DIRTY JOBS, the Mike Rowe program that airs on the Discovery Channel, is being advertised on walls all over NYC. A poster displaying a huge head encrusted with glop and goo covered an entire side of the bus shelter where I waited to be transported across town yesterday. Each dollop on the man’s face is accompanied by an arrow that directs the eye to a label identifying a particular dirty job. On the poster Rowe promises, “The worst is yet to come.” 

Twenty-six dirty jobs are named on the poster.  All but three involve interactions with the real stuff of life: kelp harvester, goose swabber, bug breeder, tripe processor, leech trapper, fish gutter, maggot farmer, etc. The odd three involve interactions with non-living matter: tar rigger, mine plugger, and coal miner.  Not one interaction with machines is listed. This occurred to me since, from where I stood, I could observe the dirty work of jack-hammering sidewalks, demolishing a high-rise, paving a roadway, crushing plastic garbage bags, and refilling gas tanks.  Mack’s neglect of such jobs indicates that they are considered less disgusting, less filthy, less distasteful, and less demeaning than working with stuff from the biological sector.

This poster reveals the difficult challenge of instilling an environmentalist perspective in a culture that is revolted by evidence of the life cycle and the fluids that make life possible, instead of celebrating it.     

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The revelry has lasted so long, no one can quite recall how it all began.  Humans have been celebrating their success for a very long time.  Chattering, gorging, carousing, we’ve enjoyed one hell of a party.  Still, the beginning is lost in the mist of history.  We will never know where the first party occurred. It is surmised that this landmark of civilization can be traced back across the ions of time. In the beginning, only a few privileged elites knew how to do them.  But slowly, partying became a common practice. Gradually, the knowledge spread.  Now, whole populations have joined the festivities.  More keep coming.  People from all over are clamoring to share our fun.  Few wait for invitations. Some crash the gates but many people work to play.  The party is threatened by its own success. It has become necessary to replace the bouncer with a security force, and the elders have been enlisted to stem the flow of newcomers. They travel among the outcasts warning them to stay home by proclaiming, “We’ve been partying for a long time and we can tell you from experience, it’s not so great after all.”  Meanwhile, the vendors were caught sneaking in newcomers disguised as beer and booze delivery boys and girlie entertainers.  They favor short term profits to longevity.

As the curtain opens, people stagger from the accumulated effects of mindless exuberance.  Their bellies are full and their minds are dazed.  One faction doesn’t blend into the crowd.  Lean and watchful, they are environmentalists who are dampening the festivity by spreading rumors that the party may soon be over.  Spoils have accumulated and are beginning to interfere with the fun.  It is difficult to dance on a floor littered with bottles and candy wrappers.  The environmentalists are concerned about  the mess, the diminishing supply of party favors, the increasing reliance on leftovers.  Mostly they are concerned that the other party goers seem content.  The music is still blasting.  The video arcade is still blinking.  Although the lights sometimes dim and no one seems to know where the energy comes from.  

The cast of characters includes the conservationist, the preservationist, the enviro-therapist, the sustainist, the aestheticist, the nostalgist, the opti-mysticist, and the pessi-mysticist.  They all share disdain for the rest of the actors who are undifferentiated party goers.  Most act as if they are unaware of each other’s presence.

Conservationist: The telephone rings at the bar.  The bartended yells, “Is there anyone here by the name of Pragmatist?  Hey you, aren’t you True Pragmatist?  You’ve got a call.”

True, who has been enjoying the snacks and the entertainment, has a brief conversation on the phone and then slips into her Gortex rain jacket.  She must leave to pick up her children.  The determined look on her face reveals, however, that she has no intention of leaving the party.  She plans to return with the children as well as the babysitter.  In fact, she has decided to offer babysitting services to the rest of the parents so that they don’t have to interrupt their partying. The slogan for her new business venture is “Don’t change your pleasure to suit your needs. We’ll suit your needs to your pleasures.”

Enviro-Therapist:  Sure Remedy, who is shooting pool, is distracted from the game by a foul odor. The toilet has become blocked. The waste water is backed-up and has begun to overflow.  It is seeping across the rest room tile  and trickling toward the dance floor.  Sure looks around for someone in charge.  Everyone he asks is too preoccupied with partying to be bothered, so he rushes to his own pick-up truck to find the pipe wrench he always carries in the chest.  He is sure it will remedy the problem, and he hopes he can do the job quickly so that he can get on with his shot and the game can continue.

Preservationist:  Sweet Continuity is scurrying about with a petition, asking people to sign a document that proclaims: No more people will be allowed to join the party.  The musicians must only perform songs on the ‘designated play’ list.  Everyone must obey the dress code.  No one can rearrange the furniture.  The ordinance will be enforced and offenders will be fined. 

Sustainist:  Suz Tain hears excited chatter about olives coming from behind the stage. She sneaks around to see what the commotion is all about and hears the bad news.  “The supply of olives is dwindling.”  “Oh no! If we run out of olives, what party prop might be depleted next?”  This is an ominous sign. Anxiety is palpable.  People fear the party may soon fall apart.  Suz climbs up on a chair to get everyone’s attention.  “You know,” she says in a reassuring voice, “I noticed an olive tree down the block.  The fruit is already ripe.  Even if we don’t have enough money to buy the olives, we could offer to prune the tree and harvest the olives in exchange for our share of the crop.  At the same time, we can gather olive seeds and plant our own trees in the back of the party hall.  The prunings from the olive trees can make the baskets to hold our pop corn as the plastic trays wear out. Furthermore, if we scatter olives on the floor as people dance on them, the oil will be extracted and we can collect it to fuel our amplifiers.”   

Enviro-nostalgists:  Suz’s inspired monologue is suddenly drowned out by the booming voice of By Gonedays calling for everyone to “Get y’er pardner and put’im in a row.  Bow to your corner. Dosee Do.”  Swirling gingham skirts and tapping cowboy boots catch the lively rhythms of the banjo and the kazoo in By’s square dance band, the Square By Squared.

Eco-aestheticists:  Spec Tacular and his cousin Spec Tator are growing increasingly impatient with this turn of events.  They quietly collect their belongings and head for the exit, walking out into the moonlight, listening for the evening song of the canyon wren, greeting the caress of the cool breeze on their cheeks.  As they disappear into the shadows of the gathering dusk, the Specs take a gentle piss and feel soulfully refreshed.

Opti-mysticists and Pessi-mysticists:  Mr. and Ms. Mysticist, whose marriage has survived despite their constant bickering, are standing in their usual place in the doorway since Opti refuses to leave and Pessi refuses to enter.  They nod to each other as Spec and Spec exit.  Opti smiles approvingly and says, “Pessi, did you see the Spec boys leave?  I think they know where they can get a stash of genetically produced olives that produce euphoria to bring back to the party. Please come in.  We’ll have a great time.” Pessi frowns disapprovingly and says “Nah, haven’t you heard? The neighbor is too stingy to share his olives, and according to a study I read yesterday, olives are addictive because they give you a false feeling of confidence.  And besides, the Specs stole the silverware.  They ain’t comin’ back.  I ain’t goin’ back.  The party’s over.”  Opti crosses her arms over her ample chest and insists that the party is not nearly over.  Opti and Pessi are still arguing at the doorway.  She won’t leave and he won’t stay.

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Dear President-Elect Obama,

Your platform promised ‘reform’. Your acceptance speech pledged ‘reform’. Yesterday, the majority of voters in this country declared their wish for ‘reform’. Since innovation and transformation appear high on the agenda of the new administration, this letter is being sent to remind you of a unique resource for achieving ‘reform’. Our nation’s artists are the one segment of our diverse population that is inherently endowed and professionally trained to pursue innovation and transformation. We are hoping that you will utilize the skills of artists to devise solutions, clarify problems, instill hope, communicate strategies, and inspire change. Ecologically oriented artists comprise one of the most vital components of contemporary art. Eco-artists have already begun to lead society in the direction of sustainable transformation. Most are eager to contribute their skills to your environmental mission. Thus, I hope that you will inform the new slate of politicians and bureaucrats that contemporary art is not confined to ‘culture’. It is a useful and powerful political, economic, and ecological resource. 

Respectfully submitted,

Linda Weintraub

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I am one of the friends participating in LINDA MARY MONTANO'S  7 HOUR  GLAND-ATHON WITH FRIENDS this Sunday. Linda Montano has been a formative influence in performance art since its inception. My assignment is to wear something dramatic and occupy the 4:30 – 5:30 time slot with my adrenalin contemplations. Since I know very little about adrenals, I felt ill-prepared for this assignment. As the day approaches, I have increasing opportunity to conduct research by observing my own adrenals and monitoring their effects. This is because my adrenals have been stuck in high gear mode, pumping me full of adrenal secretions as I nervously approach my debut as a performance artist.

Here is the gland-a-thon schedule

 
2:30-3:30 ovaries and testes

3:30-4:30 pancreas.

4:30-5:30 adrenals

5:30-6:30  thymus

6:30 - 7:30 thyroid

7:30 - 8:30 pineal

8:30 - 9:30 pituitary

My hour will be spent searching for a metaphor for our adrenals. This approach is intended to help us clarify our relationships with the first alert, last-resort guardian built into our physical organisms. I am bringing three possible metaphors for consideration. Since adrenals are small, round glands associated with the color yellow, I am proposing lemons, bug light bulbs, and tennis balls. Everyone in the audience will choose a metaphor to represent a personal adrenal moment and write letters to their adrenals explaining their choice. Readings and discussions follow.

Since my preparations now appear in written form, I’d like to share them with those who cannot be present at the performance. Please send me your metaphor and your story.

Invite you to recall a fabulous dangerous moment - some near-calamity experience where exclamation points are needed to convey their intensity.

It was my body’s responses to S.O.S. situations that comprised my initial thoughts about the adrenal system when Linda invited me to participate in this gland-a-thon. But when I decided to find out how this system works, I typed a-d-r-e-n-a-l on my computer, hit ‘search’, and what greeted me was repeated use of a metaphor that seemed totally alien to the surges and gusts and bursts of energy that I credit them for producing. Over and again the adrenals were compared to walnuts. What a lame metaphor. Walnuts are dense, tough, and light absorbing. It takes a hammer blow to get them to respond. Only under this extreme pressure do they yield their nourishing content. One thing I hope to achieve in the next fifty minutes is to invent a metaphor that accurately reflects this system.

When I continued my research, a second distressing issue became apparent. Most sites focused on doleful accounts of adrenal malfunctions. They dwelled on maladies and symptoms. It seemed we either had too much or too little – runaway secretions causing panic attacks or paltry trickles causing adrenal fatigue. They are associated with abdominal weight, decreased immunity, lack of concentration, irritability, disrupted sleep, and on and on. The writers bemoaned this troublesome and finicky piece of our anatomies, proclaiming that are overwhelmed by the task of managing our anxiety-ridden lives.

One site stated, “Dear Friends, Are you feeling helpless and worried? Plagued by sleepless nights? Overwhelmed with loathing and terror every time you look at CNN? Are you plagued with lack of sleep, a demanding boss, the threat of losing your job, financial pressures, personality conflicts, yo-yo dieting, relationship turmoil, death or illness of a loved one, skipping meals, reliance on stimulants like caffeine and carbs, digestive problems, over-exercise, illness or infection, unresolved emotional issues from our past or present and more. The result is adrenal glands that are constantly on high alert.”

These sites offered therapies, supplements, medications, stimulants, and sedatives to treat adrenal maladies.

I thought, if the adrenals so easily break down, we need to change metaphors. What could replace clunky walnuts? I propose, for your consideration, glass light bulbs. They are charged with energizing capabilities. They shine when they are turned on. They are fragile and not easily repaired.

But then I began by cataloging adrenal moments in my life. A theme quickly became apparent. It referred to the crucial role of my adrenal system in helping me survive.  So I turned off the computer and mused about my personal adrenal moments, and contemplated a useful metaphor for each. May I share four of them with you:

l. I was going down the cellar stairs with my brand new baby granddaughter in my arms when my heel got caught on a splintered tread and I completely lost my footing. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have put out my arms to break the fall. But some amazing force suspended that reflex. I not only held on to little Rachael, I managed to twist my body in the instant between tumbling and landing so that I fell on my back and she landed softly on to my chest.

2. I leaped into Lake Mendota early one spring morning – not thinking that the water had just thawed from a freeze that was so deep, people drove their cars across it as a convenient short-cut. My body’s 98.6 Fahrenheit plunged into 33.5 Fahrenheit waters. The  gasp reflex is triggered immediately. Drowning can before hypothermia has time to begin. Yet I can recall, to this day, the crystal clear realization that rushed into my mind as I hit the water. I envisioned two clear choices - I could relax into my fate or I could attempt to navigate the eight feet the fifteen feet that separated me from the dock. I deserve no credit for my survival. The will and stamina were not mine. I was rescued by the amazing powers of my adrenal system. In a flash it instructed each cell in my muscles, lungs, blood vessels, and sensory receptors exactly what was required to spare me a certain, watery death.

First two stories, evidence of our amazing adrenals to provide a surge of resilience, strength, stamina, and agility that exceed our body’s normal capacities. Most significantly, in each case they overrule my instincts. I did not drop my baby to break my fall. I did not gasp as I registered the shock.  In the first instance I don’t recall making any conscious decision. In the second, I do. In both cases I met my challenge. These are fabulous dangerous moments known popularly as adrenal rushes.

I went on a search for a metaphor for the heroic aspects of adrenal function, and would like to propose lemons. They squirt. Juice is tart and vitalizing. It adds zest and verve to any dish or drink. Lemons are energizing.

3. The Amtrak train pulled out of Philadelphia Station on its way to Washington DC , picked up speed, and began to rock from side to side in every widening arcs. Suitcases went flying. Seats dislodged from their anchors. Windows shattered. Then the entire car in which I was travelling leaped off the tracks, rolled over on its side, skidded a long distance, and came to a screeching halt. There was great commotion. Those of us who weren’t injured helped to evacuate the others. This entailed climbing through the window which was now above our heads. One by one we exited. Eventually there were several hundred of us assembled on the tracks beside the wreckage. I surveyed the scene. Although all the train riders shared the same experience, we were not exhibiting the same response. While everyone was distressed, only some people were hysterical – screaming uncontrollably and frantic. I noticed that all those in this hysteria mode were women. Then I noticed something very peculiar. The only women who were hysterical were those who were accompanied by a man.

In the context of this adrenal exploration, I believe this experience reveals another wondrous property of our adrenals.  They are not limited to gross functions like ‘on or ‘off’ or ‘all’ and ‘nothing’. I believe they have the remarkable capacity to monitor the particulars of each situation, and parcel out the exact intensity of response and type of response that is required to suit the uniqueness of a situation. Thus, the adrenals of each individual who experienced the train derailment  varied greatly. These brilliant little glands understood that hysteria endangers anyone who needs to be self-reliant. It permits hysteria when someone else is there to be watchful and make decisions – like the women’s male companions.

4.  believe the next little story elaborates on the range of adrenal functions far exceeds booster rocket power surges. This story belongs in the category of conjecture. I have shared its premise with several health professionals, and they simply say, “Interesting theory. Could be.” Please tell me what you think.

On several occasions I have been assaulted by men. Not once have I acted to defend myself by hitting, screaming, or kicking. Instead, I immediately sink into a tranquil state. Lassitude overwhelms me. I become limp and impassive. These surges of calm are as extreme and as surges of exhilaration. I have long been bewildered by this response to assailants.

A theory formed after I served on a grand jury. Three of the cases I heard shared a distressing formula – a woman was attacked, she resisted violently, and her attacker either injured or murdered her. I have come to believe that my mystifying calm spared me their tragic fate. The my guardians are my adrenals, super glands that have provided two protective strategies. They excite action, and they trigger calm. 

So I would like to propose two other candidates for metaphor. Fuzzy balls are resilient. When they get buffeted they immediately return to a state of equanimity. The sphere – ultimately balanced. All opposing forces are reconciled.

Let us pay tribute to adrenalin rushes and adrenalin hushes. May I propose that we acknowledge these glands as the source of our instants of brilliance, feats of endurance, bouts of strength, acts of courage, and the ability to be still when that optimizes survival. In all instances the adrenals propel us beyond our normal capabilities. For a few seconds we are Einstein and Hercules. Fear, timidity, and doubt are suspended. Arenas of ingenuity and storehouses of energy are released.

Let us celebrate this majestic realization that our bodies come equipped with these almighty protectors by remembering one amazing moment when your adrenal systems rescued you. Let us write a letter to our adrenals thanking them for a fabulous dangerous moment, assigning them a perfect metaphor.

Your letter – might be one of gratitude, chastise, appeal. Please include the narrative of an actual experience that explains your choice.

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There is a debilitating condition that besets many well-intentioned environmentalists when they come to realize that they don’t possess the knowledge or the acuity to decipher for themselves how the planet’s systems, that are sub systems embedded into super systems, effect and are affected by each other. Furthermore, they are forced to admit that they have neither the knowledge nor acuity to resolve the discrepancies between competing authorities announcing contrasting opinions about environmental conditions, predictions, and strategies. Acknowledging this condition often sends the thinking organism into a chronic state of perplexity. If relief from the oppressed state of not-knowing is delayed, their environmental convictions waver, resolve falters, and the capacity to undertake reform collapses.  

I admit that I am afflicted with a persistent case of this affliction. But I would like to tell you how I am managing to avoid the symptoms associated with it. Here is my management scheme:

 I have resolved that I can best ‘know' the effect of my behaviors is by interacting with the waters, soils, air, and biotic communities within my body’s reach and accessible to its sensory apparatus. I’ve begun to use a word to describe this intimate scale of engagement – instead of micro or macro, I call it muckro. I undertook this life practice in order to minimize my chances of making ill-informed and mis-guided decisions. I’ve continued this practice by attempting to maximize the diversity and the vitality of my few acres. Along the way, I’ve discovered unanticipated benefits - new arenas of sensual, spiritual, and intellectual fulfillment. I’m getting hooked on muckro – with the fervor of a born-again evangelical zealot.

Sunday - started this year's batch of sourkraut 

Monday – caught fish with my bare hands in shallow waters

Tuesday – removed accumulated sediment from bedrock outcroppings with my bare hands

Wednesday – stockpiled tinder to start winter fires

Thursday - distributed ripened manure to fruit trees and berry bushes

Friday – stuffed the neck of home-grown goose with home-grown veggies

Saturday – looked for but failed to find the nesting place where my sneaky hens have chosen to lay their eggs

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Since your shoe may be the sole contact between you and your planet, it seems fitting to ask, What is the soul of your sole? Are you watching your step?  Can you lighten up? Will you walk on tippy toe?

‘Minimize your footprint’ is a popular environmental directive. The phrase indicates that humanity is overdue for a major scale adjustment. Stiletto heel privileges and combat boot aggression are slated for retirement. It is time to usher in moccasin demeanor. It seems fitting that ‘Lightfoot’ is an honored name among many Native Americans. It means treading with such ease upon the land that the only marks that remain are slight and temporary. Within this historic context, individuals who left visible footprints in the sand or the mud did so with the intention of conveying their presence to passers-by. Like urban graffiti tags, such marks functioned like warnings or announcements. The name ‘Lightfoot’ fits the ‘lightfootprint’ of the lifestyles of the of many native Americans. What if our names indicated the scale of our environmental footprint?  There might be a lot of people named Trample, Tromp, Squash, Crush, and Flatten.

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