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151 pages, Hardcover
First published July 20, 2021
“I hope everyone I meet is as happy as I am because Garbagetown is the best possible place in all of space and time.”Imagine the infamous Great Pacific Garbage Patch as a solid and organized mass of all kinds of refuse emblematic of human follies, becoming the only tangible patch of solid “ground” in the drowned world, a place where “people could live on a patch of garbage in the Pacific Ocean the size of the place that used to be called Texas” — and allowing Valente to take that image and go full Valente on it.
“People tend to huddle up in the useful areas of Garbagetown. It doesn’t pay to live too far from any one of the three Ps of postapocalyptic life: protein, precipitation, and potential. The Great Sorting was thorough and sensible. It made neighborhoods out of a floating crapfill, land out of waste. There’s good work and good junk in Scrapmetal Abbey, Upholsterton, Pill Hill, Bookbury, Rubbering, the Babydales. You could make a sturdy cottage out of television season box-sets on the slopes of Mt. VHS. There’s good soil in the Mountains Organic—Bannockbone, Taxidermia, Seedville, and the Spice Tundra—or at least good components that could be convinced to become soil eventually. And of course on the Lawn, out past the Matchstick Forest, slowly encroaching on the Cardboard Flats. You could build a life out of those places. A trade. A family.”
* “Technically, no one’s allowed to kill me. But there’s miles of ground to cover before you get to killing, technical or otherwise.”—————
————
Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughin' as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you
And always look on the bright side of life…![]()
“There are some things you just can’t ever get back. Years. Gannet birds. Husbands. Antarctica.”
“Imagine having so much energy to spare after finding food and shelter and clothing and some tiny goddamn scrap of company that you figured you'd make a beautiful silver cup, not because some kid did the best job, but just because she tried the hardest. I tried the hardest all the time, and everyone's just permanently fucking mad at me. Imagine having that much left over that you give one single ghostly shit about the eight-best daffodil.”
“But she is sorry and small and alone and I have been sorry and small and alone and it appears I am now in the business of collecting small and alone things. I know how to take care of them. I know how to make them grow in a bucket. I have enough for them. Even if I don’t have enough for me.”
“[…] The kind of hope I have isn’t just greed going by its maiden name. The kind of hope I have doesn’t begin and end with demanding everything go back to the way it was when it can’t, it can’t ever, that’s not how time works, and it’s not how oceans work, either. Nothing you love comes back. I have hope for Garbagetown, not for some suckspittle scrap of dry dirt that wouldn’t give us half of what we already have.”


No neighborhood would take me in. No one would feed me or offer me water from their rain barrel. And even if I wanted to try, there's not much of a crowd to disappear into in Garbagetown (excepting when a big fuck-off floating pier of lies and fairy lights turns up), and disguises are fairly tough to come by in the afterlife of Planet Earth. All the hair dye diluted itself into the sea a long time ago and I hope the jellyfish enjoyed their time as platinum blondes, I really and honestly do.
I have a little moringa tree coming along in a 15-gallon paint bucket sandwiched between the pilot's wheel and the blue vinyl jump seats. It's twisted and lumpy and crappy. It should grow huge and fabulous, but it got planted in a plastic bucket meant to hold satin finish exterior latex paint in #4L61 Breakfast in Tuscany instead of in Southeast Asia, so it never will. I relate mightily to my moringa tree.
