Kimonos in the Closet

The Lost Arts

37 The Lost Arts No one remembers how to converse with bears anymore or tell the future by studying the flight of birds. It’s rare to find a man strapping on a set of wings and heading off toward the sun like old Icarus did. Used to be everyone knew a few blacksmiths. And if you happened to drift into a town late at night, you’d find a riverboat pilot or rainmaker slumped over at the bar. Those days are gone. Along with candlemakers. Mule drivers. Shepherds. Soon plumbers and chimneysweeps will also become extinct. As cities sprawl further along the coasts, fishermen will fade away. Cowboys will ride into the horizon. In the final exodus, farmers will pack their bags, straddle their tractors, and head into the West, plowing the land as they go. New people will come in fancy shoes and pretty hats. Soon the grocery store shelves will go bare and no one will remember where food comes from. Someone will poke at a cow to try to make it surrender its beef. Another will try to knock a rotting apple from a tree. Then some fellow will suspect the secret lies in the soil. He will scoop a little into his palms, sift it through his fingers, and wonder where you plug the electricity in. ...