Adjusting to the Ecosystem

Spoilt for seemingly infinite choice, we protest against nothing, while only mourning the local. This, as sure as eggs is eggs, attracts the ire of keyboard trolls, who pile onto the merest mirage of assumed privilege and demand to know why they themselves are not top of the pops of sympathy, empathy, thoughts and prayers. In spite of appearances, it’s nothing personal, merely the algorithm encoded in the machinery of everyday exchange, the raging clickbait that passes for human contact, and I think of the Etymologiae of Isidore of Seville, with all its persuasive flawed assumptions, and I consider the rhythm of algae, the red tide wave patterns of harmful blooms – predominantly cyanobacteria, dinoflagellates, and diatoms – and it makes me sick to my stomach. Amidst the cramps and retching, I begin to compose an email to the council, cc-ing my local MP, but before I’ve even stated the issue, there’s a furious storm from small-town USA demanding to know why I don’t care about their burnt-out chapel. I feel the burn in my bowels, but hold fire and say nothing.

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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