If anyone sees George Monbiot wandering around, try to get him to have a wee sit down and a cup of tea. He seems to have finally lost it. Theoretically, this is an ecological think-piece for the New York Times. I actuallly reckon you could easily adapt it for radio, and pass it off a H. P. Lovecraft fantasy tale. Who would have thought that life at The Guardian could drive one to such primal excessses? I felt it again when stalking up a tidal channel with a trident, trying to spear flounders. After two hours scanning the sand intently for signs of the fish, I was suddenly transported by the fierce conviction that I had done it a thousand times before. I felt it most keenly when I stumbled across the fresh corpse of a deer in a wood. I hoisted it onto my shoulders. As soon as I felt its warmth on my back, my skin flushed, my hair stood on end and I wanted to roar. Civilization slid off like a bathrobe. I believe that in these cases I accidentally unlocked a lumber room in the mind, in which vestigial faculties shaped by our evolutionary past are stored. These experiences ignited in me a smoldering longing for a richer and rawer life than the one I lead. nytimes/2015/01/19/opinion/our-ecological-boredom.html?ref=opinion&_r=0
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 11:23:20 +0000
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