Why Climate Change Can’t Remain a Fantasized Theory
We will surely perish
As summer 2019 winds down, there’s the sense of how the season turned out to be the failed replication of your favorite drink, in the form of a watered-down fizz that doesn’t match the formula that has always met your expectations.
Most of my summer months were spent in New York City, back when weather patterns were predictable, but all that began to change in 2013.
That was the year our mostly blue skies with white floaty clouds underwent an unplanned makeover. The weepy substitute was a constant, and while I appreciated the ominous ode to the worst job of my life, and how my dampened mood matched the unusually dreary ambiance, there was also the foreboding of what the next few years would bring.
Now we know.
2019 is more than half-way over, and Americans are weathering the life-threatening turbulence of a thuggish administration that boasts a ruthless leader, who thinks that global warming is a blessing because of how it makes the unbearably cold winter months warmly bearable.
We are also bequeathed the disturbing viral images of starving polar bears at the brink of death, and the sobering aftermath of thunderous cyclones and tornadoes that happened without the warning of astute forecasters, who failed to sound the alarm that would’ve saved those poor kids in Alabama.
My testimony begins on a regular summer day, that proceeded as normal into the early evening, when the TV weatherman hinted about an approaching storm that was forming as the consequences for the crazy hot temps that had boiled the area for a week.
There was no indication that the torrential rain was going to be severe enough to warrant extra precaution, and so as the clouds began to gather in response to the predicted forecast, we all calmly received the growing darkness as standard fare.
That was a huge mistake.
There are no words to describe the force of the wind that beckoned the stoic trees into a violent stance. The visuals and sounds swiftly put our household in a state of acute panic, as we contemplated how much worse this unexpected attack could get, if the roaring elements continued to display the temper tantrums of Mother Nature.
The swaying trees weren’t providing entertainment, and that much was clear, as the blackened skies exploded with thunderous screams that gathered energy from that harrowing illustration of how winds can pierce through with deadly vigor.
The resounding downpour didn’t let up until the air was drenched with the disgust of piled up years that led to the moment of truth.
The following morning, during my morning trek to the gym, I was stopped in my tracks by the scattered debris from the torn out branches of what used to be statuesque trees, lining up the driveways to designated apartment complexes.
It was a frightening mess.
The damage from the “low-grade storm” felt like the reactionary kick in the ass that’s orchestrated from a higher power, as the earnest warning that wakes up dormant cells that can’t comprehend the realness of what was illustrated in the prophetic 2011 film Melancholia, when the approaching doomsday mercilessly revealed how humans were scheduled to burn to death in a planetary inferno.
The hellish storm was so angry that it ripped out the side paneling of an apartment building at the entrance of the estate, which basically verified the fact that we experienced an impromptu tornado that was newsworthy for morning news anchors to highlight.
After my workout, I made the effort to extend my walk in order to survey the assaulted grounds that used to boast brilliantly staged greenery and wooded frames, lined up with grace and beauty, until the heavens spat out the rage that cut short the lifespan of firmly planted roots.
The scary part wasn’t the unleashing of a fast and furious beast, it was really the nagging realization of how utterly useless weather forecasters have become in this era of climate change, that showcases the irreversible effects of centuries-long negligence that has conspired in ways that put our lives in real and present danger.
Climate change can’t just be a theory that’s briefly discussed as another method of shaming Donald Trump for being the celebrated doofus, who analyzed the catastrophic California firestorms by publicly berating the stunned victims on Twitter, with the orneriness of an idiotic and inept leader, who isn’t interested in providing the level of security that he swore to uphold.
Governor Gavin Newsom is a Democrat, and that has everything to do with the president’s response to an unprecedented national crisis that should never be the subject of political banter when innocent lives are at stake. Newsom firmly pointed that out with his perfect retort, where he rebuked a criminalized administration for callously downplaying the enormity of a calamity that took lives, and left survivors helplessly displaced until further notice.
We’re now embedded in the scary territory that normalizes the weekly occurrences of sliding cliffs that kill and injure unsuspecting beach goers in San Diego. Or the epic rockslides that unexpectedly commence with the aggression that terrifies gawkers of nature at the Glacier National Park in Montana, who are unprepared for the rocky commotion that leaves a dead body in the back seat of a car.
The horrifying shark attacks at local beaches across the country that don’t resemble previous incidences that never reached levels of hysteria that determine why wading into the warm embrace of the ocean can’t be the preferred sport without deadly consequences.
The climate of extremes is a source of contention for those if us who remember the temperate mood of past seasons, and how we could enjoy summer days in the sun without the erratic episodes that elevate the likelihood that we won’t be able to leave the house without wondering if the patterns are feisty enough to pulverize our templates in a matter of seconds.
As the presidential nominees assemble for the sake of entertaining us with lofty aspirations for their ambitious political trajectories, it seems that the direction of active narratives purposely shift to accommodate the demands of the maddened crowd of voters, who are wearied by the ceaseless hostility that hovers with menacing authority.
Racial disharmony is the crisis that continues to be enforced by the murderous wiles of White terrorists who are obeying the laws of a lawless administration. And candidates for the presidency have to be extra vigilant about the high sense of urgency that’s required for the execution of White supremacy from the privilege of our democracy.
So far, the issue of climate change and the dangers that surround American families in every state hasn’t really surfaced in ways that reassure the public of how this global crisis will be taken more seriously than what we’re enduring with a Toddler-in-Chief, whose convinced that God is in charge of when it rains and so, all we have to do is chill.
And of course since my antlers are up, I was able to catch the necessary reminder from Bernie Sanders, who was evidently sharing my frequency when he deposited a recent tweet that can’t be ignored.
We are overheating beyond the reasonable parameters, and experts are very concerned about the readings on the thermometer that showcases the inevitable fate of planet earth, that just suffered through the hottest July ever recorded — EVER.
There’s no middle ground when it comes to the catastrophic effects of this man-made shithole, that features the increasingly precarious basin eating away at marine life, and the floating debris of garbage that paralyzes the natural structure of things.
We are brutalizing each other, and arming ourselves with expensive devices that are used to create the alternate universe that’s helping to destroy the inheritance that’s sinking away before our very eyes.
This isn’t a fantasized theory that makes an appearance every once in awhile with the assistance of well-rehearsed experts that stop by for casual updates, that suspend our attention for a minute before we return to the hourly analysis of our Terrorizer-in-Chief.
The summer of 2019 was a relentlessly turbulent season of raised alarms, that should leave us sleepless and bothered until we’ve figured out why the spinning globe is spinning out of control.
It’s not cool and interesting to witness events that symbolize earth-shattering debuts or the return of occurrences on a higher and more treacherous scale.
It’s not remotely fun to have an enjoyable walk in the summer sun, suddenly turn into a stormy trap, that threatens to sweep you away without a shelter in sight because of the modest warnings of forecasters, who left out the part when the heavens will yell loudly until tree branches run away.
The climate of extremes is a literal emergency that won’t wait until we get our heads out of the clouds before it finally explodes into the momentous disaster that no Hollywood filmmaker will ever be able to replicate.
We will never be adequately prepared for what will unfold as a result of our misplaced assumptions about our supposed invincibility.
But for the sake of the generations to come, maybe we should at least try to pretend that the end of the world is happening now.
Because it is.