|From ouroboros ponderosa
I wrote this essay a few months back for an anarchist anthology which isn’t going to be published. I am fairly through with this blog, but I plan to spend this winter writing a book. Please keep your prayers with me and with the greater good, and keep on working for a better planet.
Our schools look like prisons
and our prisons look like malls.
-Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band
It’s a bleak landscape, indeed. Like a stone thunderstorm, I think, surveying the damage from my
I sit in the shade of some rocks on top of a nameless mesa in Nevada, a place I share with soaring red tail
hawks, a playful murder of crows, and the lazy desert tortoise, watching clouds form on the updrafts of
the mountains to the west. Below me, to the east, lies what was once a lush oasis of meadows and
springs in the parched Mojave Desert. It was home to friendly bands of Shoshone and Paiute Indians
who had relied for at least thirteen millennia on the underground aquifer lying beneath the valley floor
to create the meadows which later lead Spanish conquistadors to grace the basin with its current name:
Las Vegas. The wasteland.