When I visited my mom in Carlsbad a few years ago, I’d sometimes sit on her balcony with my feet up against the glass balustrade and look out at the oyster farm far below her apartment building. I’d sit there and think about how fucked up it was that animal lives were integrated into chains of production. Next to the oyster farm were growing tanks for fish that were fed to the dolphins, seals and orcas at SeaWorld. I’d stare out at the ocean across the highway, and then back to these artificial habitats. What chilled me was the deep and equal calm that both the ocean and these factories emanated.
Is death an organism?(1)
In Fort Bragg, California, there’s a beach covered in glass. The place used to be a dumpsite, but now you can step barefoot on shimmering brown, green and transparent pebbles – beer bottles worn down by salt water.
A hermit crab with a blue plastic cap for a shell is scuttling across this beach.
(1) Last Words: The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs, 1997