“…like a naked new-born babe striding the blast…”
New anxieties are emerging. Little Squirm is arriving just in time for the apocalypse. All the signs are ominous. Collapsed salmon stocks, tar sands, economic implosion, meteors, the keystone pipeline, escalating nuclear threats, war in the east, war in the west…Will baby have a chance?
Then there’s the dreaded symbolic order, an inheritance not of her own making. Such conditions would give anyone pause. Don’t we have a responsibility to avoid casting any new life into this spiraling cesspool? Or refrain from adding to the problem by increasing the number of homo sapiens already ravaging the earth?
Maybe we’ll call her “Baby X” until she’s old enough to choose a name for herself and let the family of white bunnies roving around our neighbourhood raise her. *sigh*
Books
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