“This was once dense, dark hemlock forest. For millennia, sacred ground where the indigenous hunted, but would not live. Tanneries came in the mid-nineteenth century, cut ‘em all down, used the bark to tan leather, fouled the streams, didn’t replant. They put themselves out of business by the twentieth century, left a big mess. Not the sharpest tools in the shed. Thanks to Mother Nature and the state, it all bounced back within a decade, and the modern Catskills tourism industry was born. Which is sort of where you and I come in.”
I hear a growing number of towns have citizen pandemic patrols. Some jeer at such fears, but wallow within their own worries about the potential of a return to an Obama-like past. Or even the bad old scary days of the Clinton presidency.
No competency and achievement is safe from self-doubt. No proof is enough. That suspicion is a symptom of imposter syndrome, wherein the afflicted feels unqualified to do any of the things they can, um, do, and suspects that their secret is always on the verge of being out, their jig up. It is by my estimation a worldwide epidemic.
Right now, the sound of rain outside is incredibly welcome. But, like most things, moderation is best. Too much of a good thing is a problem.
“The Catskill Mountain Railroad has had dramatic success as a tourist railroad in recent years and has been a significant source of revenue for Ulster County. In 2019, its ridership was up nine percent to 41,115 passengers. Its revenues were up four percent to $1,490,000,” writes a reader.
“The challenges presented by the coronavirus inspired the organizers of the annual Saugerties Artists’ Studio Tour to reinvent the tour and to find a way to keep in touch with art lovers everywhere — especially our friends, patrons and supporters,” writes a reader.
When we reach the nights of August 11 and 12, we will see a meteor every two minutes or so, especially if we’re away from the lights of town. But there’s a secret sinister untold story behind these lovely shooting stars. It involves their origins.
The act of processing a deluge of information, most of it stressful, elongates time perception. It’s an evolutionary tic. Our brains are wired to take in more information when we’re stressed, so that if and when we’re in similar danger again, we’ll have copious information to keep us from perishing on the savannah. The aperture widens.
My parents were born during the Great Depression. They passed this fact on in stories, habits, and objects. Until her passing, my mom would keep washing sponges until they disintegrated in her dishwasher, or the dishwasher would break from all the sponge detritus it had collected over the years. My father would take back Christmas presents he’d given and then regift them.
The age we are living in is starting to feel like an omni-trigger, a cosmic strategy to tease it all out right now. The great tabling of pathos and pathology may account for sharp spikes in suicide rates and opioid relapse, a marked uptick in Kingston gunplay, and in my general observations a soaring epidemic of ragged despair and public displays of end-of-rope rage against the air and sky!