The fantasy of chaining myself to a redwood as the distance between my body and the chainsaw decreases. The fantasy of lying between a harvester and old growth forest. I have had both, done neither. I have wanted to feel the wind the chainsaw gives off inch closer and closer, the harvester vibrating the road beneath me, but my body knows neither sensation. I am no real agitator, have sabotaged nothing, but why this is, what reason there could be, I’ve hidden from myself, redacted like classified information within the document from which I glean a life, though what’s left unredacted might itself be revealing. I think of the chainsaw, its noise, its volatility. Maybe the wind it gives off would give my life more meaning than I can give it myself. No, the chainsaw would rip through my body. Sever it in half. The wind cannot give what it does not have, what isn’t its to give. * Should trees have standing? Should elephants have standing? Should we recognize nature’s claim to legal rights?…