Weather Observations Written on a U.S. Government Issued Ball-Point Pen
What do I know about the weather? I know that it passes through me, over me and, in some cases, below me. That’s all I know. Science, of course, addresses the evidence differently. In a supposedly objective way. Feeling from the subjective, I can say that what I know about the weather, and what I feel, is all that I need to know. Though my senses may betray and my emotions may swell, I know my personal track record is better than the weather man’s. He uses science, but he lacks the local skills to reach the conclusions of verifiable evidence that yes, it’s raining, yes, it’s a hurricane outside, and so on. But these are conclusions we are already able to reach by looking up into the sky, opening our eyes, taking a breath, and catching the ill winds that blow through all of us now, at one time or another, for an unlucky many on a daily basis.
The scientific process, whatever it takes to get theory ratified into human understanding, will not help us now. We must rely on our senses, now, or the situation looks terminal. Doomed, actually.
Now, “doomed” is a big long ominous word. Life will adapt. For example, you might live in a condo in the future in, say, Carlsbard Caverns. Certainly, Carlsbad Caverns, though I have never seen it, scientifically speaking, I know it must be a beautiful place. Yes, we humans have always done well in caves. Caves are consistently good for being safe from, say, tornados. The attendant rain my eventually reach you, but as far as tornados go, you’re good. They provide excellent cover from the cold, and yes, the heat. It’s nice and cool down there in those caves. You might like that fine.
Scientifically speaking, I don’t know much about the Kyoto Protocols. My knowledge is based on hearsay. Certaintly, here in Arizona, as it is for the rest of America, there is no evidence of any kind of Japanese-hosted global protocol, unless you count Toyotas. Otherwise, the air is dirty as sin here. In this valley, I choke on the dust, and it really cramps my smoking. My senses tell me the air is dirty as sin and sin is disorderly, to say the least. A protocol implies order. There is no order here, sir.
Chaos and disorder is what I feel when the wind gussies up and the barometric pressure drops. Anyone who cares to sense it can. At least they might catch a whiff of ozone in the air, right before it rains. We aren’t all robots. In fact, I believe our senses make us excellent subjective scientists, and that gives me hope. When the wind gussied up last night, fences were blown down, whole branches thrown across the city and into the street. In the Arcadia District, the old irrigated grove neighborhoods of Phoenix, every orange on the block was shaken from their trees. Whole groves in orbit around their former tree mothers now, turning green manicured lawns and dusty road gutters into brightly little decorated fantasy zones for free fruit: Just pick it before the noon sun cooks them into juice. The previous night’s wind shear, blowing from the northwest, from the barren expense near Barstow, a dry Mojave-style blow, spreckled the city greenery with little dots of fun factory oranges.
Indeed, the Good Friday Wind Shear of 2006 in Phoenix at dusk, as it now so shall be duly named and recorded, forcefully demonstrated the keen possibilities for our senses to detect some sort of disturbance in the ... um, force. A greater degree of unpredictability, at least, is clearly in the works.
The empirical evidence of the event suggests the following: Oranges don’t usually decorate lawns as if God’s great applecart had been tilted over. In nature, humans are biologically trained to pick them first. But today, the day after the Good Friday Wind Shear of 2006, oranges cover the desert floor, the fruit of spring is lost to everyone but those walking outdoors carrying grocery bags, or hey, little doggie poop bagettes. Those are coming in handy, too.
At the arrival of the storm, the front door to the second-story condo blew up, since it faced the winds, trees swayed madly, and to the good fortune of my own little endeavor in empirical science, a string of mulit-colored toy balloons (perhaps the casualty of a Latino car dealership upwind) swished across my line of sight, speeding by about one-hundred feet up: a perfect weather balloon. I’d say it was doing sixty (even though I can’t detect the red-shift and all). Conclusion: A big storm is zeroing in on the southwest from L.A., but who knows. Irregardless, the winds of change are speaking.
The scientific process, whatever it takes to get theory ratified into human understanding, will not help us now. We must rely on our senses, now, or the situation looks terminal. Doomed, actually.
Now, “doomed” is a big long ominous word. Life will adapt. For example, you might live in a condo in the future in, say, Carlsbard Caverns. Certainly, Carlsbad Caverns, though I have never seen it, scientifically speaking, I know it must be a beautiful place. Yes, we humans have always done well in caves. Caves are consistently good for being safe from, say, tornados. The attendant rain my eventually reach you, but as far as tornados go, you’re good. They provide excellent cover from the cold, and yes, the heat. It’s nice and cool down there in those caves. You might like that fine.
Scientifically speaking, I don’t know much about the Kyoto Protocols. My knowledge is based on hearsay. Certaintly, here in Arizona, as it is for the rest of America, there is no evidence of any kind of Japanese-hosted global protocol, unless you count Toyotas. Otherwise, the air is dirty as sin here. In this valley, I choke on the dust, and it really cramps my smoking. My senses tell me the air is dirty as sin and sin is disorderly, to say the least. A protocol implies order. There is no order here, sir.
Chaos and disorder is what I feel when the wind gussies up and the barometric pressure drops. Anyone who cares to sense it can. At least they might catch a whiff of ozone in the air, right before it rains. We aren’t all robots. In fact, I believe our senses make us excellent subjective scientists, and that gives me hope. When the wind gussied up last night, fences were blown down, whole branches thrown across the city and into the street. In the Arcadia District, the old irrigated grove neighborhoods of Phoenix, every orange on the block was shaken from their trees. Whole groves in orbit around their former tree mothers now, turning green manicured lawns and dusty road gutters into brightly little decorated fantasy zones for free fruit: Just pick it before the noon sun cooks them into juice. The previous night’s wind shear, blowing from the northwest, from the barren expense near Barstow, a dry Mojave-style blow, spreckled the city greenery with little dots of fun factory oranges.
Indeed, the Good Friday Wind Shear of 2006 in Phoenix at dusk, as it now so shall be duly named and recorded, forcefully demonstrated the keen possibilities for our senses to detect some sort of disturbance in the ... um, force. A greater degree of unpredictability, at least, is clearly in the works.
The empirical evidence of the event suggests the following: Oranges don’t usually decorate lawns as if God’s great applecart had been tilted over. In nature, humans are biologically trained to pick them first. But today, the day after the Good Friday Wind Shear of 2006, oranges cover the desert floor, the fruit of spring is lost to everyone but those walking outdoors carrying grocery bags, or hey, little doggie poop bagettes. Those are coming in handy, too.
At the arrival of the storm, the front door to the second-story condo blew up, since it faced the winds, trees swayed madly, and to the good fortune of my own little endeavor in empirical science, a string of mulit-colored toy balloons (perhaps the casualty of a Latino car dealership upwind) swished across my line of sight, speeding by about one-hundred feet up: a perfect weather balloon. I’d say it was doing sixty (even though I can’t detect the red-shift and all). Conclusion: A big storm is zeroing in on the southwest from L.A., but who knows. Irregardless, the winds of change are speaking.
posted by Unknown at 1:28 PM
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