Los Angeles is a city of extremes. Even after being here for half a year, there are times when I'm still blown away by its duplicity-- the rich hiding away in their mansions, and everyone else below them, struggling to either get there or at least just survive; the striking natural beauty of the mountains and the ocean, brushing up against the cold cement industrialization.
I was stuck in traffic on the 405, on my way to a school in the Valley, when I decided to take a moment and look around out my window. These mountains that look like perfect cardboard cut-outs, stuck to the horizon and looming over the foothills of lush green, all juxtaposed against the immense, sprawling concrete of this place-- they all serve as a constant and beautiful reminder that humans are just a blip on the radar. Someday our structures will all be underwater, or underground. And who knows where we'll be.
I had a conversation with a friend of mine a few days ago about this idea people have of "saving the earth". The truth is-- and I know this sounds odd coming from an environmental activist like myself-- I actually don't think the earth needs saving.
This is what concerns me most about the group I like to call the Leave it Alone Skeptic. They're the ones who almost sound like environmentalists-- They know something's up, they may even admit that humans are causing it. But any action we take as a population is too risky and ultimately pointless because the earth can heal itself.
It seems like we somewhat agree. The primary difference is that I
believe that while the earth will continue to adapt, new species will
evolve and all the old patterns and
species will fade away, and I don't view humans to be above this at all. When I tell students that over the next century we're predicting
20-50% of species to be headed toward extinction, I'm not excluding
humans from that statistic. As much as we want to convince ourselves
that we are the master manipulators of science, biology and even
evolution, the fact remains that we are still animals, dependent on the
earth's conditions to remain constant.
Showing posts with label mountains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mountains. Show all posts
Friday, March 1, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
The time I woke up at 5:30 and drove for 2 hours to the high desert for coffee
OK. It wasn't just for coffee.
But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."
But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.
The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.
For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.
Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious. I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school. Kids beware.
Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.
(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)
But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."
But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.
The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.
For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.
Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious. I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school. Kids beware.
Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.
(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)
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