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Imagine a world where the poisonous black ooze of oil
no longer fouls the seas, the feathers of birds,
the lakes, the streams and the waters,
gasoline fumes no longer choke the air
as the cacophony of clanking engines no longer deafens the ears,
the black soot of dinosaur age coal
no longer darkens the skies for thousands of miles
and the invisible death of global warming
from fossil fuels
no longer ravages the earth
from the magnificent glaciers of both poles
to the unspeakably bright artistic colors of tropical coral reefs.
Imagine a world where the clean primeval substance
that makes up most of the whole visible universe
is quietly, peacefully
generated by the gentle sun,
the undulating waves
and the symphonic winds
to power any imaginable level of human civilization,
sustainably,
in a just global economy for all,
without ugly, noxious pollutants,
respecting our planet
and all living things
while protecting them.
This bold vision begins
when we
simply
give it a name
to fire our
consciousness
and that is why we call
the entire
twenty-first century
The Hydrogen Century.
What would fuel cells be without Howard Smith?
Where would we find hydrogen,
except above us
in the stars of space
and in the oceans
and everywhere,
but
unutilized?
Who else could ever be
a walking
generator
as his famous
white pith helmet
carried its own
photovoltaic
generator
for his own
headlight
to illuminate
the Socratic
questions?
Let us never forget
his website,
always maintained
faithfully,
so all the world could talk
from every continent
about the coming
revolution,
the peaceful
transformation.
Howard Smith:
the greatest,
the first man of
the Hydrogen Century.
We were the only
privately funded
hydrogen fuel cell company,
unsubsidized,
in the world.
With only a handful of
brave,
ragtag
volunteers
and forward thinking
investors,
we made it happen,
we put product on the shelf
and out the door
to save the world.
What noble people we were,
we those last few souls who stayed to the end,
heroes of whom,
like it was said of the Prophets of Old,
the world was not worthy,
friends I will never forget
as long as I live.
Together we named
the whole twenty-first century
“The Hydrogen Century”
as we began,
in tiny steps,
the revolution that will yet
utterly transform
civilization.
We had no money,
but lasted as long as we did
on pure
idealistic vision
and in the end
it is that vision
that will survive
and triumph.
Hydrogen.
The unknown fuel.
The hidden fuel.
Invisible.
It is everywhere
And it’s nowhere.
It fills the space between the stars.
It’s in the water we drink,
The coffee
And no one knows it.
No one sees it.
But we will
In the coming
Third Millennium
When it runs
Our entire
Planet.
Hydrogen.
It’s the stake in the heart
Of the dark viscous vampire
Coming out of the Persian Gulf,
Causing war,
Sucking our economy
And destroying our environment
With its black slime.
Hydrogen.
The real mystery
Is when we will see
Reality,
Embrace the technology
And accept the future
That is coming.
All my life
I have loved the music
of gentle wind
blowing in the mountain forests
in singing firs and fragrant pines
as though it were
the beatific sound,
the unspeakable voice
of God Almighty
reduced to forms
humans can hear.
Since childhood
I have known of places
favored by
myriads of
Monarch
butterflies,
trees
tens of thousands,
hundreds of thousands,
use to shelter
in the cold
winter
when they migrate south
to select spots
they transform
to flying cities
of refuge,
of tiny
angelic wings
fluttering
with absolute
exquisite
grace,
like
messengers of
the divine.
All my life
as an
American,
I have been a friend
of Mexico
that land
of culture,
art
and music
whose brilliant
vibrant
colors
outshine our own
like sunlight
in
stained glass cathedrals
outshines
the slightest
reflected
wine bottles.
Now all three beloved things are under threat:
the orange delicate creatures,
the bright green
coniferous forests
of Michoacan
and the land,
the soil
sacred to
every Mexican.
The proud people
need wood to survive,
to eke out a
harsh existence,
to warm themselves
but a little
with a few
fleeting flames,
so they are forced,
cruelty of cruelty,
to kill the things
they find
most precious:
their trees,
the land of their heritage
and the sweet creatures
symbolizing
pure
innocence and
love.
We cannot sit by
and let them
be tyrannized
by such a
brutal
dilemma:
kill their bodies
or
kill their souls,
their spirits.
We must help them.
We must help
Michoacan
by planting
new trees,
new firs,
new pines,
new forests
so once again
there is room
for both
the monarch and
warm fires.
It is a Sunday evening
in early December,
and in the dark of night
I look with joy and peace
at the beautiful colored lights
of the Christmas tree
I have just finished
putting up,
having spent
most of the the day.
In all the glitter
and ornaments,
it occurs to me,
suddenly,
that there are
one billion people at least
with no power at all,
and another billion
whose electricity
is so little, spotty and
unreliable
it hardly matters they have it.
Together these two billion people
could never see
the lights of December,
or whatever festivals
are dear to their hearts
in their traditions
and beliefs,
for the lack of a few watts
to light up
the things of worship,
the cherished icons
of
celebration.
This must change.
Let there be light.
We must help them to have
this simple thing
we take for granted
every day
and in this season
in the illuminations of
every night.
Yet for everyone to have
with conventional
forms of energy
burning
fossil fuel
even the small power
to make a tree glow
would most probably
ravage the whole world.
To give the whole world
cities of lights
and trees of visions
in the dimmest hours,
we must return to the sun
to gather its light
and store it for darkness
with the help of the fuel that,
ironically,
also fires the sun,
when,
much diffuse,
we can reclaim the sun
for evening light
while preserving the precious earth
that grew the trees
that make December
luminous,
and we will do so
in the third millenium.
It first appeared
shortly after,
coming out of
the opaque
superheated
red fog
particle
haze
born of
the Big Bang.
One atom:
simplicity itself,
a proton
bonded to
a single
energetic
electron
dancing around it:
male and
female?
Hydrogen:
the stuff of
all the stars
and most of
the untold billions of light years
of space, of the cosmos
of the heavens,
yet mostly
invisible.
Hydrogen.
It is the beginning
of all matter
forming
all other things
in the cores of suns
in the unspeakable blasts
of
supernovas.
Hydrogen.
Married to
lifegiving
oxygen,
it is three fourths of
the
surface of the earth,
the progenitor
of
all life
called
the ocean.
Hydrogen:
the perfect fuel.
It burns with
the greatest
flame of all,
or not at all
in a spacecraft
fuel cell,
yielding
heat and power
cleanly
leaving only
water.
Hydrogen.
It is safe.
It has suffered
one of history’s greatest
bum raps,
being falsely blamed for
that Titanic of the air,
the Hindenburg.
If one must find
a culprit,
a murderous analog
to
the fatal ice berg,
blame the igniting,
exploding
lethal spray
of diesel
fuel oil.
An airship of pure
helium
would have died
as badly.
Hydrogen:
the fuel that sent us flying
on great metallic
fire mountains
roaring to the moon
and back.
Hydrogen.
It is the future.
Though at present,
prosperity
seems to abound,
the fact remains
cheap oil and gas
that fuel the boom
will one day
be expended
or at least
not recoverable.
China, India and
al the expanding,
industrializing
nations
all want their shares
of
the shrinking feast
and
as one oil company
admitted
in one of its ads,
we’re fresh out of
dinosaurs.
What is more,
all the world knows
except a few
well entrenched
vested interests
who willingly
keep their heads in the sand
like ostriches,
refusing to acknowledge
the truth
that pollution,
environmental decay,
mass extinctions and
global warming
increase
at an alarming rate
because of dependence
on fossil fuels.
Hydrogen.
If we are to survive,
we must change,
return to the sun,
the winds,
electrolyzing
the waters
into
renewable
sustainable
energy.
The time is now.
We must begin
immediately
to save the earth,
the economy and
our food chain.
True patriots rue the fact that
several nations
are far ahead of
America.
The changes must come
swiftly.
If we wait until
the need is too
patently obvious
to ignore,
it may well be
too late
to make a difference.
The first step is
education,
the raising of
consciousness,
so that people
everywhere,
especially children
can clearly understand
what must be done,
the need for an economy
and society
based on
the most common substance
in the entire
Universe.
After all.
It is for the children,
their future
and that of
those unborn
we must be
most concerned
and
take action.
We have viewed the cataclysmic Sumatran surge,
taller than high tropical palms,
that no board rider could ever conquer,
the watery Armageddon
that devoured the Indian Ocean
from one coast to the far shore,
whole cities washed away to floating rubble,
not a human being left alive,
thousands of tourist corpses.
Now try to conceive,
imagine
no, you cannot,
something even more
terrible.
Not fluid skyscrapers crashing into beaches,
but the viscous liquid we had depended on
for civilization,
taken out from underneath us,
gone,
depriving us,
leaving us high and dry
without the fossil fuels
essential
for all life,
if only to grow our food
and feed billions.
China and India
don’t have enough,
and need more and more,
and so do we.
Result:
deadly emptiness,
lethal lack,
the worst killer of all:
deprivation.
When this vast nothingness
replacing our black goo lifeblood,
this colossal drained chasm
at the end of our Great Lake of oil,
is even
a partial reality,
the ensuing catastrophe
will certainly be such
that a slight annoyance
like 250,000 or so engulfed by surf
and vanished Thai resorts
will not even be recalled
or come to mind.
Unless we do something.
This tsunami
can be prevented
if we but learn
intelligence
and foresight.
Here’s hoping.
God help us all.
The poetic artists
and singers
of the small mountainous Celtic land to the west
remaining after Romans,
Saxons, Vikings and Normans
had overrun the softer British places
that came to be called England,
these lovers of thought and voice art
often head to toe black soot covered
coal miners
creating unearthly soul beauty
out of grime,
poverty,
deprivation,
desperation
and an all around hard,
dangerous life
by sheer force of determined
creativity,
always making the best of things,
no matter what,
were always known for their
deep passion and
fierce independence.
Crossing oceans to mine quicksilver, moreover,
these tunnel warriors,
whose vast underground realms
still fill our local hills
extracted the flowing metal
essential to win
our Civil War,
and planted the seeds
that would grow to be called
Silicon Valley,
though the fluid they toiled for
in dreadful conditions
was mercury,
for which our local newspaper
is proudly named.
And now the flame hearted offspring of Cymru
will dig again
for precious
invisible fuel,
a substance lighter than air,
extracted from water, wind and sunlight
or perhaps more lowly things,
as they strive for an independence
from slick black tar grease and its purveyors
that the nobles from the ancient past,
or even those little known fighters who thought to go to war
during the Battle of Britain
if only by imploring divine rescue
all those sleepless nights
on their bent knees
to save the whole land
from crooked spider shapes,
would be proud of:
The goal today is the same as always:
freedom.
They call this new bardic named place
Hydrogen Valley.
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