Update

It struck me that I’ve been thinking too much of the future here; focusing too much on how this little parasitic humanoid will become a little girl and a strong woman (and, yes, possibly the iron-fisted goddess of the nuclear wasteland formerly known as Oregon.) This is a good thing, but the original point of this blog was to explore and celebrate this particularly unique time in my (our) life—the nine months of pregnancy purgatory.

So perhaps a little update is in order.

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On Not Entering Heaven’s Gate

We were in a fairly useless “birth class” the other day and were subjected to watching a video of a man who has built a career out of quieting colicky babies.  It may have been the best part of the class, actually, but something in the man’s eyes made me uneasy, and I couldn’t tell why, until it struck me: he reminded me of this guy:

Yeah, this guy.

Remember him? 1997, a small gated community in Southern California, Hale Bopp comet in the night sky, and this wide-eyed gnome having convinced 39 other men and women to dress in black, lie in their bunk-beds, and ritually overdose so that their souls could be carried off by the spaceship lurking behind the comet.

Heaven’s Gate.

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Raising a child in a world of wounds

I’ve been on a particularly intense Apocalyptic bent as of late. In the past month Kelly and I have watched Melancholia (planetary collision extinction event), Contagion (flu virus pandemic), and the second season of The Walking Dead (zombie apocalypse); I’ve reread The Road (nuclear winter); and been buttonholing more people than usual with my “the-thin-fabric-of-civilization-is-soon-to-be-ripped-asunder” litany of global climate change, peak oil, phosphate depletion, ocean acidification, and associated and wide-spread geo-political instability.

I’m a blast at parties, let me tell you.

But I’ve always had this dark strain. In my Grand-Canyon-Manuscript-That-Will-Never-Be-Fucking-Finished, I attributed this love for post-apocalyptic narratives to the San Andreas fault, which haunted my childhood as a sleeping-dragon-like force that could, at any time,  unleash “The Big One”: the earthquake that will destroy LA.

But on the other hand, I can’t blame it on plate-tectonics: I don’t see how any rational human being who pays even infrequent attention to the news could not harbor the same fatalistic views. Perhaps he or she finds it easier to ignore such views. Perhaps he or she simply has more faith. My intrinsic lack of any such faith is a blessing and a curse, but seems especially unfortunate now that we are to bring a baby—a helpless babe!—into this doomed world.*

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