Inside, under a human-made roof, lit with human-made energy efficient fluorescent bulbs, listening to a human-made tune through my human-made laptop, cozy with heat generated from a human-made furnace, drinking human-made ale in a human-made pint glass, I am absolutely petrified of dying.

Even worse, because it is so permanent, I fear death.

Once I get my butt outside, I no longer fear death. (I still fear dying--I spent years watching a very creative god figure out myriad ways to dispatch his toys.)

The more human I become, the more fearful. Words trap us.

So I did something drastic. I quit Facebook.

***

I used to watch my dying father watch television. He enjoyed it, as I do, and he could watch it for hours, as I could.

He died anyway.

The biggest mistake I can make teaching science is convincing children that this whole thisness is in any way manageable. It's not, nor will it ever be.

I have never regretted being outside. I have been frightened out of my skin as lightning rises from the ground no more than 10 yards away, or as some night critter ambles past me as I dare piss under the moonlight at 4 AM, or when caught in a riptide that threatens to carry me back to the land of my ancestors.

Pure, adrenaline-soaked, black-out fear beats the snot out of the day to day impending nameless dread I occasionally feel when inside.

I teach science so I can share what (little) I know about the universe. I suspect science is mandatory in high school because folks in power believe the opposite, that through science we will conquer disease and death, and maybe get whiter teeth in the process.

I want to continue to improve as a science teacher, focusing on the natural world beyond the human world.

So I did something drastic. I stopped tweeting.

***

I took my AP class outside two weeks ago. I had the students "randomly" map out square meter plots, and describe everything alive they could find within their assigned plots.

Within each square meter lay an unseen universe. Ants and clovers and grubs and "baby trees" and tiny yellow "hoppy thingies" and bees and plantain and worms and dandelions and grass. My lambs were surprised, as I am every time I bother to look.

I need more time to look. I left Everything2.

***

My students will all leave digital footprints in their lifetimes. If I have any influence, they will be aware of their virtual footprints as well.

This past weekend I saw an osprey carrying a small bluefish in its talons, the fish carried headfirst, perhaps dead, perhaps not. I saw a seal and some dolphins. I grasped a razor clam and felt its desperation as it tried to pull itself back into its watery home. I saw glossy ibises feeding in a vernal pond.

Even now I am distracted by a male mosquito, his voluminous feathery antennae searching for the right frequency (Kenneth?) as it walks across an envelope stamped with Google on my desk. I love Google as a drunk loves his hooch, and it is about as healthy.

I've used up more years than I have left. No more Delicious. I am full.

The mosquito antennae were mounted by a Victorian entomologist, lovingly
preserved by Howard Lynk. I'd love to buy him a pint.

And yes, writing a blog makes me a hypocrite--consider it a disease, a personal failing, a weakness, a whatever.