‘An absolute failure’: Why the Legislature’s energy and climate budget does a whole lot of nothingIf you're old enough, or enough of a movie buff, you may remember the wonderful quote from the 1995 movie, Apollo 13, "Failure is not an option." The same is true of our need to transition from fossil fuels to renewable energy and incorporate energy efficiency as expediently and safely as possible. Minnesotans should be ashamed of this recent legislative failure. Too many opportunities will get missed with essentially no time to make up for those misses. We're facing a deadline of 2030, 11 years away.
|solar panels, organic farm, Northern Minnesota|
Photo by J. Harrington
If you were ever a child, if you have a child or children, if you hope to have a child or children, if you care about any child or children, DO NOT LET THOSE WHO CLAIM TO REPRESENT US FAIL US THIS WAY! If we want to be able to honestly claim "we're better than this," we need to demonstrate it.
We, as citizens, residents, inhabitants, occupants, and/or voters in Minnesota have a chance to further convince our elected "leaders" of the absolute necessity to fix their failure as soon as possible. A call for a global strike on September 20, 2019, has been issued. We've received reports that a group called Minnesotans for a Livable Planet are organizing Community Summits on September 22, 2019 to coincide with a United Nations Summit in New York City on September 23, 2019.
|solar powered business, Ely, Minnesota|
Photo by J. Harrington
We plan to be involved with other Minnesotans in the strike and the summits. The county in which we live has had solar farms erupting like mushrooms after a wet Spring. Many of them could be improved and economically enhanced by incorporating pollinator-friendly plantings under the solar panels, providing an economic boost to farmers and rural Minnesota. We are rapidly entering an age in which we need to design and develop not one-fers, but two-fers, three-fers, and more-fers. There's more than enough work to be done. Please consider joining us.
The year I was born the atomic bomb went off. Here I’d just begun, and someone found the switch to turn off the world. In the furnace-light, in the central solar fire of that heat lamp, the future got very finite, and it was possible to imagine time-travelers failing to arrive, because there was no time to arrive in. Inside the clock in the hall heavy brass cylinders descended. Tick-tock, the chimes changed their tune one phrase at a time. The bomb became a film star, its glamorous globe of smoke searing the faces of men in beach chairs. Someone threw up every day at school. No time to worry about collective death, when life itself was permeated by ordeals. And so we grew up accepting things. In bio we learned there were particles cruising through us like whales through archipelagoes, and in civics that if Hitler had gotten the bomb he’d have used it on the inferior races, and all this time love was etching its scars on our skins like maps. The heavens remained pure, except for little white slits on the perfect blue skin that planes cut in the icy upper air, like needles sewing. From one, a tiny seed might fall that would make a sun on earth. And so the century passed, with me still in it, books waiting on the shelves to become cinders, what we felt locked up inside, waiting to be read, down the long corridor of time. I was born the year the bomb exploded. Twice whole cities were charred like cities in the Bible, but we didn’t look back. We went on thinking we could go on, our shapes the same, darkened now against a background lit by fire. Forgive me for doubting you’re there, Citizens, on your holodecks with earth wallpaper— a shadow-toned ancestor with poorly pressed pants, protected like a child from knowing the future.
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