It’s snowing. In Dublin. On the 26th of March. Good thing there’s no such thing as climate change. SPEAKING OF WHICH. Well, not really, but kind of: In one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, probably THE LONG WINTER, there’s a scene where Laura is bundled up in bed and she describes the level of bundling to be sufficient that only her nose pokes out so she can breathe fresh air. I’ve spent most of my life (not, you know, constantly, but) trying to accomplish that particular bundle. The closest…
I awakened this morning with the not-unfamiliar conviction that the only smart thing to do would be return to Alaska’s North Road and homestead in preparation for coming social and climate collapse. I assume this is perfectly normal.
A to-me-fascinating takeaway line on this article on climate change is this: There’s a small but non-trivial chance of advanced civilization breaking down entirely. My climate change trilogy would be meant to be a thing of hope. That said, hope is the creature with wings; it is difficult to catch. The idea of writing another trilogy post that, a farther-future-set story where some things have gone right but a lot has gone desperately wrong is really appealing. Apparently I’m suffering from the urge to reinvent myself a SF writer when…