When I was a kid, I had this friend who lived in this completely cool house, one that had a stream flowing through it. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. (My friend was a nice guy, too, but–sadly–I really dug the house more.) That house stayed with me, too, so much so that when we found this fabulous place in Texas–a house designed in the round with two live oaks growing in an atrium at the very center–it was a complete no-brainer. Leaving houses hasn’t been all that tough for me–but that was one I hated to see in my rear-view. If I could build something like that where I am now, I would.
I thought about that house again when I visited Seattle last week. Cities, especially big ones, make me uneasy. They always have, and this isn’t a slam; I just refer country and open spaces more. But I was never sure exactly why. Yes, they’re crowded; there’s a lot of hustle and bustle and more crime and blah, blah, blah. I always breathe a big sigh of relief when, after leaving the Milwaukee airport, we’ve finally past the suburbs and into country and long stretches of nothing but farmland hemmed on the east by the lake.
But it’s also so bizarre because there are many things in cities that I enjoy and hate not having around: museums, theater, history, cool restaurants. Starbucks. High-speed internet. Things like that. I have a ton of friends and relatives who adore cities, but I would never choose to live in one. Just can’t breathe. I know people who marvel at buildings, but I think you can’t beat a volcano or a really great mountain; the Painted Cliffs off Lake Superior; the Grand Canyon . . . you get my drift.
I think it finally dawned on me why I’m so uneasy when I happened to find myself in Seattle last week. Again, this is not a slam against Seattle per se, but as we were driving between that city and Tacoma, I was struck by how all the roads and buildings–the concrete and glass and asphalt–were like this solid mass that flowed over the hills right down to the sea.
It was Asimov–one of the books in the Foundation Trilogy, if I’m not mistaken–who said pretty much the same thing in a slightly different way. If I’m remembering this right, we get a ship’s-eye view of the Earth, from which all life is pretty much gone, and Asimov writes about how the Earth is nothing but a tired, used-up, brown and gray ball of man-made structures: buildings and roads and all of it dead as a doornail.
That resonates with me. I’ve always felt more comfortable and peaceful when there’s clean air, lots of trees, mountains, water, and space–and I guess I worry when I see it going away, shrinking, being covered over. Way back when, one of the most upsetting films I saw was Silent Running. If you’ve never seen this classic SF film, directed by Douglas Trumbull (who also created the special effects for 2001) and starring Bruce Dern, do so. Not only is the music great (Peter Schickele, taking a break from PDQ Bach), but I defy anyone to watch this story of a man who is, as one YouTuber put it, an intergalactic treehugger tending Earth’s last remaining nature reserves preserved in domes on spaceships, and not get at least a little choked up (and the songs by Joan Baez are just so damned good, especially if you really listen to what she’s saying).
Edgar Wright does a great synopsis, too (and, yeah, I still cry like a baby whenever I see this film).
When you get right down to it, cities are shells. Sherwin-Williams might own the trademark, but we all do it.
Cities cover the Earth. They conquer it, obscuring the land; they encase it; they obliterate it. Sure, you’ve got trees and lawns–sometimes; fly over New York and there’s nothing but concrete and asphalt and then the green of Central Park. But when you look at a city that marches right to the limits of the land and butts up against water–places like Chicago and Seattle and Portland, New York, etc.–that’s when you really see how they’re layered over and not part of the Earth.
That scares me. It should scare you because there aren’t fewer of us by any stretch, and as we continue to treat all other species as if only our needs matter, things aren’t getting better. The governor of my state is talking about cutting recycling programs, surely a misguided, shortsighted move that demonstrates a most profound disconnect and just a touch of arrogance: that who we are is independent of where and how we live. Environmental programs, never popular, are in even worse shape now; no one seems to get that a healthy life goes hand in hand with a healthy environment.
In the film, Bruce Dern talks about how sad it is that a child will never know the wonder of a leaf. I’m grateful I have the luxury.
