The executive branch of Minnesota's government has approved an amended permit allowing massive water withdrawals to support the construction of Enbridge's Line 3 pipeline. Minnesota's governor has written (Tweeted) something to the effect that "any pipeline through treaty lands is a non-starter with me." The campaign to help Minnesota's governor get reelected in 2022 keeps sending me emails requesting donations. My response: Any administration that allows Minnesota's environment and treaty lands to be impaired in support of an unneeded tar sands pipeline is a non-starter for my money.
local Democratic caucus, 2018
Photo by J. Harrington
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The Democratic National Committee has done much to keep real progressives like AOC and other members of "The Squad" from getting elected and/or re-elected. My snail mail and email inbox keep filling up with requests from the DNC, or prominent Democrats on its behalf, to contribute to increasing the Democratic majority. I'm more interested in increasing the progressive majority since I believe that DINOs like Manchin and Sinema are placeholders at best. The Democratic administration in our nation's capital seems to support Enbridge's Line 3, despite campaign promises to tackle climate change. Although I may well vote a democratic ticket in November 2022, I'm likely to send contributions only to progressive candidates who honor their promises and/or help fund primary challenges to the regressive members of the party.
As I see it, we are all faced with enough critical issues that helping support a too little, too late political party is not in our interest or that of our descendants. Republicans are, and have been for quite some time, an unmitigated disaster for all except themselves and the 1%. Going back at least as far as Clinton and NAFTA, the best I can hope for from democrats is a mitigated disaster. I'm tired of being limited to chosing the lessor of two evils.
The Age of Dinosaurs
There are, of course, theoriesabout the wide-eyed, drop-jawedfascination children have for them,about how, before he's learnedhis own phone number or address,a five-year-old can carrylike a few small stonesthe Latin tonnage of those names,the prefixes and preferencesfor leaf or meat.My son recites the syllablesI stumble over now,sets up figures as I didyears ago in his prehistory.Here is the green ski slopeof a brontosaur's back,there a triceratops in fullgladiator gear. From the armof a chair a pterodactylsurveys the dark primeval carpet.Each has disappeared from timeto time, excavated finallyfrom beneath a cabinetor the sofa cushions, onlyto be buried again among its kindin the deep toy chest,the closed lid snug as earth.The next time they're brought outto roam the living roomanother bone's been foundsomewhere, a tooth or fragmentof an eggshell dusted off,brushing away some long-held notionabout their life-spanor intelligence, warm bloodor cold. On the floorthey face off as if debatingthe latest find, what partof which one of themhas been discovered this time.Or else they stand abreastin one long row, sideby scaly side, waiting to falllike dominoes, my son'stossed tennis ball a neon yellowasteroid, his shadow a dark cloudwhen he stands, his fervor for themcooling so slowly he can't feel it—the speed of glaciers, maybe,how one age slides into the next.
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