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It was the Roman writer Pliny the Elder, in his great thirty-seven volume work, Naturalis Historia, who suggested the ostrich buried its head in the sand at the first sign of danger. Pliny was wrong. No-one has ever observed this phenomenon. Nevertheless, the poor old ostrich has ever since been accused of this unfortunate behavior, and become a symbol for those of us who refuse to accept the obvious, even when thrust under our noses.

To we beings of decidedly short lifespan, the Earth is an apparently stable place. Nothing changes drastically in the three score years and ten that, biblically at least, mark our beginning and our end. We note differences, but they are mostly in ourselves, or more likely in our offspring. Every aging generation sighs with resignation at the antics of its progeny, though most eventually settle into similar patterns of behavior as their parents and grandparents, once the over-heated flush of hormonal youth has cooled to a barely perceptible simmer.

Comparing our own human lifespans with that of the planet offers little more than a snapshot of the latter; a freeze-frame moment in the aeonic eternity of planetary existence. Were Earth’s history to be shrunk to a mere seventy years, our individual lifetimes would dwindle to a moment far less even than the blinking of an eye. A ‘freeze-frame moment’, indeed.

During three weeks holidaying in Britain, I realized my life was continuing its course just as the lives of those around me were ticking rhythmically away, as human lives have appeared to do since time immemorial. This very regularity makes it hard to accept that it’s not always been the case. Throughout earth’s history there have been times when human life itself has suffered cataclysmic disaster, occasionally sufficient to threaten total human extinction.

After Vesuvius buried Pompeii beneath its pyroclastic flows, archaeologists were surprised to note the human remains showed individuals continuing their everyday duties almost to the moment of suffocation, as though no warning of impending doom were heeded by the populace. Yet, they must have had some indication of the imminent danger.

Are we perhaps, as a species, some sort of mammalian ostrich? Do we, when faced with potential annihilation, metaphorically bury our heads in the sand and refuse to accept reality?

While on holiday, my wife and I spent a week in a delightful Welsh beauty spot, another week exploring the wonders of the Norfolk Broads by boat (an internationally recognized area for wildlife conservation) and the final week of our vacation in Will Shakespeare’s hometown of Stratford-on-Avon. Internet access was unavailable, but each night the TV news was filled with natural disasters throughout the world; the Chinese earthquake, followed by Chinese floods; the storms, floods, tornadoes and other afflictions suffered by the United States; droughts and forest fires in Australia. It struck me that these news items were almost mundane. Every day now brings a plethora of such stories.

Having lived most of my three score years and ten, I can say with certainty that the frequency and intensity of this planet’s natural disturbances have never been so great, during my lifetime, as now. Weathermen, perfect examples of mammalian ostriches, murmur incessantly of El Nino and La Nina as the culprits, but these weather patterns have been around for centuries without creating the havoc that is our world’s weather today. Of course, the truth is that mere TV meteorologists don’t want to be the first to publicly declare these disasters the result of global warming.

While on our jaunts around the British countryside, it occurred to me that we are all mammalian ostriches to some extent. There we were continuing with our day-by-day lives, just like everyone around us, as though we were not being threatened with our own extinction in the not-so-distant future. I began to feel like those people of Pompeii, who knew they would probably die very soon, but didn’t really want to believe it because that meant doing something practical to prevent it happening. In their case, doing something simply meant moving to another place out of the danger zone, but that must have seemed too much trouble, and besides, if the danger passed without incident one would feel such a fool.

So they metaphorically buried their heads in the sand, then discovered the sand was actually twenty-feet of red-hot, volcanic ash.

Global warming is a reality no-one wants to face. Politicians, like most of us, ruffle their plumage and head for the nearest sandpit at any mention of the phrase.^[1] Today, we are more ostrich-like even than the Pompeians. We simplistically believe that when our Earth finally cries, “Enough is enough”, technology – our latest and most powerful god ever – will spring into action and save the day.

We should note that the Roman gods failed to save the Pompeians. We should, perhaps, also observe that the man who gave the unfortunate ostrich its mythical habit was probably the greatest mammalian ostrich of all.

When Vesuvius began its catastrophic eruption, Pliny the Elder was in his bath. Despite warnings from those around him, the Roman writer refused to admit any danger, determined it would not interrupt his bathing.

Like many, many thousands of his countrymen, Pliny the Elder was killed by the eruption of Vesuvius in AD 79.

^{[1] ” Australian rivers face disaster” BBC News, June 18th 2008}

Filed under: History lessons

Civilization, for sale at last!

Arriving in Britain, we stayed first in a Welsh cottage miles from anything remotely broadband, then a Norfolk Broads sailing cruiser boasting a double bed less than five feet ten inches in length atop, I later learned, the forty gallon tank containing effluent from the toilet.

Despite aching muscles from sleeping permanently crouched, and bruised hipbones – the two inch cushion serving as a mattress failed utterly to prevent contact with the metal underneath – we declared the holiday a success and have sought refuge in a Stratford-on-Avon hotel for two nights so my American wife can savor the flavor of the English Bard, before finally flying back to Chicago and home.

Wi-fi abounds in this hotel, and what’s more, it’s free.

Our two-week sojourn in such remote regions of the British Empire allowed only scant access to domestic news and not even a morsel of information on happenings in the US of A. Well, apart that is from the final surrender of Hillary Clinton to the politically inevitable. Even in the UK that’s considered something of which the British public needs made aware.

Most noticeable, while following the UK media, has been a shift in British political circles of late back towards the unhealthy American approach. One hoped that with the demise of Tony Blair there may have been a move by his successor towards a saner form of British politics, but alas, Gordon Brown is way too timid, and capable only of following blindly in the footsteps of Blair policies already proven lacking, thus earning the scorn of his party’s electorate and a shift in voter confidence towards those right-wing Tory vultures waiting impatiently for a chance to feast on the festering political corpse of a prime minister unable to break free from the specter of his already canonized (in some circles) predecessor.

Were it not for consistent displays of ineptitude that would lack credibility even from a mentally deficient baboon with recent frontal lobotomy, one might feel a twinge of sympathy for Gordon Brown. Taking the reins of power from Tony Blair was never going to be an easy task, but given the wrath Blair engendered from the British public in his later political years – his stubborn insistence on supporting Bush in Iraq and the Blair doctrine of turning a British Labour Party into the most right-wing political establishment in the history of the nation – surely Brown was on a winner simply by reversing these Blairite aberrations and returning the Labour Party to its original left-wing roots?

Blair’s love affair with the multinational corporates and their American base was anathema to the British; his warmongering policies a stab in the public eye. Gordon Brown, on his accession to office, appeared keen to weaken ties with America; his promise of a “return to traditional British politics” sat well with public opinion, but where has it all gone?

Within twelve months, the zest evaporated; suddenly Brown rushed across the Atlantic to suck up to Bush, pushed ahead with NHS plans that mimic health service privatization, and stumbled back into the dark, evil, quagmire of Blairite doctrines.

Around the halls of Westminister, Tory vultures flapped long-unclipped wings, discovered they could fly once more, and took to the air with a scent of blood in the nostrils.

In true ovine fashion the great British public switches allegiance. Unhappy with Brown, they flock en masse to support the ‘other side’, even when it’s painfully obvious to a blind, deaf, mute that the ‘other side’ is equally likely to sell them down the river, as Tony Blair managed so successfully, and Gordon Brown seems hell-bent on following.

Did I mention the word, ‘civilization’ earlier? Hardly. Talking of rivers, perhaps being on that boat and away from it all wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Shiver me timbers and hoist the to’ gallants; pack me a lifebuoy and a barrel of salted pork. I’m thinkin’ it’s time to head for white water once more.

Gordon Brown’s done for me, me hearties. Splice the mainbrace, I’m joining the navy…….

Or, come to think of it, I could just fly back to the cozy insanity of America…….

Filed under: Mad, mad, world

Sometimes officialdom can be just too official. For the last few weeks police and rescuers have been combing a local wooded area searching for a missing 18 year-old youth last seen alive while camping with some friends. There’s no suggestion of foul play, but a river heavily swollen from months of rains, flows through the site, so its assumed the poor lad drowned.

Finally, yesterday, they discovered a body in the river.

Interviewed this morning on a local news channel, the sheriff stiffly refused to announce the corpse’s identity on air, saying only that it was a male around 18 – 20 years old.

Beyond doubt, it was the person they were searching for, but officialdom stubbornly insisted nothing could be confirmed “until after the autopsy.”

Meanwhile, we’re winging our way across the pond to visit the relatives, then on for a couple of weeks of leisurely boating, followed by a swift visit to Will Shakespeare country (to keep my dear American wife happy) before jetting home again around June 18th.

Until then, good readers, browse the archives or visit some of those excellent blogs in Sparrow Chat’s “Blog Nest”, in the sidebar.

Following my recent health scare, ‘she-who-must-be-obeyed’ insists our vacation be totally computer-free. I must walk, sail, breathe the good English air, and stay well away from anything more technical than an electric shaver.

With fiendish cunning, I’ve persuaded her the laptop is vital for storing our holiday photographs, so she’s relented. I may find a wi-fi hotspot, possibly even manage a swift blog or two.

Broadband is scarce where we’re going, though, so if you hear nothing of me for a while, don’t necessarily assume I’m dead.

At least, “not until after the autopsy.”

Filed under: I’ll be back