Return to Portland

However, the sky is lifeless. At heights of up to about seventy meters, birds flicker past; up to two hundred, insects come flying. Even higher, planes occasionally roar, rockets burst to destroy what remains of the ozone layer. Beyond the stratosphere the air gradually thins, and farther lies the black emptiness. Stars shimmer, planets spin, meteors fly—silently, because there’s nothing there even to whistle. And there is definitely nothing there for a god to do. I don’t believe in anything; my technical mind won’t allow the existence of something sludge-like, something that can’t be analyzed.

But if you’re going to categorize the unacceptable, I’d much rather relate to life-loving Egyptian Astarte than the frail Jesus surrounded by angels lacking secondary sex characteristics. If there is a god, then he is in the earth. Its depths are inexhaustible, and the fertile layer feeds all living things. What lies even deeper under it—hell—doesn’t matter either: extremes meet. I think about it when I watch the poplars waking up. Dull-red tassels will be replaced in a couple of days by small leaves; the blanket will turn green. Each year, the trees prepare anew for another turn of life, even though they don’t know what awaits them.