hey uh so I haven't seen anyone talking about this here yet, but
the amazon river, like the biggest river in the fucking world, in the middle of the amazon fucking rainforest, is currently going through its worst drought since the records began 121 years ago
picture from Folha PE
there's a lot going on but I haven't seen much international buzz around this like there was when the forest was on fire (maybe because it's harder to shift the narrative to blame brazil exclusively as if the rest of the world didn't have fault in this) so I wanted to bring this to tumblr's attention
I don't know too many details as I live in the other side of the country and we are suffering from the exact opposite (at least three cyclones this year, honestly have stopped counting - it's unusual for us to get hit by even one - floods, landslides, we have a death toll, people are losing everything to the water), but like, I as a brazilian have literally never seen pictures of the river like this before. every single city in the amazonas state is in a state of emergency as of november 1st.
pictures by Adriano Liziero (ig: geopanoramas)
we are used to seeing images of rio negro and solimões, the two main amazon river affluents, in all their grandiose and beauty and seeing these pictures is really fucking chilling. some of our news outlets are saying the solimões has turned to a sand desert... can you imagine this watery sight turning into a desert in the span of a year?
while down south we are seeing amounts of rain and hailstorms the likes of which our infrastructure is simply not built to deal with, up north people who have built everything around the river are at a loss of what to do.
the houses there that are built to float are just on the ground, people who depend on fishing for a living have to walk kilometers to find any fish that are still alive at all, the biodiversity there is at risk, and on an economic level it's hard to grasp how people from the northern states are getting by at all - the main means of transport for ANYTHING in that region is via the river water. this will impact the region for months to come. it doesnt make a lot of sense to build a lot of roads bc it's just better to use the waterway system, everything is built around or floats on the river after all. and like, the water level is so incomprehensibly low the boats are just STUCK. people are having a hard time getting from one place to another - keep in mind the widest parts of the river are over 10 km apart!!
this shit is really serious and i am trying not to think about it because we have a different kind of problem to worry about down south but it's really terrifying when I stop to think about it. you already know the climate crisis is real and the effects are beyond preventable now (we're past global warming, get used to calling it "global boiling"). we'll be switching strategies to damage control from now on and like, this is what it's come to.
I don't like to be alarmist but it's hard not to be alarmed. I'm sorry that I can't end this post with very clear intructions on how people overseas can help, there really isn't much to do except hope the water level rises soon, maybe pray if you believe in something. in that regard we just have to keep pressing for change at a global level; local conditions only would not, COULD NOT be causing this - the amazon river is a CONTINENTAL body of water, it spans across multiple countries. so my advice is spread the word, let your representatives know that you're worried and you want change towards sustainability, degrowth and reduced carbon emissions, support your local NGOs, maybe join a cause, I don't know? I recommend reading on ecological and feminist economics though
however, I know you can help the affected riverine families by donating to organizations dedicated to helping the region. keep in mind a single US dollar, pound or euro is worth over 5x more in our currency so anything you donate at all will certainly help those affected.
FAS - Sustainable Amazon Fundation
Idesam - Sustainable Developent and Preservation Institute of Amazonas
Greenpeace Brasil - I know Greenpeace isn't the best but they're one of the few options I can think of that have a bridge to the international world and they are helping directly
There are a lot of other smaller/local NGOs but I'm not sure how you could donate to them from overseas, I'll leave some of them here anyway:
Projeto Gari
Caritás Brasileira
If you know any other organizations please link them, I'll be sure to reblog though my reach isn't a lot
thank you so much for reading this to the end, don't feel obligated to share but please do if you can! even if you just read up to here it means a lot to me that someone out there knows
also as an afterthought, I wanted to expand on why I think this hasn't made big news yet: because unlike the case of the 2020 forest fires, other countries have to hold themselves accountable when looking at this situation. while in 2020 it was easier to pretend the fires were all our fault and people were talking about taking the amazon away from us like they wouldn't do much worse. global superpowers have no more forests to speak of so I guess they've been eyeing what latin america still has. so like this bit of the post is just to say if you're thinking of saying anything of the sort, maybe think of what your own country has done to contribute to this instead of blaming brazil exclusively and saying the amazon should be protected by force or whatever
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It’s too late to save the world
Ash trees sprout in cracks in the asphalt. The gutters collect leaves, which become soil, in which dandelions sprout.
There’s nothing you can do
A man plants an entire forest. A young girl teaches a drone to deliver saplings. The elderly volunteer to clean up radioactive waste.
You might as well give up
Wolves return to ancestral hunting grounds. Bison return to the prairie. Otters return to the kelp beds. Young oaks push roots deep into reclaimed farmland.
Who cares anyway?
Children draw pictures of flowers. Festivals are held for cherry blossoms and pecans and apples. A crowd cheers as the last line is cut away from the ensnared creature.
I have disobeyed worse than you
The world does not die on my watch
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I wanna talk about 'The Banshees of Inisherin' cause I really enjoyed it but I'd like provide ye a bit of context for the production of the story that might alter some of the analysis I've seen gettin passed around. A common misconception about MacDonagh is that he's an Irishman- he's not. He's English. His parents are Irish and he's spent many a Summer holiday in Ireland. But he was born and raised an Englishman. Irish stories of the 20th century have a tendency to carry a lot of political tension, far more tension than you'd see in 'The Banshees of Inisherin' because, like all irish stories for the past millennium, they work as fabels. They're all metaphors for recent irish history and the social mores of rural Ireland and understanding that is almost necessary for the enjoyment of the those kinds of works.
MacDonagh, being an Englishman, is less concerned with these politics; but irish influences remain strong in his works all the same. First and foremost, he's a playwright and this is evident in the structure of his screenplays. MacDonagh makes a lot of references to the film adaptation of John B. Keane's play 'The Field' both visually and by use of certain character archetypes in his film. Take 'The Irish Fool' (a trope that deserves its own post tbh) depicting a mentally disabled character whose function in the story is like that of Shakespeare's fool, only these ''''fools'''' are genuine depictions of how mentally disabled adults were (and still are!!!!!) treated/taken care of in rural irish society. Yet in spite of all the parallels between both stories, The Banshees of Inisherin makes one fundamental deviation from all other irish works which is that rather than having the interpersonal conflict between the protagonists be a metaphor for irish history- irish history is instead a metaphor for their conflict. This inversion of traditional Irish storytelling is present in other areas of the story as well, such as the banshee not being a screaming mourner- but a passive aggressive observer. It's MacDonagh's close connection with the Irish that allowed him to subvert tradition in a way that I personally believe to have been done masterfully. Hypothetically; you could tell this story in any location, but it's rural irish identy is what sells it. Between the isolation of island life, the consant threat of emmigration vs homeland violence, the blur between the natural and supernatural, and the total lack of privacy met with a mandatory level of trust; all these factors are what make 20th century Ireland the ideal setting for a a story of this calibre AND I LOVE IT.
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Conversation between King Cedric Tyrell of the Reach, and Lord Omer Florent, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: The Ghosts that Remain. / @omerflorent
setting: the king of the reach is seen walking through the corridors towards the chambers of the lord commander. there he waits for the guards to enter, announcing his presence before walking in. the atmosphere seems as though something is rushed and tense - he clutches something leather in his hands.
and when the king finally cried, it were as though he would not stop. cedric tyrell's cries were quiet, as though he were suffocating - his shoulders heaved as though his soul tried to leave his body. as though his chest would burst, and the walls of highgarden itself would collapse, and the kingdom with it.
ooc: cedric finally asks one of his florent cousins to translate the brightwater tongue found within his mother’s diary. the consequences reveal what he always feared.
cedric: “leave us.” and his tone is on edge, as though he needed to do this now. lest he find himself wishing to never know the truth. “i need you to read something for me.”
omer: and the lord commander looked up as the king came in to further clear the room. rising from his seat he placed his hand on his king's shoulder and led him to the small solar where lucrezia wasn't in the bath. “what is it?” and he takes the book, opening it up, fingers moving over the fine writing. the familiar language. “what is this, cedric?”
cedric: and in his movement and actions, he barely considers the reasons why omer would have directed him to the solar. his feet seemed to move, but cedric recognised nothing about his surroundings, only fixing a look on omer's striking blue hues. they haunted him. as though they were not etched upon his face too. was he cursed by the gods to have his mothers eyes, as a reminder of his failure of her? “my mother’s. she drafted a letter before sending it, to her cunt brother. your cunt father. translate this.” and he pointed directly at words that were in the brightwater tongue.
(my lord brother of brightwater, i implore you to reconsider your rejection of wardship for your nephew. cedric is sharp in his wit and sharper still with his tongue, and has been raised as a son of brightwater in his own way. i wish for him to be safe within this world, especially now more than ever. there is none other i would trust with looking over my son but you, my gracious lord. the concern and insult for oldtown’s ambitions continuing beyond this war are shared; in this, i assure you, highgarden and brightwater remain the most steadfast of allies. no son of brightwater would be sent to ward with oldtown; as you have always taught me. concerns are, very high. a constant priority. a constant thought. tá amanna is cosúil m'fhear céile as a meabhair. tá amanna ann is dóigh liom go ndéanfaidh sé dochar dom. i wish for my son to see a piece of what it means to have florent blood, my lord - and if this were possible, you would have my utmost and undeniable gratitude. perhaps my lord can consider the strengths of having a tyrell ward; it will give your own noble and virtuous son another to depend on. má tharlaíonn aon rud dom, le do thoil a ghlacadh mo mhac. please tell my nephew his aunt thinks of him. i have tried to send him some correspondence, however believe to have yet gotten a response; perhaps it is not getting through for i do not know where to reach him. guím ort, a thiarna. deartháir m��r. yours, lady eloise of highgaren. do dheirfiúr beag.)
omer: and he reads it, he reads it several times. he doesn't look up at his king as he makes sure he is reading what's before him. he's never seen this letter among what he searched from his father's possessions. “sometimes...my husband seems mad. there are times i think he will hurt me. i pray to you, my lord. big brother. your little sister.” and he reads it again to himself, he knew cedric didn't know the old tongue... even the simple parts...must have looked like gibberish.
cedric: and for a moment, there is no reaction at all. he watches the fox of brightwater reread the words again, and then again, almost as though he needed to be sure of what he was reading. and for a moment, cedric himself felt as though he were preparing to hear an abomination. he felt as though he needed to clutch the soil before feeling the world shake and end beneath him. “...she wanted the families to be closer.” and he goes silent again. he remembers the way eloise tyrell would speak of brightwater, speak of the pipes and the flutes, even would show him a style of dance in which his young mind thought her feet would break for the way they danced against the wood beneath the soles of her feet. “take my son.” and there was a slight laugh that came from his lips, but it was not his usual chuckle. it sounded as though he were laughing at the gods. at his life.
omer: and he says nothing, it's not appropriate. he stands there looking at the other. watching his cousin. they son of the pearl they called him. upon his birth they played the horns and pipes for him. omer was 3, his mother just died and his father wouldn't parade but he remembered the way the folk cheered for him.
omer; and his chuckle causes a crack across the surface of his demeanor, his heart. his brother stands there, his king, and there's nothing he can do to make him feel better. words were wind and did little to mend the broken.
cedric: “she said she didn't think our mother would have done this to herself. in the maze. before you found us.” and slowly, then suddenly, it were as though he had been bounced into action. his pace seemed to have him dart, like a fox, from the side of omer and suddenly he were beside the crackling fireplace in one of the small solars in the lord commander's chambers. “before he ordered an arrow to her neck.” and he looked directly at omer, his hand moving to each of the diary pages, his rips violent. page by page, the sound of it loud, for cedric did not raise his own voice. “on her wedding day. our sister, on her wedding day.” and the pages were being crumpled into a fist, before being thrown into the fire. he did not wait for them to crumple before throwing more, a sudden burst of movement coming in him throwing the entire leather bound into the fireplace. it needed feeding. and the rage in which he threw it with almost caused embers to end up on the rug. “helena was right.”
omer: and the sudden movements of the other don't startle him as he watches, gazes over him. he started moving toward him as he ripped at the pages and asked the question. as he repeated the words of helena, the sweet girl stolen from them. ;and while it sounds the other knows his sister was right, omer didn't need to tell cedric she was right because they read the words. the lord commander spoke them out loud. and when he was in front of the other, he could only think about those nights he spent alone after the north and the nights he wished for something more than what he had. and he couldn't let his little cousin. his little brother live a life with nothing. and so he pulled the man into his arms, holding him close. tight so the other couldn't escape from the hug.
cedric: and there was no reaction as the lord commander moved closer to him, and for a moment he began to feel as though the walls of this cursed solar were caving in on them. and it were as though every instinct within him seemed to scream at the seven heavens and hells alike at the mere touch of omer florent, his reaction being to try and push him off. “goldengrove...i was in GOLDENGROVE, with....” and his voice suddenly booms, and there is no sadness in it. only loss. he was in goldengrove with his dead best friend upon the news that both lord and lady tyrell had seemingly died, only none had told him of how twisted it was until he was home to view the shrouds themselves. and he ignored it, for he knew how poisoned ivy seemed to spread within his family home. “poisoned her...his wife.” and the entire time he is shouting, he cares not for who overhears him, servants or whoever else were in these chambers. and how much better was he? had he too not killed the woman he had taken as wife? and his tone changed from angry, to a sense of desperation; desperation in trying to figure out what it was he was doing here. what was he supposed to do with this information?
cedric: and despite asking him to get off him, he clung to the lord commander; he clung to the cousin who should have been in his life so much sooner. his mother wanted them together. and when the king finally cried, it were as though he would not stop. cedric tyrell's cries were quiet, as though he were suffocating - his shoulders heaved as though his soul tried to leave his body. as though his chest would burst, and the walls of highgarden itself would collapse, and the kingdom with it. and he stayed that way, silently begging for forgiveness. not from any of the gods people fell on their knees for. he prayed the pearl of brightwater would have forgiven him in her last moments. forgiven him now, wherever she was.
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