Our New Saints have had this vision. It has been extracted from their Book of Climate Revelations like crystal meth from cold pills, and we should not gainsay it simply because their generation absorbed enough pyschoactive chemicals over the decades to gobstop a pod of blue whales. What if they did? What if all this is some bizarre vision; some acid-flashforward? Is it any less a vision for having “consensus science” behind it.
I say that we should honor their shared hallucinations, that we should not take away one iota of a scintilla of a jot of their monumental self-esteem. After all, the rich, famous and deranged have feelings too. Besides, we no longer institutionalize people who “see dead planets.” We just check them into rehab for the afternoon.
We should not, say I, condemn these self-appointed and cross-annointed latter-day saviors of our poor Planet.
We should instead worship and envy them their daily martyrdom of living on a planet with people who “just don’t get it!”
We should confess unto them that we are but the poorer un-sanctified humans who could not afford huge mansions and private jets.
It is our own fault that we are “left behind;” condemned to dwell in the carbon clouds of burned jet fuel to forever languish in the hellish roiling clouds of soot and pollution that mark the landscapes of America from sea to turbid sludgefilled sea.
Meanwhile, high overhead, the Goreacle and his heavenly host jet to their global rock concerts up where the champagne is always chilled and the chocolate cookies always warmed.
They are truly the Chosen and they are off into their own private Rapture.
God speed, say I. The best we can hope for here on the plains of eco-sin is a recumbent bicycle etched and rusted by the unceasing acid rain, and an invitiation to cold coffee at a modest ranch house in Crawford.