The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just when I was born. Or maybe it’s brain damage.

Most likely it’s both. With something more, other, besides.

The reason why, I can’t climb aboard, whenever comes round, the latest death ship.

And there’s a fuck of a lot of them out there. Clogging the i be kill the planetgoddam harbor. So one can barely see, the rise of the sky.

Debt ceiling. Climate change. Poisons. Population. Nukes. Nimrods. Drones. Wild-eyed crazy people, wielding knives.

So. Let us all. Rend furiously our garments. Weep. Cry in our beer. And at the sky. For all. Is all over. Humans—wring us thy hands—they do be succeeding, in killing all the planet.



What baby-blind arrogance.

To believe a little bone-throwing nascent mammalian species, can croak an entire planet.

What I meant, above, about “just when I was born,” is that, right when I emerged in this life from my chrysalis, was when Lovelock and Margulis first announced what was then known as “the Gaia hypothesis.”

Which, to put it simply, postulated that the planet is one giant organism.

I, instantly, saw it a little—ahem—furthur.

That not only is the planet one giant organism, but it is also conscious.

And, basically, I haven’t worried, a day, since.

This was 1974. When Margulis and Lovelock first Gaiaed.

And no one paid a damn bit of attention to them. Because they, and their Gaia, were emerging first in publications like Stewart Brand’s first CoEvolution Quarterly. The successor to his Whole Earth Catalog.

When the histories come to be written, Brand is going to get a nice little place.

He was part of that whole 1960s-1970s West Coast space-pad thing. That, among other things, announced that New York, that whole flaccid chest-beating bully-boy played-out world, was over. Forever.

Mailer. Isn’t it clear, now, that the man is a dinosaur? Something from the 7500000th Century BC?

So, too: that whole world.



Anyway. Brand, currently, in the national mind, is outshined, in legend, by fellow far-coasters, like Kesey (deceased), and Garcia (deceased).

But, when the histories come to be written, I believe Brand is going to be given a very high place.

Because he is the guy, way back in 1966, upon gazing at the first NASA images of the whole earth—the planet, this planet, our planet, for the first time, oo-ee-ooseen in its entirety—became obsessed with getting that image out to the people. All the people.

Previously, he’d just been a ditzy hippie. There on Kesey’s bus. Who dressed, most often, like a would-be American Indian. Or Indian Indian.

But now, the NASA images the pie in the sky of his eye, he had a Mission. The first Whole Earth Catalog—his—was intended, entirely, to get across, that we are all of one, whole, earth.

And of course he was right.

And, in the histories, he will receive proper credit. For seeing us there.

In my universe, the bookend to Brand’s initial vision, is the concluding scene of Wim Wenders’ forever unfinished—because it must be—Until The End Of The World. Where his heroine, having moved all her life through a world of surface-skimming flash and image, is at last rooted in narrative. And, finally righted, assigns herself to a space station. Observing, from there, with attention and compassion, the whole Earth.

Because the highest, truest art—Bruno, Blake, Van Gogh—is never appreciated in the artist’s lifetime, I cannot bring you this scene. Because it is not available. Because no one has found it worthy enough, to unload unto the tubes. I can only bring you, weakly, the song that moves, for a time, over some of Wenders’ final images.

You want to know how purely magic that film is? Watch this. The scene where all electric power is cut off to the world. Just as so many people, now, this minute, fear, in Real Life, it will be.

When I really write, in all that I am, I am a tangent.

Just as is life.

Because I currently am, as Van Morrison puts it, “higher than the world,” I can’t come up with a decent transition here.

Though transitions required. Of writers. On this planet. Of humans in the larval state. Where writing still fulfills a function. Whereas, in the great wide open—coming soon!—writing shall fulfill no function. At all. No more than does a can opener. To someone who can, simply with their mind, open any can at all.

That’s where we’re going.

You will be there. So will—striving—I.

Anyway. In lieu of a written transition, another Until The End Of The World musical number. This from the film’s first scene. But not from the film. Because, can we have, the first scene of the film? Oh no! We can’t have that!

Just look at the video, above. The energy, and the artistry. The sophistication. Of both. All of it, is all about, moving into the great wide open.

Energy doesn’t waste itself.

This: is physics.

So. It’s all going to be all right.

But this is the part, where exhaustion descends. Because the corporeal container, here on this planet, it’s pretty feeble. You’ve got to so often whip the bejeesus goose! goose! goose! the motherfucker.

Why do you think we most often so early die?

This is where Coleridge picks up the pipe. Blake wanders into the garden. Thompson goes for the blow. Celine feeds on his lover’s young lovelies. Faulkner drains the jug. Sexton circles the water.

looking down on empty streets
all she can see
are the dreams all made solid
are the dreams made real

Margulis and Lovelock came awake to Gaia in 1974.

Do you remember that time?

The “Cold War,” it did not end, until 1991. Seventeen years after.

It is hard, I guess, for some, to recall, what it was like, during that time.

But I recall.

Wondering, every day, if some nutbomb, might, purposefully, or more likely unpurposefully, set off a bomb.

Which, might likely, result, in those days of MAD, in the incineration of the planet.

But Gaia. She didn’t want it that way.

If, as I have, you spent a maybe-pathological amount of time, reading histories of that period, you will recall that, basically, just about every month, there was some human-nuttery incident that occurred, that could, very likely, have resulted in MAD.

But it didn’t.


Because Gaia didn’t want it to.

She was nudging humans through this period. So they shecould reach the great wide open.


Gaia is the monolith.

It would be nice if you get it. But it gets wearying. Trying to get you to get it. And I’m old. And I’m running out of gas. And I’ve already said all there is to say.

As I’ve said before:

That all the guns are going to go—that is just a small part of it.

Also going: the money, the cities, the “jobs.”


Quaint amusing relicts. Of the larval stage. Of human beings.

These days, the larvae eagerly yammer, increasingly, of going into space, there to, with their scuttling unthinking humanoid claws, mine, rip, plunder.


They’re going into space, all right. Humans. But not as larvae. Instead, as butterflies. And, therefore, not in bodies at all.

And there, they will disturb nothing at all.

It is all, going, to be all right.

And it doesn’t matter to me, whether you see any of this. Or not. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I’ve looked over.

Meanwhile. Back in the here (such as it is) and the now (such as it is). And the reason I embarked on this piece in the first place.

Which is: I think it’s pretty funny. That the big NSA spy nest, out there in the irredeemable salt-poisoned wastes of Utah, designed to track all and every, of everybody’s all and every, is instead a hot mess of fiery explosions, fried circuitry, melting metal, and indoor lightning strikes.

No one knows why any of this is happening, or how to stop it. The place has simply become a vortex of weirdness.

So they’re delaying opening it.

But I know why this is happening. And so does one other being. Likewise marooned. On this planet.

The yahoos who designed the burning, melting, exploding NSA system, some company called Klingstubbins, claim to have “uncovered the issue” and to be working on “implementing a permanent fix.”

But this is just lies.

The Army Corps of Engineers says the “meltdowns” are “not yet sufficiently understood.” And, furthermore:

30 independent experts had conducted 160 tests over 50,000 hours, and still did not agree on what caused eight of the 10 surges, nor on ways to prevent future surges.
Of course not.
That’s because it’s Gaia.
She’s fucking with them.
And, rightfully so.
Gaia is a woman. And therefore doesn’t get all up in your face. Like playin' in the banddoes that old grey-bearded screaming Yahweh. Who is old and in the way. Over.
With Gaia, you get hints.
The Titanic, as is well-known, the thing set sail as “unsinkable.” Then ran right over an iceberg. And sunk to the bottom of the sea.
Lesser-known, the Edmund Fitzgerald, steaming out as the largest ship, ever, to plough the Great Lakes.
Like the Titanic, another proud motherfucker. All proud, cast and crew, as they sailed their first days.
Though no sane human, paying attention to the Signs, would have stayed aboard her.
Not after it took three attempts to break the champagne bottle used to christen her, and she collided with a pier, when first she entered the water.
It’s all about listening. Paying attention. Down here.
Gaia didn’t want the Edmund Fitzgerald on the Great Lakes.
And so the Edmund Fitzgerald. Did not float. On the Great Lakes.

And Gaia, as she has up-story proved; she surely doesn’t want the Utah spy-nest, listening in to all and every.

And so it won’t.

Instead, this shall be the world of Sister Re.

Of “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”

Where all we have to do—all we’ve ever had to do—is lay we down.

How, illustrated, humans shall swirl up out of this planet:

love that’s real
not fade away

How, this planet, how all planets—indeed, all matter—do be created: through the energy, of Desire:

and you were standin’ there
in all your revelation


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When I Worked

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