I’m going to be attending the Plastics Summit tomorrow. (I say that like there’s only one. There are quite a few, actually.) This one’s in Tukwila and it looks to be a good mix of the problems and the possible solutions. It’s always hard to say whether these events are going to resonate in some way, whether they are going to fuel the motivation that’s needed to make a difference or not. I’ll know more on Tuesday.
Scrolling through the many notice-type emails in my in-box, I snagged my attention on this one. I like shellfish. I love shellfish. Whether it’s oysters raw and cold or two pounds of steamed mussels and a bowl of chowdah, I will happily take on all comers. But now, here in the bizarro years of the 21st century, there is an aftertaste that comes with shellfish, and what was once good and healthy is in the process of changing. And there’s nothing natural about it. The fact that clams, oysters and the rest are turning up with plastic inside of them, that we now have plastic in our own guts as well, is an obvious result of our own disregard for our home.
They say that only a deranged animal fouls its own bed. It takes the likes of a rabid dog, blind from pain and disease, to lie panting and groaning in a pool of its own running wastes. The level to which you must sink in order to disregard the basic stricture against shitting where you eat and where you sleep is a low level indeed.
Just an observation.