mostly just a matter of timing and luck.

  Tell me what you think.

I spent a lot of time writing this story, so if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a share using one of the buttons below, and leave a comment or question at the bottom of this story. I’d really appreciate it.

  NOTE: I write more about Mount Rainier National Park’s climate-change story in my book, Before They’re Gone–A Family’s Year-Long Quest to Explore America’s Most Endangered National Parks, from Beacon Press. See also my story about a three-day family backpacking trip in the park, “Wildflowers, Waterfalls, and Slugs at Mount Rainier.”

  You live for the outdoors. The Big Outside helps you get out there. Subscribe now and a get free e-guide!

[starpunched]

and the sky opened up

written for a creative writing class. the prompt that this draws from was to dramatize an event in our lives involving a natural disaster or extreme weather. for lack of  experience with either of those things, i wrote about the platte river during an unusually wet summer.

To pull a four-wheeler out of its self-dug grave, you tie a chain between it and its brother. Start with the engine on low, and go straight backwards until something gives. If you’re lucky, you’ll only need to do this maybe once, twice a year, but that’s at least three rabbit’s feet worth of good fortune, and we’ve wasted ours on a respite from the rain.

The Platte River floods like it doesn’t want the attention, swelling big and full like a sore about to burst. We don’t get the cinematic side of things, the rolling waves and natural disasters and storms that soak down to bones. The wetlands absorb the overflow before it seeps too far south, drowning the bogs while the fields stay clean. Avoid the river, and you’ll hardly notice.

This year, we’re noticing.

Mom’s back inside checking weather channels, yelling out the screen door when predictions change. We’re all holding our breath for bad news; the rain is an old ex we don’t want to see, a vengeful bitch set on getting what’s hers. Grandpa says we don’t have long to wait. Two hours, maybe less, and then she’ll wash our four-wheeler out along with the rest of our crud. That is, unless we get there first.

My grandpa isn’t a righteous man. His faith is the utilitarian crudity of Christian boonies, of rednecks who curse at the sky when their truck loses a wheel. It’s something tactile, hard like a stone in his mouth. Checking the gas on our makeshift tow, he says how this year Nebraska’s God’s personal toilet, and the big man just won’t stop pissing. It’s funny, on the face of things. It’s the kind of crude humor you laugh at between class periods. The way my grandpa says it, though, he makes God pissing sound like biblical vengeance.

The Good Book is gospel down here, for real. They’re more aggressive about Jesus saving down South, but Grandma calls that pageantry at best; says that down South people only know God as cheap decoration. Window dressing for the soul. People here believe in God like they believe in death and taxes - unavoidable, insatiable absolutes. I’d bet money that somewhere out in these storms, a parishioner’s started building an ark.

Knee-deep in either mud or quicksand, Grandpa tells me that it’s a right shame for any kid my age to avoid things like this.

“All that energy,” he says, “all that energy in you kids and you don’t even want to tow a four-wheeler? The things people take for granted.”

He’s joking, if justified in wanting me to do more. My brother’s worked so hard he’d still be wet in dry sun, and my shoes are barely yet stained. I tell him I want to help, I promise. I tell him I’ll do whatever he needs me to. Truth is my heart’s not in it, as if that needs saying. There’s something about the mud this year, and I swear I’m not making this up, but it looks like it’s waiting for someone to drown.

The rain is an alchemist without the circles, I think. Dirt into mud, metal to rust, sometimes big magic that goes beyond drops of water. Sometimes she melts statues wholesale.

When I was a full foot shorter, the rain once dug a hole in the dirt we called a backyard. Deep and wide it was, filled with all the runoff that flowed east from the rest of the lot. Sizing it up from outside, my mom called it a puddle. It wasn’t that big, in retrospect, but I was small then like I am now, the travel size kind of a person. I jumped at it feet first, and the puddle swallowed me whole.

This mud isn’t so deceptive as that. No one would mistake this earthen molasses for a rainy-day pool, not if you gave them a blindfold and spun them backwards. My grandpa calls it a slurry; a pain in the ass that’s sinking his prized machines. It’s both him and my brother back there now, mud past their knees and them still striving to move this mountain. Me, I’m up front manning the tow, watching the clouds as they start closing in. Yeah, my shoes have stayed clean.

I did cross country this year. Most schools, they’d have to bus out to some farmer’s empty fields just for practice space, but not us. We sat in the green bowl of God, our campus an old brick building surrounded on by one long, circular hill. Like if someone turned a mountain inside out. I knew that hill better than my own mother; we all did. When it rained and our feet were pounding her back, her sides would run dark with watered-down soil. Gaia herself, weeping at our wasted effort.

See, we could have been doing something worthwhile. We could have been out sandbagging the roads, showing lost bikes to shelter – digging four-wheelers out of self-dug graves. You don’t realize how bad the rain is when it’s always flowing off into grates. We just didn’t think there was anything better to do than burn off the calories from prom night concessions. Vanity is a sin, Father, and I have much to confess.

To see nature full-force, what you do is you drive to a river – the real kind, the ones miles from cities and people, the ones carving the land as their own. Wait for rain. Wait for a flood. City kids from rich families don’t get that, not until they set out to change their minds.

Truth is, I’m selfish. I’m the villain in the bystander effect. Even knowing the score and the risks, I’m just wondering what could happen if we let things run their course. My grandpa, my brother, they’re up to their thighs in muck and past their limits, and the storm’s closing in soon. I’ve got the tow’s wheels spinning up chocolate but I’m going nowhere fast.  We need a miracle, or an extra push.

What happens is we get it out, but not by my intervention. I stay in my seat and eventually the four wheeler rises free of the dirt, like the resurrection of Christ on a small-town scale. The rain comes while we’re driving home; me behind my grandpa and thinking how it could have been worse. It ends just shy of us needing that ark.

[cooldavidkentposts]

The business case for sustainable buildings

2020 may well be remembered as a year of biblical proportions. From fires and floods through to pandemic and recession, modern communities have been challenged like never before, lurching helplessly from one emergency to the next. Sitting comfortably at the top of the leaderboard as the largest contributing country to global emissions per capita, Australians were forced to confront this uncomfortable truth as 46m acres of native bushland recently burned as the world looked on.

Complicit within this, the Australian building industry alone contributes 25% of national carbon emissions — and yet this issue remain unresolved and unaddressed in the recently released National Construction Code (May, 2019).

Without appropriate legislation in place, and in the absence of decisive leadership, it is now the social responsibility of architects, designers, builders and owners to put our own house in order. We can no longer ignore the devastating impact that Australia’s $360bn construction industry places on the world around us. Collectively, we must address the sustainable building crisis and shift our near-term thinking away from outdated philosophies, and direct intentions towards long-term solutions that work in harmony with the local conditions.

Holistic approach

Focusing beyond the simplicity of operational emissions and embracing a holistic building approach right from the ground up is key to achieving these goals. Sustainability, by very definition, is about planning for the future; for people and for place. Only when that framework is firmly established and supported by law can the industry seamlessly transition into an environmentally and financially sustainable future.

What is the actual role of a building, if not to better connect us to the land, to enhance our mutual living space and to improve on personal interactions?

Buildings are a natural extension of the world around us. They provide home, shelter, refuge and safety. They draw communities together and are an individual expression of our cultural heritage. Research has long demonstrated that environmentally friendly ‘green’ buildings not only deliver the financial benefit of reduced operating costs, they have a direct impact on the health and wellbeing of employees.

Consider 2m healthy life years gained annually in the EU by improving indoor air quality, an 18% more productive workforce from the provision of natural daylight and 25% better functioning staff simply by accessing a view. Enhanced air quality, green spaces and natural sunlight all combine to improve workplace attendance and wellbeing as well as quality of productivity.

From operational to embodied

Until now, the building industry has concentrated primarily on reducing operational emissions by way of ticking the ‘green’ box. These factor inclusions are now almost assumed and undisputed within new builds and major retrofits. But neglected up until this point — and where now requires focus — is the embodied energy calculation for the entire project: the cradle-to-grave environmental and social impact, from demolition and reconstruction, to geographical placement, product selection and function. Working in tandem, these factors all directly contribute to the true sustainability of a build.

With the balance now shifting from operational to embodied, it forces the industry to more closely examine the materials we commonly use, and asks of us as individuals to take responsibility for it at all stages of the process. Understanding the complete environmental impact and closing the resource loop is the crucial next stage in achieving sustainability. This is an area ripe for improvement, and while it is common practice amongst sustainability professionals, it is not yet an industry-wide approach. Even with multiple rating tools in place the process is far from simple, and it is not easily achieved.

Calculating the true embodied energy costs of any build can be a subject for debate in itself — and is riddled with contradiction. Concrete is a typical example. A massive contributor to carbon dioxide emissions because of the high proportion of cement it contains, it is also effective in retaining heat. Furthermore, it is widely and cheaply available. As for end of life, it will either be discarded in landfill or downcycled into roads — invalidating the invested energy and carbon.

Steel suffers a similar fate, as the recycling process is as energy-intensive as the initial production. Even timber mostly ends up in landfill, where the decomposition process negates the CO2 once absorbed in its natural state.

Embodied energy and carbon is where the legislation is desperately needed so that these essential considerations become the norm rather than the exception. Until we begin to embrace the circular economy, to see buildings as an extension of our natural world and take full responsibility for our creations, true sustainability — and therefore economic viability — will continue to evade us.

Corporate responsibility

For commercial businesses, environmental impact and associated risks are now a board-level consideration as shareholders demand transparency and board members are required to understand the level of responsibility they are taking on as a consequence of their roles.

Corporate annual reports are becoming increasingly more complex, and items such as climate change and societal impact are being included as standard alongside investments and operational costs. It’s imperative that the full business case for sustainability includes all three elements, from sustainable resource use and optimisation of operation to consideration of the wider ecosystem and community impact. Each tangent is inextricably linked to the other and all combine for a happy bottom line — which includes a happier environment.

So how do we tackle this?

Meaningful change is only possible if the right tools and framework are in place to facilitate it. Only by simplifying the current process and supporting it with appropriate legislation can the building industry collectively begin to address these issues.

Time-saving information tools such as BPI Rating must become commonplace, removing any barrier to knowledge and allowing professionals to research and select the most appropriate materials and resources. Removing industry-speak and transitioning the language into the common vernacular is another important step towards accessibility, as recently undertaken by Green Star. We have common goals and we must commonly communicate to reach them, aligning frameworks and driving methodologies. It’s the only way our legacy will take a different path.

We have the knowledge, we have the language, and now we have the tools to reconnect our buildings with the land and the people. Sustainability will always be a multi-faceted debate and whilst there is not a singular answer, significant change is entirely within our own hands: the business case writes itself.

*Jonas Bengtsson is CEO and co-Founder of Australian sustainability consultancy Edge Environment, and Founder of BPI Rating, an online database of building materials that aims to improve transparency of information, sustainability and resilience in the Australian built environment.

Image credit: ©stock.adobe.com/au/rh2010

source http://sustainabilitymatters.net.au/content/sustainability/article/the-business-case-for-sustainable-buildings-1025951787

from WordPress https://davidkent.home.blog/2020/07/29/the-business-case-for-sustainable-buildings/

[tobinifesi]

The Word I Needed To Know Right Now

How Tom Hanks called my attention to the word that emphasizes the essence of these crazy times

Words are capable of demystifying and filling blank spaces. 

If you walk into an empty hollow hallway in a forgotten and mysterious building in the middle of nowhere, your eyes will capture the nothingness that surrounds you and your brain will calculate the probability of something - someone or some creature - springing out from one of the hollow ends of the hallway. However, the moment you make a sound or utter a word, an echo fills the hallway, detaches you from your anxiety and reminds you that you are, in fact, safe; thus weakening the mystery of the empty space. 

Sometimes, our minds are filled with such empty spaces. When this happens, there are gaps in our thought, comprehension and interpretation of our reality. Things don’t add up. The details don’t make sense. It becomes increasingly difficult to control the narrative. We are thrust into a world of uncertainty and unknowns. So much might be said but none of it resonates with you. This goes on until you stumble on a word - somewhere and somehow - that bridges the gap and fills the blank spaces. 

Amidst the realities of the world today, I recently stumbled on a word. The word doesn’t necessarily solve the issue at hand but it gives me some much-needed perspective on the state of things as they are and have always been. Most importantly, it sets me on a path towards having a deeper understanding of the nature of our societies during pandemics like the COVID-19. 

Before January 2020, I had never heard the word ‘coronavirus’ despite my academic background in the sciences. I may be wrong but I do not believe that it has ever been a popular term amongst laymen and biology undergraduates. Keep in mind that the word ‘coronavirus’ isn’t the word I’m referring to in my last paragraph (or in this article’s title and subtitle) but I found it interesting when I heard it. It was a novel word to me and so, as I lay in my bed on the evening of January 23, I googled the word ‘coronavirus’. 

The first two Wikipedia pages I read agreed that the coronavirus wasn’t exactly a virus. It was actually “a group of related viruses that cause diseases in mammals and birds” and the novel coronavirus (now known as COVID-19) just happens to fall into that group. Suddenly, the news article I had been reading earlier that day about the Chinese government imposing a lockdown on Wuhan, the capital city of the Hubei province, began to make sense. The news made sense but the idea of locking down an entire city didn’t make much sense. I marvelled at the thought of a lockdown. At the time, I could barely imagine what that would look or feel like. 

It seemed crazy to me. 

I needed some clarity on the current situation meant for us in the long run. I wanted to know what the world might look like after almost half of its population are either advised or forced to stay within closed doors and away from each other. 

As of March 23, I had been on a province-wide lockdown in British Columbia for 12 consecutive days. By this time, the World Health Organization had labelled the novel coronavirus a pandemic. Even after 12 days of staying at home, I was still a little bit confused about what all of this meant - and how it could affect our societies. There was no news of a possible end date for the stay-at-home mandate. Later that week, an article written by The Atlantic’s Joe Pinsker suggested four possible timelines for the pandemic. His best-case scenario was one to two months and his worst-case scenario was 18 months. Neither of the two timelines made sense to me. I needed some clarity on the current situation meant for us in the long run. I wanted to know what the world might look like after almost half of its population are either advised or forced to stay within closed doors and away from each other. 

The 13th chapter of the biblical book of Leviticus describes the mosaic law regarding skin diseases - specifically, leprosy. The law is quite straightforward: once an individual has been diagnosed with a skin disease, “the priest is to isolate the affected person for seven days.” (Leviticus 13:4 NIV). With the proclamation of the mosaic law, isolation became the ideal response for dealing with skin (and many other forms of) diseases in those times. By the time Jesus Christ arrived on earth, isolation was still the norm. In Luke’s version of the gospel, as Jesus “was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” (Luke 17:12-13 NIV). Notice the verse suggests the lepers stood at a distance. They did so because they knew they ought not to come in close contact with others. Hence, isolation. 

By the 14th century, isolation was still a thing. At the time, the bubonic plague was ravaging cities and communities across Europe and Asia. Measures had to be taken to curb the continued spread of the infection. One notable measure was taken by the port authorities at Ragusa (now known as Dubrovnik in Croatia.) The officials established a trentino that ordered the isolation of ships arriving at the port for a 30 day period. Within the next century, other European communities - like Venice, Genoa and Marseilles - began to introduce similar laws. During this time, the 30 day period was increased to 40 days. In other words, the trentino became a quarantino. 

Quarantino (or Quarantine) is derived from the Italian word for 40, quaranta. Many historians have suggested that the introduction of the 40 day isolation period was inspired by the biblical or Christian references to and significance of a 40-day period. The observance of Lent, the great flood in the days of Noah, Moses’ stay on Mount Sinai, Jesus Christ’s fasting period in the Judean deserts and the period between his resurrection and ascension have one thing in common - they all happened in 40 days. Just as many historians believe there is a correlation here, many others dispute it. 

Nevertheless, the term ‘quarantine’ was born from the terms ‘quarantino’ and ‘quaranta’ in the 14th century. Since then, many quarantine laws have been passed in several countries around the world and the outbreak of any major diseases always calls for such laws to be invoked. Quarantine laws were invoked in the 18th century when the yellow fever epidemic hit Philadelphia, in the 19th century when cholera epidemic arrived in Canada’s Quebec City, in 2003 during the SARS pandemic as 30,000 Torontonians were quarantined (although in Canada, the law was actually introduced in 2005, its stipulations were observed in 2003), in 2014 when the Liberian government ordered the isolation of a local neighbourhood called West Point during the Ebola outbreak, on January 23, 2020, in Wuhan, and on March 25, 2020, when Canada’s Minister of Health, Patty Hadju, ordered all travellers entering the country to be isolated for 14 days. 

Despite being such a significant term over the last seven centuries, the word ‘quarantine’ and its fascinating history don’t shed much light on the essence of the times we are in. One thing is for sure: history is being written as we speak. Generations will speak of the plague that caused at least half of the world to stay indoors. The stories that are being lived out right now will inspire the creation of books, artworks, movies, documentaries and music that will ensure these moments aren’t easily forgotten. Yet, you can’t help but wonder what the world will look like then. 

Like most people, when I heard about the coronavirus in January, I didn’t think much of it. I knew it was a tragedy in Wuhan but I didn’t think it would become a global tragedy - one that would have large-scale disastrous impacts on global healthcare systems, economies, infrastructures and laws. On March 1, I was on a phone call with my friend - Solace - and we agreed that a pandemic was coming. 10 days later, Dr. Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, the Director-General of the World Health Organization, charactered the COVID-19 outbreak as a pandemic. Later that day, an NBA player - Rudy Gobert - tested positive for the disease and as a response, the NBA 2019-2020 season was suspended. The next day, Tom Hanks, his wife and Sophie Trudeau (the wife of Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau) all tested positive for the disease. 

That day - March 12, 2020 - was the first day I heard the term ‘flatten the curve’. I heard it while listening to a live broadcast of British Columbia’s Provincial Health Officer, Dr. Bonnie Henry’s daily coronavirus update. She had urged British Columbians to avoid large gatherings so we could ‘flatten the curve.’ Another novel term that didn’t make much sense to me and although I now understand the message behind the term, it does little to help me understand the depth or importance of the situation we are in. It wasn’t until four days later that I found the word I had been looking for. 

Four days after announcing he had tested positive for COVID-19, Tom Hanks shared an Instagram post. In the post, the Cast Away actor attempted to encourage his 8.7 million followers by sharing a picture of some toasted bread slices covered with spreads of vegemite, accompanied by a caption that read:

“Thanks to the Helpers. Let’s take care of ourselves and each other. Hanx”

There it was. The word I needed to know. 

In Hank’s caption was one word that put the puzzle together for me. The caption references a famous quote from one of the longest-running children’s television shows, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. On the show, the host - Fred Rogers - is quoted as saying,

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Decades later, this quote - specifically the line, “Look for the helpers.” - continues to be repeated and referenced during times of discomfort or shared crises.

Tom Hanks must have been acknowledging the helpers when he gave a nod to Rogers’ quote in his caption. By including the word ‘helpers’ in that caption, he was calling attention to the individuals around the world who have been and continue to risk their lives or provide essential services or assist the elderly or make key and life-saving decisions or share messages of hope and comfort or obey the law and stay at home to help curb the rapid spread of the diseases he had just tested positive for. 

The word ‘helpers’ is the word I was looking for. 

I am a Christian. I believe my help from God and the ultimate helper - the Holy Spirit - lives within me and gives me more peace than I can actually fathom. According to my belief, the Spirit of God in me counsels and comforts me - and for that, I am grateful. However, just as I believe there is a helper within me, I believe that there are even more helpers around me. Some are within my reach and others are far from it but, as Rogers said, I must look for them and acknowledge them. 

As you read this, there are healthcare professionals around the world who are risking their lives to care for and treat patients who have been infected with COVID-19. The majority of these professionals are working without adequate resources, information, time or physical and mental energy. They are being stressed and stretched by the influx of patients storming into their workplaces. Many retired professionals have come out of retirement and the elderly amongst them - who are highly susceptible to being infected - are knowingly putting themselves in danger. These are the helpers. 

There are community and world leaders who have been forced to make key decisions despite the fact that they can’t guarantee the outcomes. Presidents, prime ministers, premiers, governors, government officials, religious leaders, activists and heads of organizations and families who, despite being personally affected by the pandemic, must still lead and speak to and for their communities. They must listen carefully to experts, make the right calls, invoke the necessary laws, enforce orders, inspire hope in a seemingly hopeless situation, mourn the loss and sufferings of their community members and continue to do this regardless of how long the pandemic lasts. These are the helpers. 

There are employers and employees who should be at home. If they had their way, they would be with their families indoors all day and far away from scenarios that could get them infected with these diseases. However, our communities need their services. As such, they risk their lives by continuing to work at the grocery stores, deliver food and essential items to our homes, protect our communities by maintaining law and order, work in call centres for healthcare and emergency services, be first responders to emergency situations, work as caregivers for children, the elderly and individuals with disabilities, serve in organizations that support vulnerable populations, immigrants and refugees, manufacture goods and provide services necessary to keep our infrastructure and industries in good condition, and document and share information through media outlets. These (and many other essential occupations not referenced here) are the helpers. 

Yet, there you are. 

You are baffled by this crisis. It has affected your daily routine, income, wellbeing, peace of mind, plans for the future, family and fellow community members. You are not sure what the future holds for your family, career or immediate plans or what to do while you’re home or how you will fend for yourself after being laid off or what will happen if you get infected. Despite this, you listen to healthcare experts, obey the laws invoked by your government, stay at home as much as possible, practice physical distancing if you must go out, encourage people in your communities by sharing messages of hope and refocusing their attention on information that edifies them, work or live in uncomfortable conditions for long periods of time, donate to or volunteer with organizations supporting vulnerable populations, check in on family members, friends, and those in isolation, pray and virtually support those who are anxious, ill, mourning the loss of loved ones or in need, and maintain your sanity in these crazy times. You are the helper. 

No words can describe how much the world is hurting right now but I realize that I don’t need such adjectives. I need a noun that defines who we are, have always been and will be after the pandemic subsides. We are helpers and this is a call to the helpers. Humanity can’t survive without human beings and human beings can’t survive without help. The good news is that, in many ways, we are the help we need. Each and every human being is the helper we need right now. Humanity needs us to do our part. More than ever before, it needs us to unite and stay united. This is the essence of the times we are in - to remind us that we need each other. 

If you walk into an empty hollow hallway in a forgotten and mysterious building in the middle of nowhere, your eyes will capture the nothingness that surrounds you and your brain will calculate the probability of something - someone or some creature - springing out from one of the hollow ends of the hallway. However, the moment you make a sound or utter a word, an echo fills the hallway, detaches you from your anxiety and reminds you that you are, in fact, safe; thus weakening the mystery of the empty space. 

By acknowledging the word that defines us, we can weaken and demystify the mystery of this pandemic. The echoes of our daily, and sometimes seemingly small, decisions and actions can fill the void and remind us that we are not alone. We are safe because we are helpers and are surrounded by helpers.

I believe that my help comes from God and a helper lives in me. Yet, it is equally important for me to acknowledge and call on the helper that I am and the helpers that are around me. 

Helpers, help!

[how2to18]

FOR A WRITER, reading Karl Ove Knausgaard is a master class in creating reader-writer intimacy, as devotees of his six-volume, 3,500-page autobiographical novel, My Struggle (2009–2011), well know. Even when he writes in a formal mode, as in the novel A Time for Everything (2004), which investigates the existence of angels through the retelling of biblical stories in a Norwegian landscape, we are thrust into the primordial psyche, as if standing in a circle around a communal fire and passing a live, beating, bloody heart.

In contrast, Knausgaard keeps the reader at a friendly distance in his Season quartet’s first two collections of essays, Autumn and Winter (2015–2016/2018), which are both presented as “Letters to an Unborn Daughter,” for whom he philosophically muses on topics of home and the world. In Spring, the third, he does something entirely different; he narrates a single day of life with that daughter, now three months old, during which they drive to the hospital where the mother of his four children is being treated for bipolar depression. The book is a bare-knuckles psychological thriller, sprung from the flashback of his interview with Child Protective Services. The fourth volume, Summer, is less propelling — a combination of musing on his quintessential subjects and diary entries. Midway through the book’s June diary, Knausgaard writes about having once considered crafting a religion-themed thriller under a pseudonym, giving me reason to anticipate some genre fun after the great tease of Spring.

The quartet’s parts, which are fragmentary and epistolary, do not have the stand-alone world-building weight of, say, the individual volumes of Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet; Summer, in particular, is uneven and uncategorizable. Ingvild Burkey, who so capably and poetically translated Autumn, Winter, and Spring, has returned to finish the series; Scandinavian artists Vanessa Baird, Lars Lerin, and Anna Bjerger, respectively, illustrated the first three books, while German painter Anselm Kiefer provided Summer’s art. Each month is organized by topics — Lawn Sprinklers, Fainting, Ground Wasps, and the recurring subject The Bat (one of my favorites) — with June’s and July’s lists followed by diary entries. The diaries comprise his day-to-day activities, such as going to the doctor for a checkup on his bloody stool (a cliff-hanger from Spring) only to find himself on the table studying his own nakedness, embarrassed by what he considers to be a disappointing penis size. As always, he is unflinching in self-examination.

Surprisingly, in these diaries the first-person narrative is taken over by the voice of a 73-year-old Norwegian woman remembering her affair with an Austrian soldier during World War II. Based on an actual woman his grandfather knew, her narrative is underwhelming, and not nearly as interesting or courageous in its revelations as Knausgaard himself. Taking on a female perspective is refreshing, but he fails to give this character equal gravitas. He also rather disappointingly leaves out an ending diary for August, though his final chapter “Ladybirds” brings a sufficient conclusion by considering the Anthropocene — when every part of the globe seems to either be freezing, flooding, or frying at any given time — and thus suggesting the inevitable world’s end.

Despite his despondency, Knausgaard is, finally, an optimist; his way of seeing in the quartet most often leans toward description of nature’s inexhaustible beauty, such as this rhapsody in praise of birches:

[H]ow in winter they lost their volume entirely, like dogs or cats with shaggy fur who seem to shrink when they get wet; how their thin twigs were covered with pale green buds in spring, which no matter how old the trees were — and some of them must have been my grandparents’ age — made them look young and bashful; how their small sequin-shaped leaves hung in dense garlands in summer, so that their foliage resembled gowns; and how in the early-autumn storms they could look like ships with sails stretched taut by the wind, or swans beating their wings as they rose from the water.

Beauty abounds. Here, on the subject of Summer Night and disappointment in love, Knausgaard gently sets the scene at a hotel with a woman he loved:

We didn’t say anything, we didn’t need to say anything, I thought, it would just spoil it, for the silence was like a vault above the landscape. From here we could see the moon suspended high above the forest, perfectly round. With no competition from mountains or cities it owned the sky. Though the water around us was still and smooth, it seemed to well up, I thought. Now and again a faint splash sounded, from fish feeding near the surface. Isn’t it beautiful, I said. Yes, she said. It’s very beautiful. And soon it will start to get light, I said. Yes, she said. Neither of us knew then that it would be the last night we spent together, but over the next two days everything that had lain unspoken between us came out, and we found no other way to handle it than to break up. It still hurts to think about it, that we were together that night, which is the most beautiful night I have experienced, and that we can’t have shared any of it, as I thought we did. The “we” I had felt so strongly held only me.

In a February 13, 2018, BBC News interview, Knausgaard insists that he’s the opposite of the narcissistic brooder some readers assume he is: “I am a very positive and optimistic person,” he says. Despite all that is happening politically in this world, “there are more good people than bad people […] more clever people than stupid people.” He proclaims his happiness, asserts that writing brings life to him. When asked what purpose or message this quartet may hold for his daughter, he answers, “Life can be and will be incredibly hard, but it is always worth living.”

This may come as a surprise to his steady readers, and to those who feel the world is falling apart. For the past six years, one of my oldest, closest friends has been answering calls at a suicide hotline from staggering numbers of those who increasingly believe the opposite about life. My nephew’s bar mitzvah fell only a few days after the Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain suicides, and his group of seven finished their respective presentations with the stats on American suicides and those hospitalized for attempts. The audience gasped.

This also might be the kind of moment we have come to expect from Knausgaard — from Norwegian writers, in general. Hanne Ørstavik’s 1997 novella, Love, which was published this year in English with a translation by Martin Aitken (co-translator of Knausgaard’s My Struggle: Book Six), follows a young mother and her 10-year-old son as they wander separately at night through a carnival in the town to which they have just moved without knowing that the other is also out alone in the snow. The pacing of their inner turmoil, loneliness, and psychological dread never lets up — it’s a relentlessness reminiscent of Norwegian filmmaker Joachim Trier’s Thelma (2017) and Oslo, August 31st (2011), as well as an endless succession of these countries’ desolate works. We assume Scandinavian artists favor bleak inner landscapes, and they appear especially adept at portraying the kind of despair so many feel, all over this globe.

In Knausgaard’s Spring, he flashes back to a singular happy trip to a festival in Sydney with his (now ex-)wife during which they discuss the particular relevance of Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage to their own relationship. Teased with this comparison, I wanted to read Knausgaard’s specific Scenes, rather than the beautifully protective interstitials and enclosed miniatures (I assume to shield his daughter) that are meant to foil what the reality of living with mental illness has otherwise been for them. I wanted to shake each scene like a snow globe for more fascinating possibilities, even if his periodic restraint throughout Spring serves the tension between darkness and the romance of living.

Whenever he opens wide in the dark, where things are seriously falling apart, he always returns, like a mindfulness teacher, to the idea that if he is still and notices what is around him — nature, objects, sound, or even just the room he sits in — he can find infinite and inspiring awe. I have found myself painting leaves in frost, seaweed, and pebbles on asphalt, then wondering would they be my subjects had I not read him. He brings it all alive in his prose, makes it shimmer. Whether intellectually parsing for meaning or playing this existential video game of political turmoil, horror, and heartache, his writing flows easily from quiet, thoughtful engagement to ecstatic communion with the world.

Early in the Summer diary entries, Knausgaard is reading the Swedish scientist-cum-mystic Emanuel Swedenborg to try and understand how his transformation occurred and observes,

The shift from the outer to the inner world is so abrupt, and the inner world so chaotic and heavy with meaning that at first it is nearly impossible to orient oneself in.

What is happening with him?

When I was reading his journal earlier this evening it struck me that my inner being, the person I am to myself, has changed in recent years, and how often I get the feeling that I am no one, that I am merely a place which thoughts and feelings pass through.

These thoughts and memories no longer belong to him, he concludes, because others have now read them — he has given them away. He decides that ultimately there is freedom in that, since the writing process becomes a self-less state:

When the person writing about him or herself has moved out of the self, thus incorporating an external gaze, a strange kind of objectivity arises, something which at one and the same time belongs to the inner and the outer, and this objectivity makes it possible to move around in one’s own self as if it belonged to another, and then we have come full circle, for that movement requires empathy.

Over lunch in a beautiful cabin overlooking the woods, a good friend, also a writer, blurted out, “I have a great relationship with my mind!” As this seemed to come out of nowhere, I burst into laughter. It felt impossible; I experience constant subconscious chatter within mine. I wondered if having a great relationship with one’s mind is a necessary ingredient in constructing a solid self-narrative, as well as in achieving a hint of serenity. Knausgaard’s deeply personal, bracing internal explorations surely suggest that it is. He may be done with this quartet, the My Struggle series, and autofiction altogether, but I still want more of it. That kind of passionate literary intimacy is rare. And wanting more and even more — isn’t that just like being in love?

¤

Lisa Teasley is the author of the acclaimed novels Heat Signature and Dive, and the award-winning story collection, Glow in the Dark. She is senior fiction editor at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

The post Ecstatic Communion: Karl Ove Knausgaard’s Seasons Quartet Conclusion, “Summer” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2Mp3fST via IFTTT

[newstfionline]

As Houston Looks to Recover, Small Towns Now Bear the Brunt

By Campbell Robertson, Rick Rojas and Shaila Dewan, NY Times, Aug. 30, 2017

NEWTON, Tex.--For the streets of Newton, a small town on the Texas side of the Louisiana state line, to become impassable, “the flood would have to be biblical,” Kristen Rogers was told when she peeked into the sheriff’s office looking for guidance.

“That’s what they said about Houston,” replied Ms. Rogers, who was looking for a dry way out of rural Texas on her way to Florida.

But as Houston, the urban behemoth that has so far been the focal point in the unfolding drama of Hurricane Harvey, began gingerly to assess the devastation, the storm marched on to conquer a vast new swath speckled with small towns that are home to millions of people who were shocked anew by Harvey’s tenaciously destructive power. Officials faced a population in dire need, but far more difficult to reach.

Flooding and rain, topping 47 inches in some areas, pounded 50 counties in southeast and lower central Texas with a combined population of roughly 11 million people. The area includes more than 300 towns and smaller cities that felt the storm’s punishing force, even as Harvey was downgraded to a tropical depression on Wednesday.

The Federal Emergency Management Agency began to send out heavy-lift military helicopters carrying tons of food and drinking water, delivering it to people who could not evacuate.

Gov. Greg Abbott of Texas said officials were “immediately deploying far more” members of the National Guard to southeast Texas, increasing the total Guard deployment to 24,000, including 10,000 troops from other states.

In contrast to Houston, where the weather began to clear and a few children even returned to playgrounds, many people in these remote areas are still in desperate need of rescue. “There are a lot of places that are not accessible by car or truck or boat, and we need to get to the survivors to get them critical aid,” said Deanna Fraser, a FEMA spokeswoman.

Pleas for help poured out of the Beaumont-Port Arthur area, roughly 100 miles east of Houston. “We are just as devastated as the Houston area,” said Capt. Crystal Holmes of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, which includes Port Arthur, a coastal city of about 55,000.

When officials there were caught off guard by the scale of the floods, and one emergency shelter started flooding, a MaxBowl bowling alley was transformed into a haven for about 500 people, the owner said.

For every rescue accomplished, Captain Holmes said, there seemed to be more people who needed help: “We have so many citizens that are trapped inside their homes.”

“Eventually we will” get to them, she said, “but we just don’t know if we’re going to be able to get to them in time.”

The police in Beaumont, near Port Arthur, said they had received more than 700 calls for rescue, and other departments were overwhelmed with calls for help. The number of deaths attributed to the storm climbed to at least 38.

“The geographic scope of this event is probably what is going to make it one of the most costly flood disasters in U.S. history,” said Samuel Brody, the director of the Center for Texas Beaches and Shores at Texas A&M University’s Galveston campus. “I’ve seen heavy rain, I’ve seen 30, 40 inches, but not over such a large geographic area, impacting rich, poor, black, white, you name it.”

Pastureland and swampland, cane fields and forests alike began to look like a mud-clouded, Texas version of ark country.

And still, as of Wednesday afternoon, the rain poured down.

Michael LeBouef, a retired surgical assistant who lives in Port Arthur, said air boats, fishing boats and helicopters, operating out of the Walmart parking lot, were running rescue missions.

“The town looks like a lake, it really does,” he said. “It’s like the whole town got dropped into Lake Sabine.”

Even before it hit Houston, Harvey had already deluged a band of smaller cities. “What about the rest of us?” a man named Sam Stone posted on Facebook on behalf of the lower Texas coast towns Aransas Pass, Port Aransas, Ingleside and Rockport, which took the storm head on. “No jobs to go back to, no money, no transportation. All they do is sit and worry about what happens next.”

Rural residents insisted that they were used to being far from outside help and that self-reliance and an ethos of neighbors helping neighbors came with the territory.

The cafe in Moss Hill, for instance, sent pancakes and bacon over to the church on Wednesday morning, and some raided food from their own pantries, and even pillows off their beds, to donate.

In Bon Wier, Tex., people gathered at the Citgo, arriving by boat, truck or even dump truck, and helped others to a shelter in nearby Newton, where volunteers cheerfully divided up donated Clif bars and Fritos.

The shelter had been organized through Facebook and text messages, primarily by a woman who works in a furniture store. One family with a catering business was making a huge bin of pasta. “In an hour we really need to start thinking about showers,” said John Puz, another volunteer.

There, Ambika Seastrunk, a 38-year-old mother of five, waxed philosophical about the previous time she lost her home. It was last year.

But she got a new home, a double-wide trailer, that sits right by the Sabine River. It was a beautiful home. Is--or was. She couldn’t say.

[j0sgomez-blog]

By Michael Lanza

“There’s absolutely no one out here.”

I was just a few hours into a solo backpacking trip around Mount Rainier National Park’s 32.8-mile Northern Loop when that realization hit me. It was a cool, clear day in October 2003. None of my usual hiking partners had been available to join me. So I decided to do the trip alone, something I’ve done more times than I could count and felt comfortable with. I had no idea that this time I’d face the kind of situation that solo hikers think about but can never anticipate: a threat that shrinks the margin of safety in the wilderness down to nothing.

When I picked up my backcountry permit that morning, a ranger told me a snowstorm had hit the park just two days earlier. “You’ll probably run into at least a foot of snow on the ground at higher elevations,” he said. That didn’t dissuade me; I was prepared for snow. Neither of us, however, knew about the much bigger storm brewing out over the Pacific Ocean as we spoke, collecting moisture as it barreled toward the Cascade Range.

Mountain goats on Yellowstone Cliffs, along the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

That conversation came back to me as I walked past the rippling water of a tiny tarn in a meadow on my way to Windy Gap. Just a few tiny patches of white remained on the ground at 5,600 feet. Sun and mild temperatures had evaporated the recent snow. But apparently no one had been out there since the storm, because even the rangers had no idea what trail conditions were like.

That’s when it hit me: With backcountry rangers warning anyone considering a trip that they would encounter deep snow, I would probably not see another person out there.

Autumn can be the finest time to head into the backcountry. The foliage changes color, brightening the landscape. There are no bugs. The weather often achieves something close to meteorological perfection: skies clear and dry, affording hundred-mile views, and temperatures not too hot during the day, not too cold at night. I’ve enjoyed some of my best days in the mountains in the fall.

But autumn exhibits a bipolar personality. And in October, you are as close to the mountain winter as you are to its summer. In some respects, it is more dangerous than winter because in fall it’s easy to get lulled into trusting the weather. But really good can turn really bad, really fast.

Looking back, I think that most if not all of my hardest, most wretched experiences in the backcountry have occurred between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. On Mt. Rainier National Park’s Northern Loop, I was about to add another to my list.

  Hi, I’m Michael Lanza, creator of The Big Outside, which has made several top outdoors blog lists. Click here to sign up for my FREE email newsletter. Subscribe now to get full access to all of my blog’s stories. Click here to learn how I can help you plan your next trip. Please follow my adventures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube.

  Approaching Windy Gap on the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

That first afternoon, I watched two mountain goats step nimbly across the crumbling face of Yellowstone Cliffs. Then, perhaps inspired by them, I scrambled off-trail from the little, unnamed tarn just before Windy Gap up a talus slope to the saddle between Crescent Mountain and Sluiskin Mountain. There, under a mostly clear sky, forested hills sculpted by ancient volcanic activity undulated away from me to the always improbably enormous, white mass of Mount Rainier (see lead photo at top of story).

Three of the biggest glaciers on “The Mountain,” as western Washingtonians affectionately call Rainier, pour off the northerly aspects I saw from that overlook: the Emmons, Winthrop, and Carbon. On my third day out there, I would walk past the toe of the Carbon, the lowest river of ice in the contiguous United States.

That night, I found myself cocooned in extremes of quiet and darkness, camped below giant firs, pines, and cedars. I could hear only the wind’s occasional perambulations through the treetops, and sank into a sleep as deep as the surrounding silence and blackness.

  Click here for The Big Outside Trip Planner: Backpacking Mount Rainier’s Northern Loop

Reading the trip planner requires a paid subscription. Not a subscriber yet? Click here now to subscribe and get full access to all stories at this blog for as little as five bucks for a month, or just pennies over $4/month for a full year.

  Lake James along the Northern Loop.

My second morning brought partly cloudy skies—nothing to suggest what was headed my way. I packed up early and headed downhill through cool forest, crossed the silt-gray West Fork of the White River on a log footbridge, then made a 2,500-foot climb up onto a plateau. The meadows of Grand Park sprawled out more than a mile across. A little while later, I reached the cirque of Berkeley Park, where dense copses of conifers mingle with fields of grasses and wildflowers. Though it was long past wildflower season, Berkeley’s rich hues of green give the impression of a meticulously landscaped park.

By afternoon, I was following the Wonderland Trail west across more high meadows. Rainier migrated in and out of clouds, but patches of blue sky let the sun through periodically. The scale of everything felt magnified by a powerful sense of solitude: On one of the country’s most famous backpacking trails, I saw not another human.

But more than that, by that point I had no expectation of seeing anyone else; and once you’ve crossed that mental threshold, you see your world differently. Instead of chatting with a hiking partner or wondering how many backpackers will be sharing the next camp, you are keenly tuned in to every nearby movement or noise, every change in the play of light or shift in the air temperature and wind. It’s not fear so much as a hyper-awareness that we rarely find in everyday life, as if a third eye suddenly sprouted on the back of your head.

Even in the wilderness of many national parks, seeing absolutely no one for days—conjuring a sense of this country’s wild edge before Western settlement—is a rare experience. Most parks, Rainier included, are popular enough that backcountry permit numbers are restricted, both to prevent resource overuse and to preserve some sense of solitude. But that only regulates the numbers of backpackers, of course, not dayhikers. While the number of people you encounter generally corresponds to factors like proximity to major population centers (Rainier’s Nisqually entrance is 85 miles from Seattle) and a trail’s difficulty and distance from the nearest road, during the peak hiking season, you usually cannot walk very far without running into other people.

The Northern Loop of Mount Rainier National Park is a sort of miniature version of the Wonderland Trail, the 93-mile-long footpath encircling Rainier that draws backpackers from all over the planet. The Northern Loop delivers the same Wonderland-esque experience of hiking from temperature rainforest to sub-alpine meadows bursting with wildflowers—in fact, the loop overlaps with a stretch of the WT. But because it’s not nearly as well known, getting a permit for it does not involve the level of competition that you’ll face trying to plan a summer trip on the Wonderland.

By the time I pitched my tent at the Mystic backcountry camp on my second evening, I felt like I’d hit the trifecta. For two clear, crisp autumn days I had basked in complete solitude with jaw-unhinging views of The Mountain and its meadows.

Then the rain came.

  Plan your next great backpacking trip in Yosemite, Grand Teton, or other parks using my expert e-guides.

  Above the West Fork White River along the Northern Loop in Mount Rainier National Park.

Throughout that second night, wind and water lashed at my shivering tent. In the morning, I ate breakfast inside my cool, damp little nylon shelter, packed up as quickly as I could as rain drummed onto me, and set out in conditions approximating a category one hurricane.

I’ve plodded down trails through biblical-scale rains from New Zealand to Vermont’s Long Trail. On the latter, I was attempting a thru-hike—also in an October several years before this Rainier trip, also solo (yes, I’m a patient learner)—but aborted it after two weeks and 10 inches of rain, heading home with waterlogged boots and spirits.

But I’m not sure I’ve ever seen rain like I saw that day on the north side of Rainier. The unrelenting downpour was punctuated by wind-borne sheets of water that hit me as if hurled from a barrel. Miserable as it was, though, it was hard to not feel awed. Following the Wonderland Trail around the shore of Mystic Lake, I watched the bizarre phenomenon of atmosphere impersonating ocean as visible waves of water rolled one after another through the air above the choppy lake surface. The rain fell torrentially and without pause; I could often see no more than one or two hundred feet before everything bled into a blank wall of battleship gray. Midday was as dim as dusk.

It became clear that I needed to get back to my car as quickly as possible that day—not just because the trip had ceased being fun, but for my own safety. I crossed a rain-slicked log bridge over a creek so bloated that its white teeth gnashed at the 10-inch-wide platform beneath my boots. Had I arrived there an hour later, the bridge might have been gone.

I hurried the miles to my car, anxious to be dry—but not fully aware of the urgency of escaping quickly.

  I can help you plan the best backpacking, hiking, or family adventure of your life. Find out more here.

  Berkeley Park along the Northern Loop.

That October 2003 tempest would become the second of four storms within just 12 years to cause 100-year or bigger floods in the Pacific Northwest, from Mount Rainier to the North Cascades and the Olympic Peninsula. Scientists now know that the warming climate is incubating larger, more destructive storms—in part simply because air can hold more moisture as it warms.

The third storm in that series, in November 2006, dropped nearly 18 inches of rain in 36 hours—the equivalent of getting 15 feet of snow. It triggered record floods in Mount Rainier National Park—destroying roads and trails, burying one backcountry campground beneath a massive lahar, or debris flow (no one was there at the time), washing away at least two dozen log bridges over creeks along the Wonderland Trail, and closing the park to motor vehicles for an unprecedented six months.

That 2006 storm would also swell the Carbon River sufficiently to erase a huge swath of the trail I was hiking on my last day on the Northern Loop, and the road I would drive out to civilization. (The trail was repaired; the road no longer exists.) It’s not hyperbolic to say that, had the 2003 storm begun a little earlier or stalled a little longer over the region, I might have ended up as the subject of the kind of brief accident report that parks issue now and then, which dryly explain that no trace of the missing person was ever found.

  Click here for The Big Outside Trip Planner: Backpacking Mount Rainier’s Northern Loop

Reading the trip planner requires a paid subscription. Not a subscriber yet? Click here now to subscribe and get full access to all stories at this blog for as little as five bucks for a month, or just pennies over $4/month for a full year.

  None of that transpired, of course. I made it safely to my car and drove out of the park, happy to be dry, warm, and safe. I told my wife what happened, but otherwise, almost no one knew how close I came to being a grim statistic.

Absolute solitude in the wilderness is a precious stone that should always be handled with care. It sometimes arrives gift-wrapped in circumstances magical and enlightening, or challenging far beyond what you expected—or both in the same trip.

And sometimes what transpires is mostly just a matter of timing and luck.

  Tell me what you think.

I spent a lot of time writing this story, so if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a share using one of the buttons below, and leave a comment or question at the bottom of this story. I’d really appreciate it.

  NOTE: I write more about Mount Rainier National Park’s climate-change story in my book, Before They’re Gone–A Family’s Year-Long Quest to Explore America’s Most Endangered National Parks, from Beacon Press. See also my story about a three-day family backpacking trip in the park, “Wildflowers, Waterfalls, and Slugs at Mount Rainier.”

  You live for the outdoors. The Big Outside helps you get out there. Subscribe now and a get free e-guide!