Thursday, 14 April 2016

Real World

On the river flats. Its rocks heated by the sun are warm to the touch. Cottonwood buds have opened and the air smells of their resin. Enveloped in aroma, texture, sound and color we sit facing east, watching the river flow over cobble toward the snow covered ridge line in the distance.

Moose and elk tracks are imprinted into the mud around us, kinglets and song sparrows play the melodies of spring, and a grizzly has left its marks next to books I brought along–the poetry of Michael McClure and John Seed.

Thinking about evolution as a tangible presence–a force intelligent enough to reconfigure particles into planets then eventually give rise to the likes of spruce tree, blue grouse, lady bug, eye ball, and algae. Thinking about the solidity of granite–the mountain's timeframe, its presence and position sitting in the same place above this valley as the world goes about its changes.

I am in love with ecological systems–how every single piece of the whole fits perfectly; how every being is an expert in its field; how each contributes to the overall health of the whole; how giving and receiving come naturally. Here death and renewal are timeless companions. Bloody harmony juxtaposed with nest building. Symbiosis and mutualism–fireweed sprouting up from ground recently burned, deer mice depositing mycelium allowing tree to communicate with tree, the intimacy between snowshoe hare and lynx.

Out here Pere Ubu's Real World comes to mind. This is real life in the real world to me. Where random chaos finds order as a forest filled with acutely aware beings. 

The idea of artificial intelligence does not hold my interest. It seems cold and lifeless compared to the presence of the tangible, breathing, libidinous intelligence of the wild world–one which has given birth to innumerable forms which experience real life through sensorial bodies, a living intelligence so intelligent it found a way to marvel at the sight of itself gazing up at the mountain through me.