On the last day of the world / I want to plant a tree
what for / not for the fruit
This is from the poem “Place” by W.S. Merwin, which has been in my head all week after hearing it referenced in an episode of This Is Love (ep 40, “Grandfather of the Forest”).
It’s easy for these days to feel apocalyptic: we’re in a pandemic that has nightmarishly & seamlessly transitioned to endemic covid, and still no vaccines for little kids. A climate activist died by self-immolation outside the the Colorado Supreme Court last week in an act of desperate protest. Genocide and war crimes in Ukraine are devastating to powerlessly witness, and a larger cascading war feels imminent. Human rights are disintegrating: violently homophobic and transphobic laws are passing throughout the country. Roe is going to be overturned. To quote a friend’s text from yesterday, who wrote to tell me hard personal life news, “macro and micro fuckery are colliding,” because *of course,* on top of these global and national crises life is already very, very full of normal human concerns. Health crumbles mysteriously. Family members of multiple generations need bodily care. Work stresses mount. The cost of gas is through the roof, but the pandemic created a bus driver shortage, so every day I get into the car I don’t want to be driving for elementary school pick up even though we accepted a test-in spot for my son in this wonderful but far-away school for gifted kids only because the city guaranteed bussing, and did you hear they might not replace bussing next year and oh my god what am I going to do when Ada is in preschool and Leo is in daycare and I have three simultaneous pick up & drop offs miles apart? *buzz, catastrophic news alert.*
It’s hard not to feel like it’s the last day of the world.
On the last day of the world, I want to plant a tree / what for, not for the fruit
When I looked up this poem, it surprised me to find the first line plastered all over instagram-ready memes. For me, second line is what it’s about, it’s the gut-punch pivot. Without it, the sentiment is shallow: it’s hope with blinders on, hope with fingers in your ears about the end times. A denial of reality. After all, maybe this tree will endure! That second line, and the rest of the poem, removes hope for a next day. What for, not for the fruit. What for?
I’ve been returning this poem because it carries in it a tension I’ve been thinking through for years, which has been especially potent this week. It seems to me that the endurance-athlete work of both parenting and being an artist (/maybe also about being a person?) are about holding three truths present at the same time: first, regardless of dreamed-of hypothetical futures, the on-the-ground work of today is both very satisfying and, invisibly & unheroically, very hard. Second: the consequences, rewards, or heartbreaks of this work will only reveal themselves in full years down the road, possibly beyond my lifetime. It is generational work, ancestral work. And, third: even if there is no future for either my work or myself or my children, even if it truly is the last day of the world, today is valuable. I want the tree that stands / in the earth for the first time / with the sun already / going down. I want the tree; the tree itself, in its act of living, is the ends, not the means to an end. I raise my kids, hold them calmly through tantrums, make another snack bowl, make sure softies and blankets are arranged just so, even as the world moves daily toward overlapping dystopian futures. I draw another page on a book I could die before I finish (which, at the rate I’m working, seems possible), a book it’s possible no one wants to publish or read, a book I could finish only after the publishing industry collapses, a book I could realize is garbage next week. Even if the world weren’t in such a precarious place, death is a guarantee; today could be our last day alive, even if the climate were stable and fascism were rooted out. Today is the last day of the world, and I want today. I want life. Even with the sun already going down, even in the earth full of the dead.
Other things:
I drew a slapdash comic in urgent response to the news about Roe v Wade’s likely end and published it on instagram. College friend and brilliant food & culture writer for the New Yorker Helen Rosner shared it, which led to the IG account for The Joy of Cooking liking my comic about torn vaginal stitches and bleeding through my underwear. What a surrealist delight. Today is the last day of the world, and comedy abounds.
If you haven’t already (how did you get through the last 6 years without doing this?!), please save all of your representative’s phone numbers and practice calling regularly. Call about the urgent need to protect abortion rights, the urgent need to protect gender affirming health care & trans rights, the desperate need for action on climate change, and on and on. I’m awful on the phone and have gotten better at calling with practice. It’s not the only action we should collectively be taking, but it’s important. I’m not an expert or an activist, but my voice matters. So does yours.
I spent my work hours this week focusing on script writing for my next comic, with surprising success! I’ve got an 800 word daily goal, and only do other work after I meet the goal. Making some really crunchy, delicious word salad over on Scrivener.
I read comedy writer Jessi Klein’s memoir about motherhood & middle age I’ll Show Myself Out, and I really loved it!
The “300 songs of the great global songbook” episodes of Las Culturistas this week really lifted my spirits on a day I needed it.
Diary Comics: