/ Survival / Climate /
Climate change, civilization spawned, lubricated by civilized denial: majorities routinely propping up delusions experience has long exposed the kinks in.
Another problem germinates when the public naively assumes it can understand what “global” means: to some extent everyone of us still believes that we are the center of the universe: if I feel hot this year, everyone must feel hot …
Florida: the sunshine state: just words till Hilary and I squeezed a second honeymoon into a work week. We drove south from NYC, got as far as St. Augustine, had to race back north; but the quality of the sunlight there gladdened our hearts. Few can imagine the equator from New York or New England: this New Yorker had failed to guess the effect of more-direct sunlight on mood, spirit, well-being … how beaches, palm trees, buildings looked in semi-tropical light. Suddenly: Spanish architecture made sense to me!
When I next visited Florida in the early 1980s, the light was the same, the time of year was similar. I never saw it rain, never missed it, never thought of it, till occasion brought me back to Florida in full spring. There were puddles on the ground. I was astonished: it was wet, but the sun was even brighter. Brilliant, my whole being was filled with such joy.
Well, now it’s 2013: and all I’ve seen for months, mid-summer till now, the end of September, is socked in gray: a chill in the air: hardly different from New York, New England, where it can rain for days, for weeks, and the sun never warm things.
edit line, I’m merging stuff
I’ve loved Florida’s silver rain since I first encountered it in the mid-1980s. I want to talk about how that rain has changed in my experience: the more so recently, currently. Below I’ll read in
What I said about Florida’s Silver Rain @ IonaArc 2005 03 17
Typically I’d left Florida well before the rains commenced. Winters are dry; it’s the summer that’s wet. Till one year some business brought me back in late spring, almost summer. I was camped near Fort Lauderdale, on the edge of the Everglades: all oolite, Australian pines, sabal palms, some saw palmetto … (Oolite is a rubble of shell fossils.) I bopped to the coast to sell some of these really cheesy airbrush diptychs, fuel me to write another chapter of the novel, returned to my pop up, and saw … I didn’t quite know what to make of it: puddles. Water? Water on the oolite? The sun was shinning brightly. If you haven’t been this far south, you don’t know what sunlight can look like, or how it can display Spanish, or merely stuccoed, architecture. Suddenly the air was filled with silver. The puddles rippled with new water. Then, just as suddenly, the new rain was over. And the sun had never been obscured. Florida sunlight through rain drops. Wow.
I’d come to Florida because I was homeless, writing out of my car. When my belly was empty, and the gas tank almost empty, I’d run out and do whatever I had to do to sell another couple of graphics: hit a gallery, steam roll them. Maybe I’d turn a couple of hundred, maybe only thirty-seven-fifty, but it would hold me, keep me going for another few days if not another few weeks. (I was “saving” two dollars a day by declining the park’s option of electricity, then plugging the SmithCorona in at a neighbor’s.) As the weather improved, I’d head back north. I’d already oversaturated the Miami or Naples area with my type of merchandise. Then I found these airbrush diptychs. They were so bad, I could sell them in minutes. Even the gallery owners, typically over-the-hill women put to pasture by dentist husbands, could tell movable schlock when they saw it.
Not long after that, I entered Sebring: found Highlands Hammock, the lakes, creeks, and Kissimmee River, and have not yet left it. It took only another season to learn that I love the Florida summer even more than the Florida winter.
For one thing, you get the rain: every day.
But don’t be misled: the sky grumbles from late afternoon into evening. Anywhere within a hundred miles of Tampa Bay, the heat lighting enlivens all horizons well into the night. But the sun shines nearly everyday, and almost all day. I haven’t seen as many sunshine showers in Sebring as I saw in the ’Glades, but we have them. There are also rains that last for an hour or two.
Once or twice a year it will sock in for a whole day or more: rarely three times.
Right now it’s rainy and has rained all day. It rained half of yesterday. It’s gray. It’s cool. Ugh.
I’d heard since taking up golf in my forties that Florida was windy. For years in Sebring late winter winds would spoil my fishing. Sometimes a wind will come up and the fish attack. But more often the wind shuts down whatever piscene activity there was. In recent years the wind seems much worse than previously. Global warming? Who knows? Weather tos and fros whatever we do. But I don’t doubt that a good part of it is our own fault. And I don’t doubt that whatever we do now will be too little too late. Our window closed.
Rain socked us in a week and a half ago too. Grr.
After posting the above I went to my.Yahoo.com to check my news. Reuter science reports offer a new summary on global warming. The piece says that globel warming will continue even if we stopped all emmissions today. An hour ago I wrote, “Got cancer? Might as well smoke.” But of course pk was being pk. I think. I also calculate rhetoric. Sometimes I try one communicational strategy, sometimes another, sometimes I don’t give a damn about strategy, sometimes I just want to be rude. But global warming is no more a joke than is cancer. And stopping smoking may prolong an already doomed life, even when it’s too late to alter the doom. Stopping smoking may further make the remaining life of the doomed more comfortable: to the doomed and to the doomed’s family and neighbors. Stopping pollution may not reverse global warming, but it may slow its acceleration. Some cities will be lost in time, others may yet be spared.
Sebring is in Highlands County. We’re not too far above sea level, but further than any other part of Florida. Indeed, I’m within a mile or two of the “original” Florida: the bit of spine that was above sea level millions of years ago. I can “see” the time line: <i>This here is ancient, that there is much more recent</i>. It will look pretty funny though if everyone in Florida comes running to all stand on the one little spine.
You’ll have to leave your cars behind.
Yesterday I decided to fish an entirely different technique: I’d fish red worms on the bottom for shellcrackers. I should have changed my mind the instant I saw the chop on the lake. I’d already ignored the prediction of thunderstorms, most likely in the morning. Ignoring a second sign was truly foolish. But I’d been up since hours before light practicing tying my shellcracker rigs.
It wasn’t till I was on the lake, in maybe twelve feet of water, and had slowed my drift somewhat with a stern mushroom anchor, that I discovered that I hadn’t replaced the bow anchor, a digger type, after “organizing” things a while back. Nothing going right I made the further mistake of leaving the one anchor in the stern. I never fish anchored. I seldom even fish from the boat, preferring to go overboard and wade, I had none of the right habits for this new adventure.
I’d tied the rigs so that a weight would take the line to the bottom. Twelve inches above the sinker an inch of tippet led to a baited #5 hook. Fourteen inches above that wriggled another red worm. You don’t need much weight in the sinker to be able to feel the bottom clearly when it touches. My problem yesterday was, even holding the rod in my hand at all times, the boat was tossing about so I couldn’t possibly maintain contact with the bottom and also keep the line free of slack. When nothing had been fooled within a half and hour, I wasn’t surprised. After two hours of the same, the only fool was me. I also had a minnow swimming around under a cane pole in case a crappie happened by. Nada.
Go home. Organize the shed. Find that anchor and put it back where it belongs.And get a second mushroom anchor for the other side of the stern.
But I see that he can’t hold on. He’s struggling in the water, bobbing on the chop, his reaches fail to grab either boat or dock.
Things were happening too fast for it to occur to me that I didn’t need to tie onto anything: the wind was stiff into the shore. The boat wasn’t going anywhere far. I needed to be out of the boat and either on the dock or in the water to help the guy.
By the time I get to him, he’s half-out and up on his own. I see his hat still in the water. His wallet is half fallen from his trousers, but if it drops now, it will probably hit the dock, not the water. So we can relax a little bit.
These two decades, only once have I had trouble loading a boat by myself due to wind: a sailboat with the sails hanging free, but still on the mast.
Point is: even those of use who were trying (and failing) to warn others about global warming, etc. thirty years ago didn’t see all the details of everything that would go wrong. And we still don’t see all the details of what will be wronger thirty years from now.
OK: now I’ve imported the IonaArc piece: now I’ll try writing the new chapter.
and say things on
2016 05 31 Sebring is inland, roughly midway between the Atlantic and the Gulf. Either coast is say ninety miles away. Every evening in spring I see lightning on the horizon. It’s always the western horizon: Tampa Bay. It’s not that Tampa is closer to Sebging than Fort Pierce; it’s that lightning is perpetual in the Tamp Bay area.
Spring 1990 I enjoyed the hell out of the tornado I was caught in. An extension ladder spun like a prop twenty feet above the ground, Wow. When the wind pacified it was followed by the greatest lightning show I’ve ever seen. The whole dome of the sky was replete with lightning, at the zenith, on all horizons. It looked like God had decided to show Tesla who was boss.
Far greater than this one I found scanned and mounted online
First I fell in love with Highlands Hammock. Then I fell in love with fishing Lake Jackson. Every evening after supper I fish the north bay, work the weed line, while heat lightning filled the horizon toward Tampa: 90 miles away.
Well last night I’m driving to Jan’s so we can watch the Warriors / Thunder game seven. The rain was blinding, the lightning was even more blinding. The lighning may kill me yet, and not because I’ll finally get hit by a bolt. Driving is dangerous under the best of circumstances, and many times more dangerous when this that or the other blinds you every other minute.
Whoosh! Freeze! Lightning! high overhead: now, count for the thunder: There was none! I turned onto Sparta Road. I turned onto Jan’s lake road: Whoosh!
Blidning blue-white light. Then crash: peel after peel. I pull into her drive. Oh so lovely: she’s just added a row of solar powered light sticks. Her courtyard in the glistening rain is so beautiful I want to weep.
But run: just catching the second second of play.