I blog about books here, but what I’m interested in most of all is stories and story tellers. Books are one way to tell stories, words on the page, but so are films and pictures and games. And some stories are fictional, some are banal, some are vitally important.
Here is a story that is worth reading. Shared with on Facebook by my friend Ophelia, it’s about plastic gathering in the ocean since World War II. Lingering, swirling and poisoning.
I’m thinking, you know, it was good shit, plastic. It answered a myriad of “how to” questions, and thus occasioned a fabulous efflorescence, an unprecedented burst of wealth. Maybe plastic was Death disguised as Santa Claus—something for everyone from the ever-expanding plastic sack—but certainly this would be a tough planet without the plastic used in our technology. Maybe a good motto for homo sapiens as a species is, Live fast, die young, and leave a pretty archeological record. Our stratum will be a bright, shiny smear of plastic.
If telling stories isn’t about ushering in an age of enlightenment, advocating ways to tread lightly on the earth, I’m not sure what is. McMahon’s story made me feel a little sick. And it made me want to find out more. To stop being part of a global problem. That’s what story telling is about.