Friday, 17 June 2016

Self-portrait in plastic

I have a reading tonight. I was planning to read a reasonably new sequence of poems about rubbish found on the beach. Now, after the shooting of Jo Cox, in the midst of an aggressive yet petty campaign focused on blame, alongside the violence of young men who proudly call themselves 'hooligans' and seek out conflict in the name of revenge, I am wondering about the context of such poems.

At the end of 'Lune' I write of "half-recognisable fragments of one world / to be washed up by another." I see the plastic detritus as this and more. I see it as a marker of a civilised culture - after all, how amazing a thing is plastic - how durable, how malleable - that has lost sight of its inherent value - that such a wonderful product had to be transformed into something disposal, throw-away to make 'economic sense' for its manufacturers. And I see the fractured pieces of insulation, squashed drinks bottles, plastic lids, torn bags, shredded food cartons and so on as the result of this nonsensical regard for economy, its roughshod influence over other fundamental elements of life, such as our environment, the air we breathe, the sharing of a small planet with other life forms ... I'm sure you would name others.

Of course I'm not saying money isn't important; it is in our culture. But the debilitating emphasis on it has made us lose sight of the value of other forms of exchange: the reciprocity between people that doesn't have monetary worth, that is far more intangible, more subtle and perhaps more fitting for our own complexities. After all, we don't know the half of it: how our brain functions, what's in the sea, where the universe ends, if it ends, hiccups...

Plastic waste, barely recognisable fragments of our everyday lives, represents to me the futility of trying to solidify, fix, the uncertainty and unknowableness of the world in a world that has no regard for such rigidity. It can't, it needs the flexibility to mitigate against change. And change seems to be something that terrifies us, to the point of resistance, xenophobia, murder. The only way most plastics change is either by the pounding of wind and wave action or through extreme temperature for recycling (and even then, not all plastics can 'survive' that transformation to continue to be of use). And so it washes up on beaches, at riverbanks, blown into corners of building sites and edgelands, in dangerous and ugly pieces, our very own Picture of Dorian Grey, peeling and splintered, a long from the bright shiny material of consumer promise.

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