THE CREATION OF THE ART OF DESTRUCTIONS
HANNAH HARTE
I delivered two children into this poisoned world.
Back then, in the early days of the 2000’s, barely out of my teens, I believed humanity had time to avert the course of disaster looming before it, my sons would be learning to read adjacent to great advances in the realm of autoimmune disease, that as they moved into adulthood I would be well, freed from the excruciating burden of a body that attacks its own flesh, that the reason for this battle would be unravelled and bestowed a cure.
Those early years lasted an eon, yet not long enough for society to collectively shrug the trappings and dead promises of capitalism, to pour resources into science and medicine instead of war and industry. The planet my children inherit is not the one I expected for them. I do not shine with health, nor do the hearts of humankind. There is a deep sickness here, slowly eroding all the beauty and promise that should be blossoming in a golden age of equality and art. Instead we are swamped and hounded by endless snippets of suffering and wisdom, needing with such great hunger to know all the important things going on in the inner and outer psyche of humanity but never able to keep up. The demon of advertising shrieks at us from all directions, fighting with the more important work, distracting us with consumption; feast, eat, eat all of these delicacies, devour these jewels and clothing and tchotchke with an income that is never enough, so borrow more, work harder, longer for the more you have no energy or time to enjoy or cherish, the endless wants of a billion shrieking souls, whittled down into packets of need.
Every day, vigour seems to slip further from my hopes, too much energy expended one day takes its pieces from the days ahead, leaving me shaking, breathless, trembling from pain, a slow walk up short stairs or hanging the washing. A reflection of the planet itself, the insatiable violence of resources pulled for the insane impossibility of endless growth, spurting forward with promise, new life, excitement, then held back in a recovery period that grows and grows incrementally longer, before it sputters out completely.
How long do I have left until I can no longer do what I love? How long does this earth have? How long until my bed, my stairs, my kitchen become my entire universe, dwindled down to a pocket of a once endless world? What will be left when the soil and water is sucked dry, scorched, saturated in toxins, ravaged in the name of profit? Wars and storms and fires and famine rage and wail in the realities of countless millions, screaming for help, to be seen, acknowledged, each one their own multiverse of experience and emotion. Each one the sun that orbits itself, the most important figure in a singular galaxy.
Here, on a suburban Sunday in my corner of the globe, it is quiet, soft, familiar, imperfect, with a hundred tiny things to attend to yet none that cannot be left for another day, these solid walls and intact roof, cosy and comfortable. Even the roar of traffic is dulled, people sleep, people drive patiently, the roads clear of psychic terrorism, a gentle respite before lurching once again into the grinding leaden obscenity of servitude and study, when people still have the wonder and peace stored up enough to enjoy witnessing the ways trees lean gently in the wind.
A slice of cold watermelon, finally affordable, sticky replenishing drips of pink, a warmth and purr against my belly, kitsune cat grinning and squinting with content, the sound of my hand running over sleek fur, the gentlest rustle of leaves, soft waves against silken shores, a never ending hunger to return to the Golden Bay that brought nightmares and dreams, terror and joy, magic and madness. The enormous privilege I have within these moments to write, reflect, imagine. A body that functions with all limbs, no matter how clumsy, a home that protects, no matter how small. Food on the shelves, no matter how simple. Endless free water, no matter the chemicals.
With the touch of a key I can summon almost any movie, poem, song that has been recorded in the vast history of our species, more knowledge than any one mind could ever absorb. We have become magicians, all of us. Our scrawls, ideas and howls have the chance to reach millions, sparking the domino that becomes a movement. More books surround me than could be read in a dozen years, each one a masterwork of insight, information, or curiosity. The rulers of this nation are corrupt but one day they may not be, the seeds of true promise and goodness germinate within the hive.
My sons stare down bullets of crushing debt for an education, job shortages, rents in freezing, damp homes that devour more than half an income, alienation, the uncertainty of AI, insane monsters ruling continents, psychopaths constantly broadcasting ideas of hate, fear and segregation, a health system in crisis. They and their peers are ravaged by the high cost of living and can never fully relax as they buckle under the pressures of uncertain and tumultuous times.
What soothes them and offers comfort lies in the webs of friendship, lovers, and family, in a song that resonates to a frequency they shelter within, bringing tears of grief, bittersweet joy, connection. Losing themselves in a novel, scrolling or video games, a daily walk, a local gig, a trip to the gym or art gallery. Despite the terrors that threaten and loom from every direction, there is so much beauty and goodness to envelop the shivering soul.
We find sanctuary, across the eons, in music, art and storytelling. In the darkest of times, the light shines brightest, pushing through the shadows, because of the shadows. Revolutions come and go, burning down the old, dead ways that no longer serve the masses, bringing entirely new movements and visions to replace the detritus of the past. It may be too late for the world to turn the tide that swells to a tsunami in the secret depths of the ocean. It may be too late to solve the mystery of my failing body. But even if all we have left is a fire to huddle around in an age of desolation and horror, even if my breath has almost faded into nothingness, as long as we sing, speak, and love each other, there will always be the fragile gift of hope.
Lorem Ipsum