This Is the Barrenness of Harvest or Pestilence

We are in Michigan, Waterloo, the prettiest part of extreme southern Lower Peninsula, visiting our daughter and son-in-law, one week to peak foliage




You think *I'm* sideways radical, I only yap about it compared to my daughter C and son-in-law R (his first name starts with I which is problematic here, I think). They are planning for end times, R focusing, for instance, on honing his foraging knowledge, he hikes with us, stopping to eat certain grasses, berries, tree fruits I'd never know were edible, most are not yummy, taste like chalk, will keep you alive





Small sample size, daughter and son-in-law (who are thirty years old) and their friends, but they understand the world my asshole boomer generation created and understand what's coming, that the tipping point has long passed and that no one will save them except themselves (and at best miserably) and they, or at least C & R, preparing for complete mandatory self-sufficiency while simultaneously decoupling their lives from the lives our shitlords want them economically bound to as much as (im)possible




When they find the remote enough acres (acknowledging there are no acres remote enough) where sustainable homesteading possible we are invited to help purchase and go live on the commune (as in community, as in it will take many, not just the four of us and R's parents). No internet allowed, I'm told. My bandcamp shuffle (shitlords just bought bandcamp and will fuck it up, no one doubts), when I'm driving backroads alone to disc golf courses this trip while L paints, has landed repeatedly on my Spiritualized content, fine serendipity abounds

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Louise Glück (1943–2023)

ALL HALLOWS

Louise Glück

Even now this landscape is assembling.

The hills darken. The oxen

sleep in their blue yoke,

the fields having been

picked clean, the sheaves

bound evenly and piled at the roadside

among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness

of harvest or pestilence.

And the wife leaning out the window

with her hand extended, as in payment,

and the seeds

distinct, gold, calling

Come here

Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.