Prompt Entry #8

Thankfully, my understanding of the literature of nature is substantially different now than it was at the semester's start. I see it now as a mode of writing, not a genre in the strict sense, and that makes me more receptive to prose that I might otherwise pigeon-hole as memoir or reflective essay. Edward Abbey was an author that I had read previously, as was Rachel Carson, and they served as a template for my understanding of nature writing. I used to think of nature writing as being in service of some agenda or cause, at least in part. While I no longer think of that as a defining characteristic, I still tend to prefer the literature that is written to serve a purpose beyond itself and beyond the experiences of the writer and the audience.

There's a lot at stake with the literature of nature -- more so than with other genres or modes, I think. Either it seeks to inform and persuade, or it tries to engender an emotional connection to a specific place or to placedness in general. The import of this is ultimately to foster a sense of deep appreciation, which taken to its logical conclusion becomes an ingrained sense of stewardship. With the exponential growth rate of the industrialized world and the continued industrialization of the third world, what is at stake in the very biosphere that supports us all. The best way to get someone to work to preserve something is to get them to care about it first. We are a pathos-driven species first and foremost, as I see it. Individually, we have moments of great lucidity and logical reasoning, but as a species we tend to muck about and collectively ignore basic logic with regards to our industry and activities. And that's the burden of nature writing: doing it well enough to stir the passions of an audience to the point that both the logos and the pathos of an argument are too great to ignore. Think about Nash's "Why Wilderness" -- a great logical argument, but easy to forget, unlike Turner's "The Abstract Wild," where it's hard to forget the rage the author conveys so relentlessly throughout. Both are an attempt to foster a respect and appreciation for the biotic world in its many forms and values, and thus both are steering us towards a sense of stewardship.

With that said, the easiest way to foster a deep connection with the natural world is to foster a personal connection with a single place. It is difficult, if not impossible, to just start caring about the health of the planet as a whole without already knowing what it is like to care about a specific part of that world. We all had that experience this semester viz the places we observed for these weblogs. Theoretically, if we each spent a minimum of twenty minutes at our individual locations once a week for the eight weeks required by the syllabus, then we each would have spent a minimum of two hours and forty minutes of deliberate placedness there. Less than three hours total does not seem like a lot of time all at once, but a lot can be gained from making that time a deliberate exercise in inhabiting a single space over the course of months. I'm sure we all spent more than 2:40 at our locations, which only proves the point further.

By actively and deliberately experiencing a single place in this way, we practice a sort of projected introspection. Our chosen locales become a part of our identities in the context of this course, and our experiences of them are equal parts outward observation and inward reflection. We went, we observed, and we reflected on how those observations affected us personally. Imagine a Mobius Strip, if you will, as an illustration of what we experienced. Us, our places, and our experiences of each continue in one ever-overturning loop, where we always return with time to the point to where we started. Our experiences of the outer world lead us back into ourselves, which, if we developed those thoughts enough, lead us right back out again, and so on ad infinitum. Even our process of physically going out, experiencing, then returning and writing about it, then returning again is something of a Mobius strip, a cycle that covered more than the simple physical dimensions of the circuit; a three-dimensional approach to place, self, experience, and expression. Our experience of those places is in turn physical, perceptual, intellectual, and back again, all in one continuous motion.

Still, I don't know how I feel about Nine Mile Run. The lower half of it stinks like an open sewer, the upper half is disconcertingly discolored and laden with all manner of litter, and the more attractive joggers never make more than one circuit past my usual spots. Every time it rains, the banks are covered in garbage until the current pulls it down and out to the Monongahela, or Pittsburgh park services makes a sweep through with volunteers. I enjoy its open spaces and the occasional mallard sighting. I enjoy the chance to be out among grasses and trees so close to my house along a busy residential road in Squirrel Hill. I'm sure I'll enjoy it even more once the trees take to leaf and the flowers start blooming. Part of me wanted to love the stream, how it keeps struggling against the wastes the city introduces into it, how it keeps flowing and flirting with being a clean, natural flow again. At the moment, I don't exactly love NMR. I respect it, and greatly. I appreciate what it has gone through and I appreciate that people continue to work to restore it as best as they can. I am going to continue to help combat the build-up of litter, and I will most likely keep returning, particularly once the green returns.

I probably will not write about NMR anymore, though. This weblog has been a serious help in getting me to rethink how I write about the natural world, and about place in general, and NMR was a good tool to test my abilities to interact with a place on different levels. My experiences have gone from fondness to empathy to disgust and elsewhere, and writing about it has presented me with some excellently helpful challenges. I feel much better equipped to participate meaningfully in the literary tradition of nature writing, and I will likely continue to participate, though most likely not through writing about NMR. It has been a testing ground for me, but it does not hold much more appeal for me as a developing writer. More can definitely be said about that stream, though. Maybe it's my chronic wanderlust, but I think I want to leave NMR behind me as a subject of writing. It hasn't worked its way into the poems of my final portfolio, partially because I've seen it as an academic exercise and not a poetic wellspring. A few poems will likely be written, and probably soon, but I want to take some time to go back and just experience it all again without the structure of a deadline in the background. I want to take some time with it as something other than an object of investigation and see if have something more to say about it.