Dianne Feinstein introduces her much-ballyhooed desert protection bill in the Senate today. Some desert activists have been working with her staff to craft the bill, working under a pledge of confidentiality. Other activists (myself included) have been waiting a bit impatiently for details. We’re still waiting for some of them, including specifics as to the actual tracts of land added to National Parks and the Preserve, etc.
The below is based on a note from Ryan Henson of the California Wilderness Coalition. I’m monitoring thomas.gov for text of the bill and will share that as it becomes available.
On the upside, the bill:
On the downside, the bill
Other parts of the bill not yet released involve energy development in the desert, and conservationists are quite concerned about those provisions.
I’ll report more as I get it.
I’ve changed up the old CafePress store*, adding a preliminary logo for the site which is kind of cool even if you don’t know the site, and also including a test run of some things to benefit the Mojave National Preserve Conservancy. All proceeds from sales of the MNPC stuff will go to the Conservancy.
Suggestions of items you’d like to see, either in the main Coyote Crossing line or the MNPC line, are welcomed.
* which involved discontinuing sales of the Zeke product line, or at least it would have been a discontinuation if there had been any sales of the Zeke product line in the first place.
There’s a scene in the 1998 film Passion in the Desert that does not appear in the Honore de Balzac short story on which the film was based. The short story focuses on the relationship between a man and a leopard: the film takes an entire act to get us to the beginning of the real story, a feat Balzac accomplished in fewer than six hundred words of text.
In the film, the protagonist — Augustin Robert — is at first charged with guarding a character the filmmaker borrowed from contemporary history: the renowned, eccentric, aging and thoroughly difficult painter Jean-Michel Venture de Paradis. It is 1798, during Bonaparte’s campaign to conquer Africa. Venture has been commissioned by Napoleon to document the scenic and cultural wonders of Egypt, but had failed to ingratiate himself well with the French soldiers he accompanied through that occupied land. Augustin’s job is to protect Venture from his fellow soldiers.
Mameluks attack the company, and Venture de Paradis and Augustin are separated from the rest. They wander in the desert, the old man’s frailty slowing their progress. He persists in painting as they go, even using the last of their drinking water to thin his paint. At length Augustin leaves the man, promising to find help and return. He doesn’t, and the real story — Balzac’s story — starts shortly thereafter.
In life, Jean-Michel Venture de Paradis actually died of either dysentery or the plague in Paris in 1799, having been there for at least two years teaching. In the film, he dies soon after Augustin departs, blowing his head off when he realizes he is failing.
The scene that has been playing through my mind comes just before that. The artist is dying of heat and thirst, and remembers that he’s put the last of the water into his paint pots. He drinks his paint. It burns his throat horribly. Lurid streaks of color, yellow and red and cyan, plaster his beard to his chin. He chokes uncontrollably.
The film is pretty, to be sure, and fantastic in the original sense of the word. The short story is in many ways superior. It is more understated: it does not hit the reader over the head with leaden metaphor the way the film does. It does not strain credulity as much.
But there’s something about the paint-drinking scene from the film that haunts me. Words are my medium, not paint. They make a much lighter palette to haul out into the desert, but these days they burn my throat every bit as much, abrade my gut, tinge my blood and breath.
I actually wrote and sent a response to Garrison Keillor’s anti-Semitic Xmas column, in which he says, among other things,
If you don’t believe Jesus was God, OK, go write your own damn “Silent Night” and leave ours alone. This is spiritual piracy and cultural elitism, and we Christians have stood for it long enough. And all those lousy holiday songs by Jewish guys that trash up the malls every year, Rudolph and the chestnuts and the rest of that dreck. Did one of our guys write “Grab your loafers, come along if you wanna, and we’ll blow that shofar for Rosh Hashanah”? No, we didn’t.
Unsurprisingly, my email — sent to the address given at the end of the column — bounced. I’m looking for other ways to get it to him. Perhaps he’ll print all the responses out and line them up on him mantel above the garlands.
In the meantime, thought I’d share. Happy Hannukah.
From: coyotecrossing@faultline.org
Subject: Your appallingly ugly Xmas column
Date: December 18, 2009 7:24:23 PM PST
To: oldscout@prairiehome.net
Sir;
Do you no longer pause to think before you unburden yourself of your bigotry by way of your keyboard?
You have done harm here, with no concommitant gain in anything of value: not humor, not understanding, not literary merit.
You are lucky enough to have a platform that affords you some measure of attention, one you have earned through your own hard work and good fortune. You are not obligated as a writer to use that platform other than as you see fit. You do, however, have an obligation as a human being to refrain from doing needless harm to others. This column fails rather stunningly to fulfill that obligation.
You owe your readers — all of them, Jewish and otherwise — an apology.
There was no time. The flow of time had ceased
as chill night air might check rose-petal jam
in flow across a sampled piece of bread,
or idle thought would make a fingernail
to tarry on its way along the curved
and gentle night topography of spine.
Our skin standing on lovely end, the breeze
had raised a thousand downy hairs, and then
there was no time. The honey-sodden air
had ripened into amber, you and me
held fast, skin upon skin, tangles of hair
and leg, whole dark eternities of eyes,
soft fingertips held close, tracing the curve
of warm, slight-parted lips rose-petalled.
The first edition of House of Herps, the blog carnival devoted to reptiles and amphibians, is up over at its home blog, which is sensibly enough called House of Herps. Started by Amber of Birder’s Lounge and Coyote Crossing regular Jason of xenogere, the HofH promises to be a great series, and there are some wonderful posts included in the inaugural edition. So go get your non-avian-non-mammalian tetrapoddy goodness.
This must-watch video is simply the best introduction to the San Joaquin Valley water politics I’ve seen lately.
Toward the end, there’s mention of California Senator Dianne Feinstein’s intervention in the issue on behalf of a close friend and major political contributor, Stewart Resnick, who owns — among many other things — Paramount Farms in the San Joaquin Valley. Paramount, which farms about 120,000 acres in the San Joaquin Valley, is allotted 480,000 acre-feet of water each year. That’s enough to cover every inch of the land they farm four feet deep. It’s also about 47,000 acre-feet more than the entire city of Los Angeles used last year. Resnick asked Feinstein to help him keep his sea of taxpayer subsidized water, and she’s done so: she has prompted a “reexamination” of the science that says salmon need water to survive.
Those of us in the desert conservation community are waiting as the Senator’s staff draft what’s being hyped as a major desert land preservation bill. Given Feinstein’s Bush-like ability to jettison science when the profits of her benefactors are at stake, I don’t personally hold much hope that her desert bill will protect the desert.