Chapter 9: Fruition

From Manahatta to Modernity, sort of.


Ever wonder what the Apple looked like before it grew into a city?

Time for some time travel. Rewind to 1609, when Henry Hudson first parked his boat on the river that would later bear his name, and later, when the Dutch first landed in the New York area, in time to ‘settle’ into the new offices of their West Indies Trading Corporation. Ask Eric Sanderson what it looked like, he’s directing the Manahatta project, a computerized modeling of NYC’s ecology at the beginning of the 17th century. Apparently, the whole NY region was bubbling with biodiversity. Not just large numbers of species, but levels of abundance (large populations of each) that would probably blow the contemporary mind. Bears and wolves and beavers and more. Packs of them. Millions of them. New York, primeval. Functional and healthy. Bountiful. So full of food, in fact, that the native Lenne Lenape survived by spear and fishing net alone – no organized agriculture, no work - no need to. For Europeans coming from a nature-depleted Europe whose soils had already been over-exploited to the bone by millennia of intensive agriculture, such proliferation was a promise incarnate. Not just a promise of plenty, a promise of more. Like some chicken coop to a fox, Manahatta had incremental wealth written all over it, especially for people like Dutch businessmen. Take the following quote from one of their scribes, Johan de Laet: “The land is excellent and agreeable, full of noble trees and grape vines, and nothing is wanting but the labor and industry of man to render it one of the finest and most fruitful lands in that part of the world…”
Mission accomplished, indeed.
400 years have passed and when we look at ‘Manahatta’ today, we’re basically looking at leftovers, plus a few ‘non-natives’ thrown in for the sake of confusion. Simple stuff like Clover and Honey bees and Rugosa rose and House sparrows. All of them, foreigners. Today nature in New York is truly cosmopolitan. Worse, it is over-simplified and contagious: Gotham’s generic cocktail mix of global biology represents the initial symptoms of a transcontinental ‘McEcosystem’, one dangerously monotonous, monocultured bouquet of sameness, creeping in through every port and pore, into every nation state on earth. All localized, specialized species will disappear. The end of endemism. Only generalists remain. A planet smothered in kudzu vine and white-tailed deer. Make way for the ecological Jet set, a gift of globalization, international trade, big boats and airplanes.
To cheer myself up I point out to students in the field that when we see a bee from Europe rolling his big fat abdomen in the orange pollen of a Rugosa rose from Japan, it’s like we’re watching some white dude indulging in Dim Sum at a joint down in Chinatown – yet another ‘Nature of New York’.
Come to think of it, maybe New York place is not so much about immigration or transformation after all – maybe the City has more to do with the ongoing battle between uniformity and diversity. New York has always offered both – just look at its architecture; a whole bunch of very different looking and diverse skyscrapers, planted in rows nonetheless, in boring x and y axes within a gray and monotonous grid.
As a naturalist, I naturally prefer the confusion inherent in variety, its tacit promise of anarchy. Its color, too. I long for the creativity embedded in chaos. How do I reconcile with the City? On week-ends I get purposefully lost within the layout of the West Village. I take the 7 to the sweet smells of Jackson Heights. The B to the languages of Coney Island. The Beltway to the butterflies and dragonflies of Floyd Bennett Field. Diversity, be it biological, or ethnic, or cultural, is what keeps my Doctor away, not apples.
As a naturalist I also dig for the kind of ideas the likes of those of Jane Jacobs: “In its need for variety and acceptance of randomness, a flourishing natural ecosystem is more like a city than like a plantation. Perhaps it will be the city that reawakens our understanding and appreciation of nature, in all its teeming, unpredictable, complexity”.
Look to the shoreline.
Every day, 200 species of fish, including bass and bluefish and shad, hook-up (or not) at the estuary’s surface with thousands of anglers from most of the world’s countries. Fishing, in 120 different languages (at least). Diversity? No, DiverCity. Don’t believe me? Then go down to the waterfront and linger, eavesdrop, look up and around, pretend you were a tourist, don’t be afraid, take pictures: Anglers rim almost every accessible inch of the city’s 300 plus miles of shore line – these men and women, come rain or shine, look outwards towards the bay, the estuary, the harbor; inwards towards the lakes, ponds, remaining fresh water rivers and streams, armed with a fishing pole and some tackle, glancing upwards, to check the weather, the moon. They are ecologically literate, they can call stuff out by name, lunar cycles or species of fish, tides, ebbing or receding, rhythms and cycles and more. The imminence of change, of changing seasons. Most of them are immigrants (typical New Yorkers) and poor. Most can’t afford protein from the supermarket, for the whole family. But they do come to this city armed with technique. Regardless of their country of origin, they instantly adapt to fishing in the Hudson, the estuary; they rapidly identify what they are catching.
My second winter in New York I met a guy by the name of José up in Riverside Park. José is from Guatemala. We were both looking at a wild Turkey who had recently immigrated to Manhattan from further up the Hudson. The local hot dog vendor, Alex (who is from Albania and had played on the Albanian national soccer team against the French) had hand-tamed and baptized the turkey ‘Giuliani’ – although the bird was a female, bald nonetheless.
José had made enough money under the human Giuliani (he was an electrician and re-wired a lot of the revamping of Times Square) to retire early and spend the rest of his days (the guy’s still in his forties) quietly perpetuating the fishing techniques his grandfather had taught him when he was growing up a kid in Guatemala.
His grandfather was Mayan Indian.
People like José are original hunter-gatherers, in tune with the environment. In tune with themselves. As I’ve said before on these pages, I’ve worked and continue to work with hunter-gatherers in the Venezuelan Amazon, and you won’t find people more endowed with a complete awareness of, and curiosity for, their surroundings. People who can read the sky, and the world around them like last years Sear’s catalogue, from alpha to omega, the pulsating, erratic mood swings of the ocean, the water, the devious stillness of a pond’s surface. People who fulfill their humanity, their ‘genetic promise’, their simian calling. People who use their entire body – and that includes their brain.
“Work is for people who don’t know how to fish!” That’s what Brooklyn’s all-time favorite angler Billy Fink says.
Come to think of it, fishing predates work. The myriad fishermen of New York collectively mirror the pre-agrarian state of humanity. So to see them profiled against the Manhattan skyline—apex of the past 200 years of modernity, of industrial revolution, of technological wizardry (and labor)—is to contemplate the near whole space-time continuum of humanity in the same frame, the history of our species encapsulated by a giant castle of shimmering glass that groans and heaves beside a river, an estuary, the Atlantic Ocean.
Not only does New York City defy space, reeling in nationalities from the entire planet, it defies time, crossing its boundaries, subsuming examples from every one of our species’ past revolutions. Look at the City’s community gardeners: they’re straight out of the Neolithic!
Einstein said that to condense so much time and space you needed a lot of gravity. Enter the City of New York: the closest thing we have to a Black Hole.
Will New York collapse on itself ?
Or will the Apple just fall from its tree…

Chapter 8: What ‘Nature’ for the Capital of the World ?

A note to New Yorkers on the root causes of Global Warming and the future, happy ending to the industrial revolution.


Sick from Global Warming? So is this butterfly. The cure? Autopoiesis (the opposite of automobile…) Image © Val Druguet.

Author’s note: The following is an excerpt from part 1 of a two part lecture series given at the Graduate Center of The City University of New York. Part 2 in next month’s nature of New York blog.

1. The importance of paradigms

In case you were wondering how you might do your part in solving the current climate crisis, first consider exploring the real nature of the disease – not just the symptoms. Science says: more important than the answers is asking the right questions. We can start by perusing New York City (I.e.: the ‘capital of the world’) as the ultimate case study in human industrial ecology and its disastrous effects on the planet. We rapidly see how Global Warming is not just about ‘limiting carbon emissions’. Global Warming represents the visible tip of an even greater and more complex and problematic, societal paradigm. It calls into question our very civilization, and how we organize ourselves and our communities, how we grow and distribute our food, what we qualify as growth and wealth. It challenges the very nature and philosophical premises of our expansionist economy. Indeed, the ongoing 6th extinction and global scorching reveal more than SUV’s and Bushonomics– they’re a Rorschach test for the fundamental flaws and pathology of our own brainchild - the industrial revolution, and its capital, the City.

2. Keyword

Dysfunctional


3. Natural premises

“The real voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new places but in seeing with new eyes." - Marcel Proust

Before moving to New York 4 yrs ago I lived and worked mostly in the rain and cloud forests of Venezuela, Peru and the Dominican Republic, as a tropical ecologist. For seven years there I studied many of the birds, insects, mammals, plants - and their relationship to people. Were they used for food ? Were they important references points in a people’s culture, or knowledge system ? The forest was both my office and my home. My environment. A ‘wilderness’ of hundreds of thousands of species of plants and animals, including top of the food-chain predators. Including humans.
Then, in 2003, I was invited to New York, invited to study urban ecology for this non- profit environmental organization, NNYN. I thought my life would change, dramatically. It didn’t.
I just switched jungles – from the primeval to the urban. Here in the City I do exactly what I used to do in South America – study plants, animals…and their connection to people. Ecology, the study of relationships.
Nature in New York ? It came as sort of a surprise to me, too. To bump into coyotes in the Bronx, Peregrine falcons on Wall street, White-tailed deer in the heart of Queens, Harp Seals out sunning (look like sausages) on pier 26 in Tribeca…To find wildflowers like yellow violet, Dutchman’s breeches on the boulder-strewn slopes of Inwood Park. The one billion year old gneiss, the 500 000 year old Schist (yep, rocks are part of nature too!). I was truly amazed. You're smack in the middle of this city and you can gawk at snowy egrets landing like snowflakes on their recently colonized urban turf –North and South Brother, Hoffman and Canarsie Pol – the secret islands of New York Harbor. Or Ogle at hundreds of wintering snow geese in Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge – a stone’s throw from JFK. I can take my students out there (and elsewhere), so they too can stare and wonder at 'big birds' the like of osprey that return each spring from the Amazon basin to nest in the relic salt-marshes of primordial ‘New York’.
Today, in the so-called ‘Capital of the world’, Val and I can count and film neotropical songbirds that we have known and studied in the Amazon and the Caribbean; we can watch them migrate every spring through Prospect park, Central Park, alighting on oak trees, feeding on local geometrid worms and others morsels of New York’s own, homegrown biodiversity, before continuing north to the forests of New England and Canada. We can travel the earth with these birds, and feel all the more deeply connected and commited to them.
In New York we can also go fishing for ‘fresh water’ eels that were born thousands of miles away in the middle of the Atlantic and that ‘come home to roost’ in the upper reaches of the Hudson, using NY harbor as a transit hub in their life long voyage from salt water to fresh. From one world to the next.
Again, I had originally (for a second, at least) expected nothing more than a cliché - a few rats and a bundle of pigeons in an otherwise hyper-hygienic, anesthetized world - Disney land, without the parking. Or Boston. Instead, approximately 3000 documented plant species and an estimated 10 000 animal species within the contours of the 5 borough Apple. Some native, some foreign. Some elevated to sex symbol status (Pale Male), others threatening and reviled (Poison Ivy, Asian Longhorn, Garlic Mustard…). Most of them, ignored, or simply unknown.
Ironic that New York would have such diversity, probably one of the highest for a metropolis its size. To know that within this glitzy, rumbling homage to technology and progress and cultural erection; within this global, galactic center of more than 9 million, one can (still) find such variety of wildlife - throbbing, foaming, so tantalizing and exciting, in color, shape, form, and behavior, will always tickle me. Nature in this city, everywhere in the city, is an earthquake to the brain. A time bomb ticking away in the western ego. It is provocative; it contradicts the unspoken idea of civilization. As far as reminders go (that we're ephemeral, lucky at best), NY’s pervasive diversity of species, and abundance, their resilience within this shiny apex of so called human ‘superiority’ have a spooky flavor of audacity, and predatorial resolve. Of power, absolute; here the wild demonstrates the kind of aloof patience needed to hold out while one of nature’s dominant figures, the species Homo sapiens, chokes itself to death. Nature bats last. Like a feline. One strike and we're out.
Of course, but this will not come as much of a surprise, I have also been dumfounded by New Yorkers themselves. Notably, by a small microcosm of 'naturalists' in this ‘City of specialists’, uncannily aware of their biological surroundings. The birders, the butterfly-ers, the botany nerds. The stargazers. The eccentric, Pete 'the reptile man' Warny. The elders, Don Riepe and Guy Tudor. The humble and wise, Mike Fellar.
I have a particular soft spot for the City’s thousands of anglers, who come from all over the world, speaking as many as 120 different languages and carrying with them as many cultures. They rim the city’s shores – they look outwards towards the bay, the estuary, the harbor; inwards towards the lakes, ponds, remaining rivers and streams. Armed with rods, tackle, bait, nets, technique. People who know, regardless of their country of origin, how to fish in the Hudson, the estuary, and all of what they are catching. Hunter-gatherers, every single one of them !
I should know, I have lived with Hunter-gatherers in the Amazon. You won’t find people more endowed with ecological literacy and a complete awareness of their surroundings. People who can read the weather, interpret the cycles of the moon, the tides, the pulsating and erratic mood swings of the ocean, the water, the devious stillness of a pond’s surface.
So be it. The 'Nature of New York' is alive and kicking, teeming within the interstitial bubbles of biology that seem to defy the so called impervious cover of the grid. As if erupting from the womb of the earth (a rather respectable planet whom I usually honor and refer to as a 4,6 billion year old decidedly pregnant and productive sphere of rock to which, maybe, cities, after all, are just another litter of offspring themselves…).


4. Redefining nature, redefining ourselves

Most of the younger urbanites I've met however carry a lot of 'nature fear'. A majority of my High School students will readily admit (or scream) that squirrels are aggressive and obsequious and raccoons wretched and full of rabies and that nature stinks. I’ve had kids allergic to grass, literally. Others have never sat their ‘sweet ass on a rock before’. Others still that claim that food can 'no way' be defined as nature (I guess children nowadays chew on plastic and metal and cardboard and drink oil and, well, like the rest of us, produce just as much gas). ‘Nature doesn’t even belong here!’ I’ve heard them whimper - again and again and again.
To all, I ask, I plead, I beg: “Think again!” Life is everywhere. It has been around for more than 4 billion years. It has embraced the entire planet. It has known many stages, flowered into modern-day rainforests, tropical savannas, coral reefs, arctic tundra, deep-sea vents. It reaches outwards, upwards, downwards; it can migrate thousands of miles to and fro, swap continents, stitch entire landmasses and oceans together. From within each and every living cell, life’s sole project is to EXPAND, to head in all directions, squeezing itself through every nook and cranny, to every volcano’s rim, exploding onto any plain… Will slam-dunk every cornice of every building (Confer Pale Male’s now infamous 5th avenue palace of sticks)!
For sure, life reaches peak diversity at the equator (with millions of species per square inch of rainforest); but it can also survive as anaerobic bacteria 3 km beneath the earth’s surface (a.k.a. SLIME!), or as microscopic springtails on the icy plains of Antarctica. Or as bedbugs in your sheets. Wild turkeys in Riverside Park. As millions of migratory shad that swim past Battery Park, in April, en route to spawn further up the Hudson river. As Monarch butterflies bouncing past your window, in the fall, thru Midtown (can be seen at top of Empire State Building), en route from Canada to Mexico. With all due respect, even you are part of nature.
When I pronounce the pleasantly oxymoronic “Nature of New York”, I am naturally referring to the nature within. The birds and the bees (there are plenty of these, by the way - they have their hives on rooftops, radiate up to 3 miles a day in search of flowers to fertilize - and pollen to retrieve - in the constellation of parks and salting of window sills that pepper the Big Apple). I’m talking about the full bestiary, the multiple beasts, plants and micro-organisms that call New York City their home. Every living species known to have been documented in the Big Apple. But by ‘nature’ (from the Latin ‘to be born’), I also refer to the nature of the relationship – or ecology- that connects a species to its environment, its natural household. I refer to the fact that any organism’s presence here (including ours) is ultimately dictated as much by climate as it is determined by the lay of the land, the type of rocks, soil, nutrients and amount and type of water (salt or fresh ?) that constitute life’s medium in and around the city. I refer of course to the entire life matrix of the city itself – to our ecology (from the Greek Oikos, meaning home, or household).
And by way of logic, I refer inevitably to the nature without. To all those life forms and citizens of the planet that sustain our city by simply producing our fresh air and water, or, in the case of other humans, that provide us with resources and energy by mining or farming the earth on the opposite side of the globe – and whose goods are delivered to this city, ‘our’ city. That fresh bundle of ‘organic’ raspberries at WholeFoods? Comes from Chile, from China. The oil in your gas tank? Please.
Get the Bigger Picture. Meet planet earth - to whom the city owes everything and on whom the city, ultimately, depends.
Just how would one qualify and quantify New York’s reliance on the rest of the planet? Let us review the nature of our umbilical cord.
Let’s start with some simple examples: the migratory birds that fly through our city in May; the nutrients that flow through our Hudson’s water; the people that come to this city from the across the world, from nations rich and poor, as if drawn to a magnet, as if the entire world was tributary to Gotham; the heat that flows though our gas stoves, the electrons and wave frequencies that enable our cable TV’s and electrical wirings and cell phones; the photons of the sun that flow through our photosynthetic elm, oak and maple trees - henceforth to squirrel and hawk; through our estuary’s diatoms - henceforth to zooplankton, to silverside, to black-crowned night heron…
All of this and much more comes to us, traverses us, keeps us afloat. The world is our lifeblood. Conversely, our dependencies on the world are infinite and absolute. Consider it this way: The planet itself is a giant food web, a food-web fueled by matter and energy – and all of this ‘essergy’ we need as a species to survive comes from somewhere. And all of it is headed somewhere. And some of it, indeed, comes through New York. Be it for a second, a day, a week - or a lifetime. The moment it enters our city, our home, it’s like a shot of oxygen-rich blood to the brain; if its an electron it turns on our lights, if it’s a bird it might disperse our seeds, if it’s a slice of bread it feeds us; it flows through our city streets and the cracks in our pavement and it keeps us alive.
‘It’ is the universe. Matter organized, reshuffled, folded into something scientists call “complexity”.
New York City, it so happens, is just one of many earthly places, a place with its own specific ‘ecology’, its own galaxy of relationships to the world. Just one in a gazillion planetary life-nodes through which gush stampedes of organisms, blasts of particles, rivers of nutrients and molecules. All of it energy, with a capital E. The moment it arrives here, it enlivens - and illuminates - our explosive city. It turns us on. ‘It’ gives us life. Thank you, sweet universe.
Finally, by the ‘Nature of New York’, I imply - sardonically- the nature of the ‘beast’ itself. This city is like Gargantua on rBGH, a colossus of want. Ecologically speaking, a megamungously voracious, over-the-top, waste-producing black hole sucking in fuel and food at the supersonic speed of FedEx, UPS, diesel trucks and the information highway. The ‘Jabba’ of all Huts, defecating and exporting 50 000 tons of waste a day. Who pays?
Where do we get our grub ? Our water ? What is our city’s ‘trophic and entropic’ relationship to the world? Its footprint? Its shadow? Its metabolic ties to the rest of our planet ?
Go to myfootprint.org and calculate your own footprint. Multiply by 16 million. Here we include the tri-state, statistical metropolis, because NYC’s suburbs cannot be considered separately – downtown and suburb are codependent, economically, politically, ecologically.
Our city has two metabolisms, two ‘appetites’ – one industrial, the other biological. It feeds off of fossil fuel, and requires more than 16 million of flesh and blood – that’s you and me; obedient, functioning units of production and consumption. Human resources.


5.The problem (is one of perception)

Cities such as New York are themselves outgrowths of planet earth; they just so happen to be the technological constructs of a particularly clever species, itself a progeny of Life : Homo sapiens. Cities are not only part of nature, they are nature. They are not distinct from the environment. They are of the environment. Some might say, the environment. Wilderness ? Maybe not, but alive nonetheless, nested within the biosphere. Culture, as one philosopher once coined it, is man’s contribution to the environment.
Perhaps the reason people are surprised to hear of ‘wildlife’ in the ‘city’, or of the ‘city as nature’ is that we ourselves are symptoms of our own culture, products of our belief system(s). Let me explain: generally speaking our societies are accustomed to thinking in binary terms of ‘wilderness versus civilization’, ‘biology versus culture’, ‘man versus nature’, ‘city versus country’, ‘natural versus artificial’. Blame it on history, Descartes, Abrahamic religions, the enlightenment, capitalism, science, the industrial revolution (of which New York is very much a product), the human brain.. whatever. In our undoubtedly very patriarchal western world, mind is seen (albeit subconsciously) as superior to body, just as man is considered superior to nature (and to women). Both are limitless and must be ‘labored’, worked over in order to achieve real fertility, enlightenment, and one day maybe, heaven itself (for more of the same, read Carolyn Merchant’s ‘Reinventing Eden’). Similarly within our common, cultural narrative, technology is considered an improvement on life, machine as superior to organism, progress to cave art, work to play, etc. Hence the disconnect, the divide, the delusion. The pathology!


6. The solution – a question of vision

“The man at the back has a question. His tongue's involved with solutions” - Echo and The Bunnymen.

Today, quite fortunately, the science of ecology allows us to think in a new light. From a biological standpoint, cities are not distinct from nature, they are simply located at one, distal and relatively sterilizing end of the global life continuum, with wilderness and species richness lying at the other, diametrically opposite end (even though the word wilderness as ‘area devoid of human impact’ is itself in dispute, since modern humans have by now impacted, polluted, transformed in one way or another almost every square mile of planetary real-estate in the past 100 000 years of our history). A few examples of our ‘dominion’ over planet earth: the atmosphere has been ‘heated’ ever since the invention and widespread use of fire in prehistoric times. Cities, industrial society, modern day Global Warming are but the apex of that same, combustive trend. Toxic particulates have by now smeared the entire planetary surface and atmosphere, they have spread helter-skelter, shotgun-style, via the weather, transported by atmospheric and oceanic currents, the water cycle, or migratory animals. And even way out yonder, in the center of the oceans, plankton have been found with micro-particles of plastic nestled within their gut. If nature is everywhere, so are humans. Now more than ever perhaps, the boundaries been ‘man’ and ‘nature’ have been blurred.
What remains is a difference of functionality. Ecologists today see the world in terms of functional versus dysfunctional systems. True growth versus pseudo-growth, self-sustainability versus self-destruction. Explanation: pristine, living ecosystems such as forests, salt marshes, meadows, streams are functional in the sense that they are self-organizing, self-sustaining, growing communities of animal and plants species, animated by constant energy flows and nutrient cycles, held together (just like the cells of your body) by a hyper-complex web of processes that engage molecules, atoms – matter and energy. They are known as self-creating, or autopoietic, systems. They are extremely dynamic. They are autonomous and self-referential. Of course, these systems interact with their environment (by using solar energy, exchanging gases and molecules with the atmosphere, recycling nutrients), yet to all intents and purposes they maintain their autonomy, their structure. A self-organizing system ‘knows’ what it needs to import and export in order to maintain itself, renew itself, grow, change and ultimately, evolve. Accordingly, ecosystems, when ‘left alone’, grow from within, endogenously. They shape themselves outwards.
So does life as a whole. The biosphere as we know it. Some ecologists have even theorized that the planet itself constitutes a single, autopoietic, meta-organism. A living system, in and of itself, held together by the ‘web’ of life. This is known as the Gaia hypothesis.
One very important thing to remember is that within functional, self-organizing ecosystems each component participates in the production of other components. Every organism’s waste in another’s food. One’s death is another’s birth. All is recycled. Reincarnated. The system as a whole cannot ‘pollute’. Because everything in the system is about renewal, about resource (from the Latin resurgere, ‘to rise again’), about self-repair and self-healing. In sum, an autopoietic system is both the producer and the product. Independent, yet open to interaction with the universe at large. Open to change and evolution. When we talk about ecological stability, we talk about the intrinsic ability of ecosystems (and that of their constituent species) to adapt and respond. Hence an ecosystem’s primordial functionality, resilience, health and, in the words of ecologist and physicist Vandana Shiva, its ‘biological freedom’.
No such luck for cities. In their current industrial form, cities are allopoietic (as are their immediate corollaries: suburbs, industrial agriculture and the expansionist economy as a whole). They are inherently dysfunctional. Self destructive. In their current state, they cannot self-organize, self-sustain, self-repair, recycle - nor do they have the capacity to grow endogenously. Like machines, and the high entropy design of the industrial revolution that spawned them, cities refer to functions determined and given from outside, such as the production of a given output. In the case of New York City, output can mean economic capital. It can also mean wealth’s collateral: the exhaust from the combustion of resources that produced the capital in the first place, i.e.: all the non-recyclable waste, ozone pollution, excess CO2, nitrous oxide, and particulates that fuel global warming.
Accordingly, cities cannot grow from within. Nor can they evolve, miraculously, by themselves, overnight, to be ‘functional’, or ‘good’. Like all mechanical systems, they are made, put together from the outside, with hammer and nail, organized and sustained by us – their master and slave (the 'allo' in allopoietic). Cities are high maintenance. They depend on us and the world for everything. They require phenomenal amounts of repair, attention, peoplepower, matter (food and materials), water and energy. They divert huge amounts of natural resources, they take from the hinterland, they are literally and quite physically sucking the global autopoietic system dry.
Biodiversity loss and ecosystem depletion? The expansionist economy and its main fuse – the city.
All man-made, carbon-based, combustive machines as we know them are intrinsically ecocidal. Therein lies the fundamental flaw of the industrial evolution. Modern cities are just colossal machines made up of smaller ones. Therein lies the flaw of the contemporary city. Technically and ecologically speaking, they are parasites. Bloated ticks clinging to the planet’s crust, sucking up sustenance and returning none. Pull the plug and they die.
(And in the event that we do run out of oil, best we get those wind turbines and solar panels up and running presto!)
In sum, when you hear of global warming, loss of biodiversity, pollution, etc. what you’re really hearing is that our society as a whole is chewing up the biosphere from within. Devouring it inside out. ‘Consumerism consumes all’, Lacan liked to muse. Nihilism, incarnate? More like ‘Autophagy’, the art of eating oneself - and succeeding. Feeling queasy?
Blame it on the steam engine and Thomas Newcomen.
The bottom line, the final diagnosis, whether we’re natural or not, is that WE ARE DEFINITELY DYSFUNCTIONAL. Our industrial ecology, per se, is pathetically pathogenic. Global warming is no more than a surface symptom. We must treat the root cause. If Jane Jacobs was right in saying that Cities are the obligatory economic engines - or ‘CentComs’ - of that lifestyle, then New York City (as Capital of the world) has had a huge responsibility in screwing up the planet.
The silver lining? Should New York change its inner nature, and mature, it could help (very rapidly help) to shape a cleaner, healthier, i.e.: a more functional, autopoietic, self-sustaining world.
Ecology, the art of growing up. How to?
Cities can and must play their part.
Let’s rewind, one last time: an autopoietic, self-organizing, living ecosystem (such as a salt-marsh) is a structurally and functionally diverse ‘organic’ entity, whereas the mechanical city, the giant machine, the ‘ecosystem of fire’, is a structurally and functionally boring, uniform, monolithic system that thrives on combustion, throwaway mechanics and whose primary product (apart from pleasure, which can’t be banked other than in the shape of memories) is a stinking wad of non-biodegradable toxic rubbish.
And, whereas self-organizing systems have the potential to heal themselves and adapt to change, mechanically organized systems (such as cities) cannot. In the words of Vandana Shiva, “They break down.”
Global Warming ? Global collapse.
It follows that biodiesel won’t change a thing, long term. It will only perpetrate the system, the process, the consequences. To treat Climate Change by reducing emissions is about as smart and efficient as plugging a Salmonella victim’s sphincter with a cork and expecting to cure his/her diarrhea. I’m not being particularly scatological here: Global Warming and its related symptoms are the exhaust fumes, the all-degrading cutting-of-the-cheese of an intrinsically flatulent lifestyle. In the corporate, industrial world, externality is just a euphemism for ‘silent but deadly’. We must change our technology’s diet. Feed it with renewable energy. Adopt the ‘Zero emissions’ paradigm...
(Come to think of it, my friend Sigmund might have coined neoliberal capitalism the most anally retentive form of misconduct known to man. Hoard, then spew).
On a more optimistic note, understand that New York City – like all cities- can achieve ‘cradle to cradle’ sustainability if it chooses to re-enter the food-chain, by immersing itself and surrounding suburbs and agricultural hinterland in autopoiesis; i.e.: by using solar and wind energy and little more, growing its own food (nearby), recycling all of its water and composting every cubic inch of its own organic waste. Our motto should no longer be ‘a rising tide lifts all boats’ (rather crude in a post Katrina world), but rather: 'Waste equals Food!' Thanks to a few forward-thinking New Yorkers, thanks to the fact that cities as bustling and creative and energetic as New York are intrinsically transformative and therefore a locus for foment, programs and projects and solutions abound that point in the ecological direction of autopoiesis and functionality: greenroofs, anaerobic digestion, recycling of all plastic and petrochemicals within a service and flow ‘economy of scope’, improved waste and water management, a renewed ground swell of programs that seek to reeducate ourselves and more importantly our kids.
(Btw, thanks to the media for never taking the time to explain all this. Either it doesn’t fit in a sound bite or it doesn’t fit their agenda).
The best news is that contrary to common belief new technologies need not be invented. They already exist. In the words of physicist and ecologist Fritjof Capra “ we can [..] model communities after nature’s ecosystems, which are sustainable communities of plants animals and micro-organisms. Since the outstanding characteristic of the biosphere is its inherent ability to sustain life, a sustainable human community must be designed in such a manner that’s its technologies and social institutions honor, support and cooperate with nature’s inherent ability to sustain life.’
Can technology ‘save’ our city ? Sure, biotechnology, life’s intrinsic ‘chutzpah’ if you will. All we have to do is experience nature and learn from her ‘wisdom’. Promote ‘Ecological design’. If you are one such person, someone as interested as I am in learning from nature’s wisdom, and applying it to our society and city, thereby leaving our place and world a sustainable one for our children, then let the ‘Nature of New York’ be your guide, your open book of ecological knowledge.
If you think you are totally, beyond-the-point-of-no-return, ecologically illiterate, do not despair: go to the wildflower meadow in northern Central Park and watch migrating monarch butterflies pollinating local goldenrod and aster. Discover win-win ecology, partnership and collaboration, pollination, mutualism, emergent properties and the non-zero sumness of our very first economy – the ecology of life on earth.
And see you next month, for step two on our way to understanding -and solving- the biggest challenge yet to face mankind.
Biological freedom, just around the corner.


Until then,
Dave Rosane and Val Druguet

Chapter 7: “New York, we have a problem…”

What do the Big Apple and a small village in the middle of the Amazon have in common? The next ten minutes of the rest of your life. And more.


The village of Jodoimenña, southern Venezuela. Middle of nowhere? Think again: “The sun does not forget a village because it is small” - African proverb. Image © Val Druguet.

Dear Blogosphere:

Welcome back to the monthly rant. We (My wife Val and I) have just returned from an indigenous community of native Yekuana ‘Indians’, in the town of Jodoimenña. Time spent teaching solar oven technology, doing research with the community elders for a school book on the ecology of the rainforest for the local school house, sowing anti-malarial plants and finally, creating a GIS map of a segment of Yekuana territory, transcribing their land area, water and other physical and spiritual belongings for the sake of demarcation and ultimately, sovereignty, continuity and survival.
Who? What? Where ?
Go to Google earth. Find South America (looks something like a giant Ice-cream cone). Shuttle to the north end, locate ‘Venezuela’, then point to southern portion of country (looks like a hanging sock, wedged between Brazil and Columbia). There, on the banks of the fast-flowing Ventuari river, ca 100 miles from the Brazilian border (bottom right hand corner), in the shadow of Paru Mountain (fat, looming table top mesa of 1,8 billion year old sandstone) and other minor but multiple mountains cloaked in steaming rainforest and yellow savannas… lies Jodoimenña, a dot on the map, a modest constellation of mud huts, of long and round houses and a mere 60 inhabitants founded twenty odd years ago by headman Isaias Rodriguez, aged 73. A town he named after ‘Jodoima’, culture hero and man-tapir of the Yekuana dreamtime (The Yekuana are a Carib speaking tribe of approx. 4000 persons).
Smack in the middle of nowhere, you ask? Nah. The center of the universe is always where you’re at (no matter how small the dot on the map is)… ‘because that is always exactly where your perception of the universe begins’ (quote lifted from the Dalai Lama).
And what does Jodoimenña have to do with urban ecology and the nature of New York? Everything. Let me explain; but first, do me a favor and reclaim your mind from paradigms past. Don’t think of cities in terms of separate, self-sufficient units, in terms of the ‘city versus the country’. Way too old-school. So 20th Century. Don’t think of villages as separate entities either; don’t even think in terms of Nation States for that matter (they’ve been transcended by corporations, weather patterns, bird migrations and people alike). The world today is one connected anthroposphere, and more importantly our species today shares one same ecology: that of industry. Cities are mere organizational nodes (‘Centcoms’ if you will) within one big, fat, interconnected, meta-machine of global energy consumption and waste production and the ensuing trade and commerce thereof (not to mention the resulting disparity of wealth, nutrients, health, happiness and capital), the whole kit and caboodle run by a turbulence-prone, global casino known as the ‘financial world’. Places like Jodoimenña may look like isolated villages, but in all ecological reality (from the perspective of thermodynamics, our economy is actually a subsystem of our ecology) they are not; they are the extralimital tendrils of the all-encompassing, totalitarian and parasitic system of the West. All have been subsumed by the cash economy and our fossil fuel ecology and the Fedexosphere. Phagocytosis has occurred. Expansionism taketh all. Jodoimenña, like every place on earth has been absorbed. One earth, one system. Globalization does not exist. Westernization does. Call it the anglo-sphere. New York City is its current capital. It was generated by Bacon, Locke, Hobbes, Descartes and quite frankly, almost everybody else (i.e.: the rest of us).
Within this global mess, everything is connected. Within this web, quite literally, cities like the Apple can (and do) decide the fate of places like Jodoimenña, at the flip of a dime, overnight. Example (just a minor one): the Yekuana are excellent navigators and boatmen and have become completely dependant on outboard motors and gasoline. They have to spend oil to get more oil (3 days up river to the closest gas depot). Which means they need hard cash. So they sell beautiful traditional jewelry once made with colored stones now made with plastic beads. Plastic made from oil. Go to war on the other side of the planet and there goes the price of oil. The price of plastic. The rest is history. Horse manure.
Conversely (and this is where we might find ‘hope in the dark’) a man or a woman born in a place like Jodoimenña could and probably will be the next MLK, the next Vandana Shiva, the Next Wangari Mathai, the next Gandhi. And that person (or more likely, that group of persons might even decide the fate of our world). New York City, fasten your seat-belts.
Fortunately for us, Isaias Rodriguez (the headman) is a personal friend of ours. To make a long story short, we met in 1998 during a MIRT/NIH program run by Dr Eloy Rodriguez of Cornell University (another friend of ours). At the time Val and I were working as instructors in tropical ecology and Isaias invited us, Eloy and a group of Cornell undergrads to stay and study in the village for two weeks, at the condition (of course) that ‘we return!' You heard me, not that we leave them alone, but that we return.
Contradiction? Paradox? Let me explain: ‘Indians’ are tired of being observed by one-time exploratory expedition-ers, photographed, gossiped about, written about, ‘explained’ - for the benefit of one-hit-wonder headlines, National Geographic type glorification, the so-called ‘society of the spectacle’, Post colonial TV skits and grotesque advertising couched in equally Victorian layers of stereotypes, in one word: western sensationalism (i.e.: the fulfillment of Judeo-Christian fantasies of noble savages and the recovery of Eden within some isolated, ‘Virgin’ forest). Capice?
That said (from them to me to you) Isaias Rodriguez and the Yekuana have demanded that we construct a common project, an exchange program, whereby we return every year to the village with professionals, friends, students, whereas ‘we’ are allowed to satisfy our intellectual curiosity and quench our do-gooder moralistic bent (and publish this blog), in exchange for which ‘they’ can reap whatever knowledge, information, resources, expertise (or pleasures) we bring with us and that they choose to use and/or absorb and appropriate: medical and nutritional expertise; horticultural know-how; solar technology; economic consulting; reading and writing skills; contemporary, cutting edge eco-literacy. Some good jokes and a twinkle in our eye. The idea, I guess, is that we make the peace, definitively. That we resolve all potential conflicts, not by building some common, homogenized future, nor some bland shared destiny, but by creating a ‘third, equally different place’, greater than the mere sum of our respective parts. Call it pollination, an ecological relationship, a friendship even.
Tolerance, Levi-Strauss once mused, is not passive; it is a verb, a course of action.
8 years have passed and Val and I have never stopped returning to Jodoimenña. We have been back almost every summer, taken friends and pros alike. We have had the backing and support of NNYN, Cornell, Dr. Jim Wyche, Dr. Lina Fruzetti, Terry Tempest Williams, Nicolas Hulot and scores of others. Our families, even. We have invited doctors, engineers, anthropologists, biologists, art historians, students (research trainees). The underlying theme: sustainability. Health. Integrity. The goal: Build a safer future than the one they (we all) see looming on the horizon and or the front page of the NY Times. May I indulge? Pillaging, plundering, murder, war, treachery, rhetoric, lies, thievery, corruption, universal ecocide, monstrous deregulation, bottom-line realism, the usual.
The future is now. At the end of the day, we and the village of Jodoimenña try to create solutions for our respective offspring. They are our afterlife. We have many of them. The trick is to ask yourself a simple question: does anybody know where change will come from next? Nobody has in the past. Change can come from a totally unsuspected place. Today’s economy and sphere of human enterprise and destruction are what system theorists call a chaotic system, a place replete with unforeseeable, local turbulences the likes of global climate change itself. In such a scenario, History is no longer linear, and like the weather, utterly and totally unpredictable. Radical change is just as likely to occur from the periphery of Empire than from within, where one culture mixes with the other, from a place of mutual inspiration. Emulation. From that ‘third place’. From Jodoimenña, even.
So Val and I have placed our bets and decided to fight global warming by using 6 solar ovens in a village of 60 (and see if the Pentagon follows suit). We have decided to repel future inter-religious mayhem and racism by playing volleyball in the evening in the village square(team USA got clobbered, so you know, by team Yekuana); by teaching cutting edge eco-literacy and systems theory to Yekuana toddlers first (to IVY-leaguers next); by fighting food shortage by working on sustainable horticulture and animal husbandry in the Amazon; and eluding brain shortage by avoiding TV, and ‘stupid stupidity’ by wondering awestruck at the work of Herzog instead. Capice?
Live outside the box and the atomized comfort of your home. Go plant a seed. In most non-western belief systems (or what’s left of them) the future will happen thanks to a community, not a single person, savior, sun-god nor messiah. To quote Rebecca Solnit, this is Earth, not Heaven. Forget what I said earlier about the next MLK or Gandhi or whomever. Time unfolds with surges, spills and by regurgitation. It hiccups. It barfs. It produces volume. Movement. The future reads more like Isaias Rodriguez and his family and his relationship to us. A spark. A flame. A fire. Draw a map and call it the ‘third-place’.
Below, for your enjoyment, a link to a picture diary of our trip and all that we are trying to accomplish with the village. Thanks to Eloy (and NSF) and Ted for making it happen. Thank you Jodoimenña. And of course, thanks to everybody we ever met. See you next month back in the Apple,

Panarchistically,
Dave and Val

PS: Big kudos to Uncle Harold, Selena and Jim, the Raggi family and community of Puerto Nuevo, Derrick, Hans, Shern and all the munchkins of Yutaje, too, y Gracias a Bob y Linda por el vino chileno, vale.

http://theartofgreenhollow.blogspot.com/

Chapter 6: Why we drink


Thought this Bosch painting was funky ? Try spring bird migration in Queens. Or the Ramble, in Central Park. Epitome of the urban paradox.

Wednesday, May 24th. There is a hole in the County of Queens. A puncture in the Grid. Stand at its edge on a good day in May, at 5 am, when the city lights dim and the morning comes, and look up through the trees that rim this ‘gap in the map’ and watch the urban starscape fade to blue. Giant Tulip trees surround you and the ‘hole’, embracing both. They mingle with parties of pin, red and white oak. A community of wood. The Ents of middle-Gotham are in session, in a circle, watching over this rare singularity. Steadfast you remain, at the edge of this tear in the fabric of all things urban; in the dark, you wait, your back supported by the solid trunk of a sourgum. Be informed: at the ‘hole’, the ground is muddy and projects a halo of fetid musk. Also, repress all ADD’s and kill your freakin’ Blackberry. This place commands the patience and silence of hunter-gatherers so please revert to stealth mode and just relax; breath deeply with your eyes wide-open and you shall see, trust me, a surprise worthy of a million world economies.
While you’re waiting, you can practice your ‘feel’: winds from the south-west are faint, but real, a warm caress on your left cheek, this is the ‘invisible hand’ of mother earth, stroking your face, at the ungodly hour of 5 am, with no one around. You might think you’re alone, in a city of 9 million, as you stand by the ‘hole’, this small irregularity on the eastward fringe of New York City, but you’re not. You have Gaia, the offspring of chaos, by your side - she just kissed you on the cheek.

6 am and sunrise. Look skyward, crane your neck, pretend you’re a tourist. Slowly, but surely, first a trickle, then a cascade of small songbirds. Hundreds of them. A snowfall of feathers. Fall out! Out of nowhere it seems. Through a wormhole. Kirk to Enterprise! They’re alighting in the branches, 100 feet above you. Use your binoculars: the birds mingle with the orange and lime-green petals of the Tulip tree, the catkins of the Oaks. Tanagers, warblers, thrushes. They bounce around. They flit. Roll over Duracell bunny! These guys are on a mission. They have traveled hundreds of miles over night and they’re super hungry (and you have traveled one hour by subway from Manhattan to greet them, so…). They’ve been migrating for weeks from way south, South America even. They’re nocturnal migrants; they navigate by using the stars as reference points. They too, have discovered this ‘hole’, this fracture, this opening in the impervious cover of the county of Queens. They’re attracted to it like paperclips to a magnet. They begin to buzz and trill and whistle the second they land in the trees and then, just as quickly, start to glean the upper twigs for inchworm caterpillars, products of the urban food-chain.

They sing as they hunt, then sing some more… The prerogatives of birdhood! They do not stop to sleep. They are pumped for reproduction.

On a good day in May, by the ‘hole’, you can see hundreds of these high-metabolism bundles of tropical biodiversity. Weighing in at only 9 to 12 grams, they’re feather-weight, quite literally and are also known as ‘Neotropical’ species; i.e.: they live south of the border 8 to 9 months out of the year yet choose to invest our hemisphere each breeding season, and to raise a family in our midst, before returning to the jungles and coffee plantations of Central and South America in the fall. Some, like the Blackpoll warbler, head even further north to nest, to the far cold reaches of the boreal forest in northern Canada - no visas required.
For now, they grace us with the colors of postcards and Caribbean cocktails: Scarlet Tanager, Red-eyed vireo, Ruby-throated Hummingbird. Blue-winged warbler, Cerulean warbler, Indigo Bunting. Pick your favorite primary. Maybe you prefer contrasts, aposematics: Black-throated Blue warbler, Black-throated Green warbler. Need something really exotic? How about Chestnut-sided or Golden-winged warblers. Erotic? Rose-breasted Grosbeaks. Care for some desert? The Bay-breasted Warbler looks like a piece of milk-chocolate dipped in cherry liqueur. Or the Blackburnian, looking like it just dunked its head in orange juice. Such playful vibrancy of color: Miro on acid!

These ‘neotropical’ birds, all immigrants, every single one of them.

If you wait a while longer, you’ll get to see them from just a few feet away. Slowly, inevitably, as the clock creeps towards 7 and then 8 am, joined by resident cardinals, Blue Jays and the ubiquitous black-throated brown (a.k.a. the common house sparrow), all of the above begin to cascade downwards, fluttering in spirals, towards the ‘hole’. As if sucked down, vacuumed, swallowed by a vortex. Truth is: they need a drink, a bath. They have flown all night, flapped their wings thousands of times, exhausted their fat reserves, their ‘fuel’. They've lost water by evaporation. They need to reload. Reboot. Refresh. This ‘hole’ (you’ve already guessed) is a water hole. A small puddle of yucky brown urban brew, in a remote corner of Forest park; yet it holds the power of life. It is the only water for miles around (of cement). For all life in need, an Oasis. A new beginning.

From water we come, to water we return. Raindrops. I’m not joking. What’s a human fetus swimming in amniotic liquid ? It’s a fish in the ocean, transported onto solid ground and over evolutionary time. We have brought the ocean onto land because without it (our very own cradle and life support system) we’d be toast. Very dry toast indeed. What’s a bird in an egg? Same thing. Yet another fish, transformed over time and across space, in its sheath of calcium shell. Basically, a fragment of re-organized seawater in a nest, come ashore, like some D-Day gizmo, minus Spielberg and the Normandy ketchup-fest. Understand: we are our own amphibious vehicles. All of us. 60 to 70 % water held together by a backbone. We, as terrestrial and aerial and ground-breaking as we might seem, neotropical birds and humans alike, turtles and snakes and bumblebees too, are reorganized fragments of water. Ocean water. Plodding (or jet-streaming) puddles of H20, with a pinch of salt, a few tablespoons of carbon and a hint of nitrogen thrown in. Shaken, not stirred. For 4 billion years.
Thanks to whom? To the mighty Pre-Cambrian and all that bubbled before it, crucible of our autopoiesis. We exist because we emerged within some primordial chowder (picture Adam and Eve as clams, ‘in an Octopus’s Garden…’), then gradually morphed and split, from the first singular prototypical cell (first the membrane, then the peptides within..) to the plethora of multicellular, dorky, limbed and boney (or not) billions of creatures of today’s planet, those who chose to stay in the water as well as those who spread out over the land. To which I might add: Our ‘coming-out’ (on foot and onto terra firme) is a mind-boggling feat of physics. For ocean water (i.e.: very simple physical matter) to have succeeded in winching itself out of the deep, fueled by solar energy alone, for to occupy the earth and atmosphere… is more than mind-boggling; it’s liberating. Imagine the Headlines: ‘water initiates conquest of space by invading land’. Mission accomplished!

Problem is, where to next? Well, according to my old friend Sigmund (an Austrian fellow) we’re so scared of death we end up fearing any outcome, i.e.: the future. That’s any future. So we spend our lives in a permanent state of regression, like neutered house cats. We confuse the courageous with the bluntly stupid, acts of devolution. Things like going to war or sucking one’s thumb. Take David Blaine: he’s so visibly scared of tomorrow he decided to publicly reenter a pseudo fetus at Lincoln square; symbolically, the womb of all life: the ocean. Crybaby!
Sorry Blaine, but there is no turning back. We have no other choice but to protect our water. Our watershed and all our waterholes. We need a collective pool of ‘environmental awareness’; let me rephrase that: we need some serious ‘humanism’. Lemme explain: to bathe in clean water, to drink clean water is to be clean water. Like I said, from water we come, to water we return. Raindrops. Privileged vessels within the water cycle. Poison the water, poison yourself. Poison the aquifer, commit suicide (the reverse can also work). Fide the words of David Suzuki: ‘We are a blob of water, with enough organic thickener added so we don't dribble away on the floor’. Immediate, rational, conclusion: we are the environment. There can be no distinction possible.

Accordingly, one cannot protect ‘nature’. One might only protect oneself. To ‘preserve the environment’ is preposterous (and anyhow, just another playing out of our purported ‘dominion over all life’). What we need to protect is us and our experience in nature. What did I say? The human experience. Secular humanism. Mike Fellar taught me that: “Give me all the lofty reasons for conservation, global warming, ecosystem services, all that jazz. What I want is for my kids to be able to smile and giggle and laugh and climb a tree and chase a butterfly. That should be our reason. Confer Martin Buber and the ‘I and thou’.”

For now, at the waterhole in Queens us people and Neotropical migrants and Tulip Trees alike, we exist thanks to them. The atoms. The molecules. Simple shit. They, the elements, buzz back and forth; H20 out, H20 back in*. Around and around. Keeping us alive. How generous and how kind. Confer the Rose-breasted Grosbeak. The inchworm. Need more proof? Come to the ‘hole’, the ‘gap in the map’ and see for yourself. Peer into this small puddle of muck. Narcissistic bundle of reorganized ocean, you!

Incidentally, on a good day in May you will see more than just birds at the ‘hole’; you’ll bump into packs of people come to watch the show. Unlike other good ‘spots’ in the City, everything here happens at very close range. The birds are determined to drink and to bathe, and equally fool-hardy. So they look ‘tame’. They land a few feet away, at your feet. It’s the closest you’ll get in NYC to a ‘Galapagos effect’. The waterhole is small, the size of your living room, so the birds converge, they concentrate, they crowd. Think about it: latino birds, from South America, most have traveled thousands of miles in a few weeks, winging it de noche, landing for a swim and a drink, just a few feet away. Eye-contact. Epiphany. Rainbows of red, orange, blue, green, yellow and every nuance in between. All the while they warble and they chant. Sweet birdsong, icing on the cake.
The rarer the species, the better, of course. Something to compete for. Because birding is a national neurosis, something we share with the Brits, a hand-me-down trait from the Victorian gentleman’s obsession with ‘collecting’ specimens. Throw in a few gallons of capitalistic cultcha’, the most aggressive city in the world (NY) and you have the Big Apple birder. Endearing, yet incurable. Rabid. Us birders, we've got avian OCD, we crave numbers, we compete for the 'biggest' list; we’re the zoological equivalent of the Wall Street trader (minus the moola). We forget to watch and observe and study, most of the time we just consume what we see. Then on to the next bird, the next species. We covet, we lust for possession, we're delusional. We don’t say “yesterday, I saw a Summer Tanager”. We say: “I had a Summer Tanager.”

Need to interpret the world around you ? Listen to it. It’s all in the collective slip of the tongue. O Sigmund, where art thou…

And we compete for such ridiculously small and ephemeral increments of ‘power’. Some other birder sees something you haven’t -- so you’re jealous. Childish. Will we ever?

Watching a bird can be so much more. Today, at the Hole, Val and I rinse ourselves with fresh Canada warbler (bright yellow with a necklace of blue tear drops), a Hooded Warbler (bright yellow too, with a hood and chin strap of jet-black). Oh ! Look, there’s goes a Wilson’s warbler, with his black Yamika! Over there, quick, a male Black-and-white Warbler. The most beautiful of all. Why ? “Because it reveals the infinity of nuance in the world around us, that’s why.” This spiced-up quote is from our friend Alan Messer (the bird artist). Here’s what he showed us: when you pause to observe a Black-and-white warbler (it actually looks like a zebra with wings; only the lines are horizontal, not vertical), and you see it land on a branch you’d have previously discounted as brown and dull and boring, all of a sudden the bird reveals the true nature of the bark as being a complex meshing of infinitesimal patches of violet, green, Bordeaux, mauve. Pale blue-grays and dark ambers suddenly stick out. Thanks to the stark contrast of the very black and white bird, a flying counterpoint, a winged reminder. Tree bark (technically, dead plant skin) is a kaleidoscope of what, ultimately, we always tend to overlook: the obvious, the common. The usual. Ever play camouflage ? Same idea. The best ones at it are the artists, our ‘pollinators’ of society, our observers of beauty. Preservers of what fertility we might still claim as a species. Thank you, Allan. Thank you black and white.

Conclusion. Go to the ‘hole’. Take the 4 am subway, the F or the E. Get off at Kew Gardens and stumble into the woods. The visual impact of a neotropical migrant at close range at 6am is shocking. Two simple colors in combo and you cry ‘how beautiful’. Your body pumps out a rush of adrenaline. Your heart beats louder. Throat tightens. Flushed cheeks. The fix. The addiction. Quick, a glass of water.


With many carbon atoms to share,
xoxo
Dave and Val


Epilogue: there are two very interesting spots to birdwatch in spring as hundreds of species of birds (and millions of individuals) pass through NYC. Not only from an ornithological but also from an anthropological (again!?) point of view. This waterhole in Queens and the Ramble in Central Park both attract birds, birders and gay prostitutes. You can be standing there in the bushes, contemplating the 4 colors of a Parula Warbler, drooling with wonderment, when suddenly, in the back ground, male to male fellatio. Whoa! Urban ecology 101! What with all us nerdy birders in the foreground, the colors of the birds themselves and the hunks in the background, scenes like this could only have been spun by the great Hieronymus Bosch himself.

*Try this experiment at home: say 50 of you guys are reading this webpage. Everyone of you breathe in… now, breathe out. Statistically, one of you just inhaled a carbon atom that belonged to Cleopatra’s body. Nose or hinder? That is the question…
p.s.: Val and I will be in the jungles of Venezuela on our NNYN-Green Hollow outreach program with the Ye’kuana tribe and Cornell University, working on land demarcation, GIS mapping and solar technology with the village of Jodoimenna. Our next blog (in July) will tell you the story of our trip. Have an excellent month of June!

Chapter 5_Big Apple of our eye


What is beauty, exactly: A bribe ? A reward ? Or the promise of something eerily different... This (beautiful) image (c) Val Druguet @ last week's Easter Day Parade.

Friday, April 28th. So-called 'Earth Day' has come and gone and Val and I stayed at home (28th and 7th) and celebrated by reproducing. Afternoon delight. Given all the ambient Gaia vibe going on outside we thought it an appropriate homage to springtime. What with Easter, Passover, spring break... We partied accordingly. Our right of spring. You party therefore you are. Our ancestors agree.
Rest of the time we've been stuck, per usual, our faces in the dirt, rummaging through the understory of New York City's remaining wilderness. Naturalists at large, birding, butterflying, botanizing, come raindrop or sunburn. Guess what: in the past 2 weeks bonanza's of new wildflowers have sprung. Virginia Blue Bells, white Wood Anemone, sulfur-toned Sessile Bellworts, wild Pink Azaleas... Eye-candy! Big apple of our eye!
In scientific nomenclature, that’s Mertensia virginica, Anemone quinquefolia, Uvularia sessilifolia, Rhododendron nudiflorum. Annie Dillard says that seeing is an act of verbalization - you visualize what you can call out by name.
I see things twice. Once in English, once in Latin. I’m stereo-lingual. Either that or permanently drunk. In my own, personal idiom, the above list can also translate as ‘soft leathery petals, pools of pepper-scented honey, pert pistils and erectile stamens, magic carpets of ocular titillation’. Simple sensual stuff, the opposite of downtown traffic. The dark menstrual rose of red bud. Lawn violets as grass people. The Crayola-crayon-green shock of the Norway maple bud. One large psychedelic megaboomblast color explosion (And I'm still stuck in the sixties…)
The flower list thickens: wild ginger, may apple, smooth yellow violet. I.e.: Asarum canadense, Podophyllum peltatum, Viola pubescens… How polite. These names come with a surname. Respectability. Attribution of kinship. The beauty of the Linnaean language (aforementioned Latin names) is that it describes a being’s relation to the world, its bloodline. It attempts to tell the full story of a plant or animal’s place in time and evolution. I believe it speaks to us of the relationship between a being and the sum of all Life. First the Species, then the Genus to which it and others belong, then the Family to which it and even more species and genera belong. That’s like daughter/son, mother/father, grandmother/father… The Linnaean system reads like a recognition of ancestry, a tribute to history and to belonging. A language of community. I party, therefore I am.
Likewise, the beauty of the common name lies in the story it tells of our relation to the plant, thus of our dialogue with nature at large; for hundreds of thousands of years, wildflowers were our natural medicine cabinet, our Alibaba’s cave of natural remedies. Toothwort ? The plant that cures our tooth ache. ‘Wort’, from the old English equivalent to ‘root’, meaning herb, which is actually from the French ‘herbe’. Confused ? A solution is in the works.
A current project intends to supplement all common and Latin names with barcodes and phylogenetic codes. Numbers. Zeros and Ones. Similarly, Bill Gates and his buddies were caught on C-span by yours truly at their annual nerd fest at Davos this past winter; they were reveling in the idea that thanks to the information revolution the entire planet would soon be entirely translated into digital, replicated, virtually cloned. With zeros and Ones.
Onto silica we jump! Hurry! Quick! Before we run out of the original!
Come to think of it, ever notice how many people around you (that includes me and Val) are actually running around with digital cameras these days? And all these dodos with mobile phones that take digital snapshots? Then upload them onto their computers (confer kodak moment above)... Seems to me the whole world has turned into one giant photography slave feeding binary information to a machine. O Terminator, where art thou ?
I predict that some day soon, even our conversations and gossip will be reduced to the Pythagorean ideal. Plus or minus. Yes or no. Nothing but numbers! We’ll all speak Math, the so-called universal idiom. Maybe then we’ll finally realize how much language really counts. HA!

Back to my main point: Angiosperms and the beauty thereof. Val and I will readily admit to (again) spending all of our time flirting with wildflowers and other life in our usual boudoirs: Alley Pond, Queens; the North woods of Central Park; Inwood; Prospect Park. We walk around like drunken idiots (at least I do), foaming at the mouth, slaves to our senses and built-in endorphin factories; we fumble through the budding forests and botanical gardens of NYC, snorting crabapple, cherry, hyacinth, lilac, tulips with names like ‘corsage’ and ‘day dream’… We’re stoned out of our minds. At the sheer sight and smell of a bunch of male and female sexual organs glued to a freakin’ branch. The question is: Why ?!
To find out, we went to this lecture last night on the evolutionary roots of beauty at the American Museum of Natural History, given by renowned ecologist Gordon Orians. According to this fine gentleman what Val and I are really after (subconsciously) is the fruit and nourishment of all life. Beauty as food - and vice versa. When we go naturalizing for flora, we’re actually ‘hunter-gathering’. And guess what - it plays out just like foreplay. Each new species, shape or scent or form we bump into brings on a rush of pleasure, a soothing flush of emotion; with every new epiphany with some gaudy shock of biodiversity comes a heartfelt reward (important word in the following paragraphs), i.e.: a micro-orgasm (O Epicure!).
All of this has a purpose, of course. Namely, survival.
Orians hypothesizes that the human species (like the bowerbird) is in many ways addicted to the fancy and the colorful, because as primates we relied for eons on our powers of discernment and appreciation to find food and survive in the deep dark woods of our primeval ancestry. Oooo! Ripe red fruit! Apple of my eye! Grunt! Hoot! Whoop!
Yup, our delectation in Beauty is a de facto built-in reward system. We evolved (rule of thumb) to enjoy doing what is good for us, i.e.: that which ensures our continued existence. Survival of the prettiest! Confer all nervous sensations produced by intercourse. Reproduction. “Star rockets in flight…” Beauty is what we survive on. We compete for it: Oooo! Ripe red fruit! Grunt! Punch! Eviscerate! Stab! Steal! Whoop!
How odd: this whole theory of beauty rings like a projection – and justification- of our own belief and value systems. (Not mine, the one of our current establishment, pumped as it is on its own ideology and practice of social Darwinism and fanatical belief in competition, contest and prizes). Beauty, the trophy.
The rarer the better, of course. The louder the 'Eureka!', the bigger the buzz. We pay attention to that which is uncommon, deviant, off the bell-curve. Mutational. Beauty, whose requisite is variance, diversity, change. Evolution!
Beauty, concludes Orians, is something that lies in the ‘adapted’ mind of the beholder.’ (Sounds like E.0. Wilson's "beauty lies in the genes of the beholder"). As a species, he adds, we have even figured out how to use it (beauty) to our advantage, as currency, for status. For sex and for power. The more of it we hoard and keep (priceless art or expensive roses) and display (enter the Rolls Royce and the Strip-dancers), the richer we are, the more seductive, the more mates, the more offspring. Yadda-yadda. The more of everything. Sounds to me like shopping at Wholefoods. Glutinous out-of-control bowerbirds. Oh dear… Did liking red apples lead us one day into Iraq? It led us out of the Garden!
So we have it: spring wildflowers are as erotic as cheesecake. Sweet, refreshing and fat with visiting bumblebees that suck themselves through the crisp, spring air (Bees don’t ‘fly’, they create vortexes with their wings into which their bodies are then hoovered, silently).
And so I wonder: since beauty stands for survival and continuity, could reveling in the splendid and the sublime (and the glory of wildflowers) be our last shot at eternity - apart from building pyramids and cryogenics? For us, meager species, cursed with the conscious and unspeakable fear of death ? I.e.: is beauty something we use to vacuum ourselves into tomorrow, into the afterlife ? Are we like bumblebees? Is beauty our vortex ? Our aspiration?
I’ll be honest with you. And a tad intellectual (yawn). I agree with Professor Orians - and I disagree. Because I am both a dilettante reductionist and a devout structuralist, depending on the hour. Sure, beauty can be a reward, a trophy (the selfish point of view); but it can also be that which helps to create something greater than the sum of all participating components (the selfless point of view). Beauty is a whisper, a promise, an invitation to something 'larger'. A tantalizing perfume, a hook that grabs us by the senses and hauls us into something bigger than ourselves: an emerging order, with emergent properties. An afterlife! When we answer the call of beauty we are participating in a megaverse that is greater than the sum of all beings, molecules, atoms. Ultimate eye-candy!
Very unfortunately, this ‘megaverse’ to which I am referring is something to which we are destined to be blind. We cannot see it for we are stuck inside of it. Just as a carbon molecule trapped within a sugar atom will never know just how creatively sweet he or she is, we remain clueless as to what emanates from the assemblage of so much beauty in the world and cosmos around us. Similarly, like brain cells in a brain, we have no idea how collectively conscious (or not) we really are.
Take artists. They pollinate society by ferreting out new ideas, flying them from gallery to gallery. Just like bees pollinate the woods around us - by buzzing from flower to flower. Poetry, in motion. Will never the read the totality of the poem it is helping to write.
What I’m getting at (am I?) is that a wildflower (or an apple) is the infra of another, supra-world to come. A symbol not of fertility, but of yet more fertility, just around the corner - to us unknown. Today’s creativity, tomorrow’s creatures - to us unknown. Sure, beauty can signify fruit and sex and pleasure and plenty in the moment; it is also an invitation for us to partake in the creation of an invisible future. As yet unseen - and unnamed. Did dinosaurs dream of turning into birds? To contemplate beauty takes courage. It is potential chaos. It is uncertainty. It is the seething community of “Fornikation” so abhorred and adored by Werner Herzog. Ever been into the rainforest ? It is more than beautiful. It is the sperm and egg of tomorrow’s sublime.
For my Ye'kuana friends (a tribe in southern Venezuela), there is Wanato, the Spangled Cotinga, an electric blue and plum-throated bird species of the rainforest canopy. Today's iridescence of the 'birdman' - he who invented beauty in a time long before ours.
Beauty as process. Through today’s wildflowers and berries and apples and other plays and works of art we are invited to act. To take action. Beauty as Verb. To be beautiful. Our chance to evolve. When I stare at a wildflower, or a jungle, I’m looking straight through an open door of endless possibility, into tomorrow’s design. Let go! To acknowledge beauty everywhere (in a worm, a slug, a snake) is to agree to be a part of that process of evolution and life. Ultimately, it is to accept and acknowledge death. The vortex ahead. We too, have the potential to be beautiful.
Which reminds me: A week ago Sunday Val and I did not go “shopping” for wildflowers in the understory. For once. Because another pagan festival snatched us en route. The Easter day hat parade in Midtown, on 5th Avenue - Capital of all things perpendicular and monolithic and perfect. Trump Tower Road. If only Plato had lived to see it! We took our niece, Olivia, who is a freshwoman at Barnard’s, originally from Seattle. Her first year in New York. Pastel pinks and blues and greens were everywhere. The air was fresh with sunshine and the smiles of a thousand imbeciles.
You’ve never been ? This is how it works (or rather, ‘plays out’): each person has an orgy going on his/her head. That is to say, a whole bunch of people show up in front of St Patrick's Cathedral with weird, hand-crafted hats that tower into the air, replete with built-in green gardens on platforms smothered in pink flowers and hosting wired mobiles of dangling red butterflies and bluebirds and stuffed bunnies with eggs and the like... One guy even had a living parrot – an African Gray- on his hat; the bird responded by chewing up all of the hat’s plastic biodiversity. And then there’s everybody else. All the you’s and the me’s who show up to ogle the guys with the hats. And take pictures with digital cameras. And hoot “how beautiful!”
Look deeper. Easter Day Hat parade is the only parade in NY where the military don’t show up or death is not on full display (Halloween has ghosts, Saint Patty’s got soldiers with guns. And Bloomberg). Accordingly, it’s the only parade where people are neither forced nor obliged to walk in a straight line nor crowd and scrunch-up behind police barriers. For once, a real day off. Walking is random, circular, disorderly. Non linear and chaotic. People own the street. People go Bumpeteebump. They say excuse me and exchange innocuous looks. The entire crowd is like matter in a state of plasma, before stuff signs up to be an atom or a molecule. Free, living energy. Pre Big-Bang material. “Sky rockets in Flight…”
At first I stand there with my mouth open. Goop! I bask in the reflected glory of seeing no mission, no target, no objective in the crowd, other than the freedom of movement itself. Bakunin would have loved this. Forgive the following snippet of sexist speculation but I also see this parade as something exquisitely feminine. Intrinsically creative. Easter=Ishtar=Fertility Goddess, she who rises in the East. As in Estrogen. Don’t believe me ? Ask Google.
I just finished reading a recent study about army ants (the ones in the tropics that swarm by the millions in vast columns and devour and disassemble stuff en route). In it, the authors show how crowds (like ants) spontaneously form lines and columns as a means of collective discipline and order and all around beneficial regimentation. Like people on a side walk going to work in Manhattan, ants spontaneously begin to form lines going one way, lines going the other, in the heat of ant rush-hour (ants don't need traffic cops - they self organize). It is the collective intelligence of crowds to thus reduce bumps and run-ins and get people to wherever people have to go in as short amount of time as possible. With the least amount of hassle possible. Soooooo clever.
Not so at the Easter day hat parade! This thing seems brainless, like watching bumper cars on cocaine (or me and Val rambling around NYC looking for wildflowers); participants stumble about in a state of sheer anarchy. The ultimate duh-fest. Nobody gets angry (except for one very up-tight hag whom I overhear reprimanding ("shame!") a black dude for showing up in medieval drag à la Lord of the Rings).
So just on this day, it seems, New Yorkers are allowed to be something other than neat and orderly and efficient (and stressed out); they get to transcend the grid from within, supercede the machine, to be other than just a competent component - or cog. More than just a 0 or a 1, flying around the motherboard of Mannahatta... Thank G*d for Easter ! On this blissfuly confused day of Spring, our Euclidian geometry collapses. Newton is dead. Descartes never existed. What a beautiful mess, Mr. Orians !
Three years ago, at my first Easter Day Parade, in the middle of all this gooey happiness there was one person, however - a man - attempting to steer and control traffic. He was old. Petrified. A patriarch ? He was standing quite appropriately at the corner of 5th and 50th street. At an intersection. At a perpendicular within the Grid. He had a big sign that read something about the apocalypse and Jesus Christ our savior. He was an evangelist. He was shouting out prophecy and doomsday. “Repent ! Blasphemers and sinners ! For the day of reckoning has come…” I stared at Val. Val stared at me. This man was directing traffic alright, spiritual traffic. Seemed he couldn’t stand all this disorderly pagan conduct, these hearts and souls lost in the leisure of uncertainty. And beauty. Had we disrupted his grid ? Ever the semiologist (one who reads signs) and the devout Jungian, I suddenly realized the Christian cross itself can look something like a mathematical, X Y axis. Religion, the Cartesian system? Bear with me, look at a cross, or make one with your fingers: it's a perpendicular, right? It evokes 'up and down', 'right vs. left', plus or minus, the superior and the inferior. Order, hierarchy, submission (the stuff of crucifixion). Yuk.
As a quietly rebellious teen in the 70’s I used to enjoy when Carl Sagan would rant on TV about the Pythagoreans’ belief in a perfect, immortal, non existent, world of mathematical ideals. I remember him explaining it as a means for Greek citizens at large to explain and justify and legitimize their own value system – a so-called democracy that would permit and rationalize slavery. Inferior people in a superior world.
Mr. Gates, meet the Greeks. Or come to the NYC Easter Hat parade.
Speaking of numbers, some of you may know of William Wallace, NYC’s most cheerful historian and talking head on the PBS series “New York”. In it he postulates that the famous grid and number system of New York City (are you listening, Mr. Gates?) were devised to make it easy for inbound illiterate people from all over the world who couldn’t speak English to find their way. Maybe it just turned out that way. Maybe what was really going on was more conspiratorial. Two years back I read a Masters thesis by a geography student who theorized that the Manhattan Grid (the first of its kind, and the first to be born of the Industrial Revolution (that which defecates on the Commons) and the age of Modernity (that which urinates on the past)) was in fact a planned, strategized, well thought-out effort by the power system to control and file the populace with easy access to their numbers. People had become numbers. Order. Hierarchy. Submission. Yuk !
So Pythagoras rules (he who hath a lithp and pithes in public, hence ‘Pith-agoras’; Agora, from the Greek meaning ‘public place’, all of this according to an old and good friend of mine, my older brother Andrew). As do computers all assembled into one automaton, like the one I’m plugged into right now, the one filing all my thoughts as 0’s and 1’ as I e-blast this rant off into cyberspace. O Morpheus!, where the fcuk art thou?
Joseph Campbell used to say computers were like an old testament god - a lot of rules and no mercy.
One last item: back in 2003, most of all hats at the Easter Day parade were signs of protest against the war in Iraq. People had created imaginative battle scenes on their heads using toy soldiers smothered in ketchup holding flowers and little signs that read: “make love, not war”. Rather appropriate for an Easter day Parade! This year, 2006, all seems to have been forgotten. Or fully accepted. Or simply acknowledged. As in ‘Mission accomplished’. Anesthetized. PC. Clean.
Wait a minute ! There's this one damsel, wholesomely revealing in her Arabian attire, belly-dancing in the middle of the crowd (confer Kodak moment above) with some dude playing some middle-eastern music in the background, from the sidewalk. I wonder: this Princess Leia prancing around the pavement... a trophy? She's straight out of an old Cecil B. DeMille flick. I believe in the power of the unconscious, meta-communication, Freudian slips of the collective tongue. This woman might be the unknowing and unspeakable sign that we are proud to have pillaged and plundered Mesopotamia with shameless success. She embodies the prize. We have returned from battle, victorious. With loot - the smooth skin and buoyant hips of a young dancing Arab. Beauty as reward. O Wildflower from ‘A Thousand and one nights’! Symbol of fertility. Mother of all virgins. Eye-Candy from the East. Slave. Apple of our eye.
Ishtar ! The spirit of Easter, fully captured... And she's dancing like she's the best 'number' in town.


aim before you shoot!
Dave Rosane and Val Druguet

Chapter 4_Flower power and the business of poetry


Hungry ? Try some of our bloodroot. Just leave the wild ones alone, you can get the extract from natural food shops. Excellent in small doses, but lethal in large. Image (c) Val Druguet

April 11th 2006. A quick flurry of words to let you know that for the past four days Valerie and I have been running around NYC and seeing it like it was a candy store (or Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory). Callery Pears in Chelsea look like giant sugar cones, Staten Island Magnolias like strawberry softies, Brooklyn cherry trees like cotton candy, Manhattan forsythia like yummy blobs of golden pudding. Tulips everywhere, armies of lollypops. It’s no exaggeration; these plants are sweet and full of nectar and smell of honey. That’s because they are candy. Bee candy. Bonbons for beetles. Instantly gratifying sugar fixes for the insect world. Val and I stop to wonder: did flowers invent the flying insect? Or vice-versa?
You know the story of pollination, right. The humble, hard working bee (be it a bumble-, a honey- or a stingless bee) gorges itself on nectar, in exchange for which the plant uses the insect (as a flying penis) for some vicarious sex. We’ve elaborated on this before: it’s called mutualism. Today I have a royal flush of new words and metaphors for your consideration: how about ‘contract’, ‘currency exchange’ ‘non-zero sum agreement’, ‘merger’? Join me for a second in redefining pollination as the ultimate win-win business deal, something enormously lucrative to both parties from which plant and insect both walk away enriched with food, life or progeny. Namely, survival – something so expensive it’s actually priceless. Life, the fortune. Alexander Hamilton, may you ‘rolleth’ in your grave.
Where was I…Ah yes, Cherry trees in Central, Daffodils in planters on Park, petunias peeking out of window sills in Tribeca, all very nice and appetizing and sweet and aesthetic and evanescent and refreshing and yadda-yadda… For Val and I there are flowers more discreet, rare, demanding than your average downtown pansy. Don’t get me wrong; we love street-side Ginkgos and such, it’s just that contrived nature turns us off (a little), like when plants are confined to cement sidewalks and giant marbled winter-garden planters and stuck behind bars…
We need (we all need) something a tad more functional, more precious, delicate, gentle. Something community-based, in the ecological sense of the word. Plants that grow from soil that feeds off of death and detritivores that are trampled by mammals and sung by birds and live under 100 year old trees and belong to space and volume and time. An ecosystem. Something open to iteration, transformation, growth - in Greek, that’s metabole, the process of change. Something Robert Wright has hypothesized as the real meaning of life, i.e.: the freedom to evolve, diversify, recycle and grow, outwards. It’s been the ongoing project of planet earth for the past 4,6 billion years – incremental, ornate complexity, the unfolding of ‘meaning’ itself. From proto bacteria to the human mind. Life creates knowledge. Some call it Nature, today I feel like calling it Psyche, from the Greek ‘spirit’ or ‘breath of life’.
Because in the beginning there was nothing, and then there was habitat, and in it, bewildering, mind-boggling, clusters of mad-hot steaming wildflowers, of which NYC still has its fair share - you just gotta know when and where to go to see them. And just how far and how long its gonna take you to get there. Inwood. Van Cortlandt. Pelham Bay. Mt Loretto. The last ‘natural’ areas of NYC. A day on a bike? A week on foot? Psyche to me is like a cat: irresistible, but demanding of distance and patience and time. Eternity time.
Take the poppy family (I dig natural medicines and dreamtime drugs), and consider one of its sexiest members: the lovely celandine poppy - as bright as butter! All over Inwood Park in northern Manhattan. Beware its golden-orange sap - it’s toxic (I wear it as war paint nonetheless… I smear a streak of it on my cheek bones and hope I don’t faint. Big deal. My friends the Ye’kuana of southern Venezuela rub poisondart frog secretions into topical cuts and this improves their vision for night-time hunting trips. Understand that at low levels the alkaloids act to enhance visual acuity). Poison, you know, is actually just a matter of dosage. A little bit can actually help you, a lot of it will simply kill you.
Consider yet another solid, serious member of the poppy family: bloodroot. Equally beautiful. Equally deadly (again, in high doses). The plant is named for its venomous red sap that can work, so I’ve read, in low doses as an alternative cure to cancer. Native American woman apparently smeared it all over their bodies as a purifying body paint and mosquito repellent or when summoned to sleep with Captain Smith. Today the Bloodroot grows abundantly in a place called bloodroot valley, on Staten Island, thanks to botanist Richard Lynch who reintroduced the species there, on a slope, a small ravine and streamside from which it had disappeared. Picked to death. No wonder, because the flower is a lovely, snow-white and delicate sundial of multiple, elongated petals revolving around a hub of bright yellow stamens. Do not touch or even sneeze: so fragile this plant will fall apart.
An early bloomer, bloodroot slithers up out of the underworld in the first days of April and protects itself by hiding its flower within a folded leaf against late snows and cold spells. Sometimes when I look at the emerging white bud of a blossom I see a small white head of a man wrapped in a cape (the closed leaf, yet to unfold). Flower or Dracula ? Then there’s the r-rated description: Clitoris sheathed in labia. What can I say? Naturalists are lonely, under-socialized people, especially botanists, like those who gave the butterfly pea the Latin name Clitoria ternatea, for its suggestive appearance. Here I pause to quote my own wife’s words when she first smelled the fly-pollinated flower of the Skunk cabbage: “yuk, old genitalia!”. True, the flower does whiff a bit of nuoc man (Vietnamese sauce made from dried fish), which is how it attracts flies.
Take yet another favorite poppy of ours: Dutchman’s Breeches. If you’ve never stood eye-to-eye with one, crouching in the undergrowth, spread-eagled out on the forest floor in botanical contemplation of the universe, then imagine in your mind (you can shut your eyes for this experiment) that you’re caressing fern-like basal leaves as soft as goose down from which heroic albeit fragile stems emerge, covered in pearls which at closer inspection look like miniaturized, 16th century underwear hung out to dry on a laundry line. Evolution bears such creativity.
Scientific footnote: there is a theory that these early spring plants (also called spring ephemerals because they don’t last long) grow on forest floors and emerge way before leaves emerge on the trees in order to profit from in-coming sunrays for photosynthesis before they’re shaded out by the forest canopy and of course, to benefit from the early rising bumblebees and other pollinators. File and remember. Better yet, follow us into the field next time you’re in town. We host regular field trips on Saturdays, open to the public. One note of caution: we do the MTA. We straphang. We’re underground.
Last Friday we took the number one all the way up to Van Cortlandt (last stop), in the Bronx. Then on Saturday we took some students to Inwood (last stop on the A train). Then Sunday, we jumped on to the ferry then made the bus to the middle of Staten Island. 4 hour round trips. Entire days in the field. All of this to see and to film and to study and to ultimately share with you here on these pages our desperate love for early spring wildflowers. Someone’s got to do it (fide Ed Abby).
Let’s focus on the Van Cortlandt trip, the one last Friday. Arriving at the end of the subway line, Val and I proceed to walk 4 miles into the ‘north’ woods of the park. We sweat our way up a slope. Bare silver trees. Brown leaves. The forest, a skeleton beneath a big blue sky. We salute a passing morning cloak: spring’s first butterfly, fluttering by. We catch its milk-chocolate wings, cappuccino cream-colored margins, rimmed with flakes of grape skin. Epiphany or gourmet food? Synesthesia rules. We pass joggers on trails, we greet other walkers in the woods, bird-watchers, we see anglers at ponds, turtles on muddy banks, lonely old geezers staring at Canada geese, Canada Geese that stare back. Early pine warblers. Palm warblers. Phoebes. Three Wilson’s snipe, in a small swamp. Squirrels and woodpeckers busy switching trees. Early robins stuffed full of early worms. We slog on, we have one search image, one specific prize. We’re into oak and tulip forest. Up another slope. There’s black walnut as well.
There ! At the base of the trees, carpets of singular, arrow-shaped, green leaves freckled with brown splotches, supporting long stately stems crowned with long, inverted golden petals and sepals. Something like the frilled collars of 16th century royalty. Trout Lily… my favorite, from the lily family, of course, the most populated of plant families in the world (factoid: the lily family includes asparagus and onion).
We look, we feel, we take pictures, we sniff each flower. The stamens are brick red. I decide that trout lilies rule. One patch can top 1300 years. Their roots interlace beneath the leaf litter, they network within the soil, create nodes and circuits of resilience like the mycelia of mushroom, like strands in the world wide web, like dark matter in the universe; they live on, together, interlocked, intermeshed, indivisible, a fabric – somewhat like naturalists meeting in the woods, in city parks, reconnecting, beneath the surface of things, going underground. Today’s roots, tomorrow’s flowers. Trust the trout lily.
For Val and I these spring ephemerals constitute one precious chapter in a year-long animistic pilgrimage. Our ceremony, our celebration. Lilies are the bread we break and the wine we spill. Idem for celandine. For breeches. Predictably, we share a privileged soft-spot for Bloodroot. Blood, the Dam in Adam. The blood of man. The blood of woman. Root, in Hebrew, equals bone. Bloodroot. Bone man. Symbolic thinking, my secret pastime (In Ye’kuana mythology, blood explains the spots on the moon, because Nuna, the moon-man, raped the primordial virgin). Understand: wildflowers and the world at large are our pagan, every day Easter. Year round we celebrate Austran - she who shines in the east, the rising sun. Renewal, revolution, the universe. Today, and tomorrow, and the day after, up until the last, white woodland asters of late fall, through the milkweeds and goldenrods of summer, our outdoor alter will be a permanent fertile cluster of wildflowers. Its host of rambling pollinators. Business partners. To which I might add: all ye merry Christians, bring on the bunnies (they’re for humping), and don’t forget the eggs (we crave their message of fertility). Symbolism, humanity’s secret pastime.
So we gaze, hypnotized. Locked in by trout lilies. We detail their flower heads: they “nod”, i.e.: they point downwards. They remind me of the wives of Henry the 8th, lining up for decapitation. Or New Yorkers walking to work, coming out of trains, bowing as they pass under the ominous dome of Grand Central. Welcome to work ! Heights command respect. So does ideology. And some days I wonder if the beautiful trout lily is bowing submissively to the infinity of the megaverse above, grateful for the stardust from which we all descend. Or maybe she’s just staring at the earth because there’s no where else to go. Paradise, inside. The place we all come from. We start as soil. Dirt. To soil we return. Earth fruit. We do not 'come into' this world, we 'grow out of' this world, quite literally. Like a plant. We are out of this world. Trust the Trout Lily.
Sorry if all this reads like poetic hogwash but ‘Poiesis’ means ‘creation’ in the first place (not THE creation, just life, in general) and was originally derived from the Aramaic : “sound of water pouring over pebbles..” so I get carried away. Downstream. Plus, by ‘nodding’, by bowing its male and female sexual organs, the trout lily is actually guaranteeing that it will be reproduced, thus in a sense re-created (‘re-poeticized’, as it were), by its partner in business, the laboring bumblebee. This I know as a scientific fact: the ‘nod’, the downward-pointing pistils and stamens and nectaries make it much easier for the bee to access the nectar and pollen. A favor returned by the insect: the flower is more easily pollinated. So we’re back where we started: the win-win strategy, the perfect deal. The business of poetry…
Last but not least, I would like to share with you the interplay of seed dispersal that spring flowers have hammered out over evolutionary time with ants. A masterpiece of trade and profit. The mother of all symbiotic ‘mergers’. Here’s how it goes, in a nutshell: the plants produce seeds to which are attached little ‘cup-cake’-like eliasomes (fide the poetry of my friend Mike Fellar, chief naturalist at NYC Parks). The eliasomes are full of lipids that ants like to eat. So when the seeds are ripe and fertile and the bees and flowers have done their mutually lucrative wheeling and dealing, they (the seeds) fall to the ground and the ants haul them and the attached eliasome away to their underground dens and burrows, eat the eliasome or feed it to their young then sort of chuck out the seeds which then proceed to germinate the next season.
So we have it. Ants are the unknown, unknowing gardeners of the forest floor; they disperse and plant the seeds of Trout lilies, Bloodroot, Dutchman’s breeches, etc, etc…in return for a meal. An eliasome cupcake. Here again, a non-zero sum, win-win deal, the ultimate partnership. Except this time it’s more than just business as usual: here we see no sign of toxic waste, not one sight of garbage, not one iota of misery, no stain of pollution, no whiff of exploitation. Nothing but primary productivity. Earth’s bounty. Ultimate prosperity. True wealth. Nature’s economy. Honest to god sustainable development.
As it turns out, this sustainability shtick between ants and flowers has been going on for eons. It appears to be a proven method, i.e.: it ‘works’. Nothing like the trial of time ! 100 million years ago both groups diversified (exploded) on the evolutionary scene and then ‘realized’ they could help each other out. They collaborated, they diversified. In that order. Judging by a study published this week in Science, more and more flower species, then more and more ants, more and more mutualisms, symbioses, occurred at onset of the angiosperms, the ‘flowering plants’. Plants and their new associates the ants started hammering out business deals right, left and center, which in turn created opportunity for even more and more flower and ant species to evolve. To exist. To spread and to multiply.
Life, the ongoing process. Dynamic and intrinsically inventive. Thanks to Autopoiesis (self creation) - bubbling, foaming, erupting, ejaculating diversity. How about we call it ‘Flower-power’ - the business of poetry. CEO’s and share-holders take note…

Hasta pronto!
David Rosane and Val Druguet