After The Marching

1235208_10152298506490974_8620826639035075389_n-1.jpgI walk along Central Park West 2 weeks after the Peoples Climate March. Buzzy, lonely people in bubbles of glass on wheels are talking to their dashboards, crossing Manhattan at 4 mph. Naomi K. says tell new stories. The story of the climate march can't be 400,000 people. We know that. That is only a view-count, a moderately viral click count. Our shattered attention span can't hold it. Maybe it'll be algorithmed into Utube's "What To Watch." But it's not a story. Stories stick to you, like old river mulch.

I'm standing on 59th, jay-walking the march route. I'm in the middle of the exhaust fumes of the bubbles. Where is the Earth's story here, the tale of interdependent life, of many living things? My eyes stray over to Central Park. Tell me the story. Earthalujah. Tell me. Do you trees remember our march? "Yes, the drought was over. The canyons filled with a rushing river. You were loons, frogs and wild bees and herons with banner-like wings and river otters..."

I want to run into the trees and then circle back into the traffic with the trees deputizing me as an honorary American Beech, with blackbirds singing in my eyes. At this point I'm so weirdly seductive, the car people are emerging from their rolling product pods. They are swimming up into the canyon. We take the elevator in the Time Warner building up to the glassy executive suites and sprout leaves from our foreheads. Scare you. Change you. Tell you a new story. "Nobody told you your 60 story glass building is empty? Your people have joined a media cooperative led by Chelsea Manning. Follow me. I must baptize you now into a living ecosystem. Can you sing, "Take Me to the River. Wash me down."