Planet Earth has never bothered to speak—until now. What follows is an unedited transcription of Planet Earth’s remarks to this reporter.
I am Planet Earth. I am sure you have seen pictures of me, which have, lately, been accompanied by your pleas to save me. I am bloody sick of all the posters and dire warnings about my fate by you trumpeting, self-absorbed critters presuming to speak for me when, of course, it is, as usual, all about you. So, here is my response, although I do not expect any of you to listen, or care, especially as I am not going to bolster your hollow sense of self-importance.
Let me begin by saying that the pictures you have seen of me are only a snapshot of my life, and a very brief moment at that. I would like to share the history of my earlier life as well my thoughts about my future so you will know, really, who I am and not presume to speak for me.
My life began over 4 ½ billion years ago. That’s billion. I know it is hard, if not impossible, for you creatures of not-even-an-eyeblink to grasp, but it is important for you to appreciate the entire arc of my life before you make claims on my behalf.
The first billion years I lived a simple but volatile life. I began as a molten ball of metals and minerals, bombarded by asteroids and cosmic debris large and small, and even experienced a cataclysmic collision with another planet. All this added to my mass and girth. I was roiling with volcanic activity, enveloped in mixture of gasses (none that you would find pleasant), formed a crust, and water condensed on my surface. Above is a simulated picture. Obviously, no actual pictures exist, but you get the picture. During this time single-celled life, anaerobes, appeared and thrived in the methane, ammonia, water vapor, neon, and carbon dioxide gaseous haze that surrounded me.
After about a billion years or so, cyanobacteria appeared. These are also single-celled life forms, but unlike the anaerobes, they rely on the novel process of using energy from the sun to synthesize water and carbon dioxide to create carbohydrates; a process called photosynthesis. Oxygen is a waste product. The oxygen produced was mostly absorbed in my oceans, seabed rock, and land surfaces. I experienced a relatively steady atmospheric state for the next 2 billion years where anaerobes continued to flourish; oxygen did not constitute an appreciable part of my atmosphere.
Take note: This very brief account covers 2/3 of my existence. What follows in a more detailed description of the next 1/3. Should you be keeping score (and you should), you, homo sapiens, have been around for .02% of this remaining 1/3.
Oxygen Holocaust! Oxygen Catastrophe! The Great Oxidation Event (GOE)! “The greatest pollution crisis!” These terms and phrases describe what occurred about 1.5 billion years ago, when the oxygen content of my atmosphere rose from .0001% to 3%—a 30,000 fold increase. Sunlight and oxygen were lethal to almost all the existing life forms and I became enveloped in a bubble of poisonous gas: oxygen.1
Terms like “Oxygen Catastrophe” and reference to oxygen as a poisonous gas call your attention to your use of words that you think are “objective.” Words like “pollution,” which doesn’t really mean anything to me; it is a self-serving value-loaded assessment, like “weeds” and “disease,” and the best one: “invasive species.” “Invasive?!” As if there are boundaries, like your imaginary, militantly enforced political boundaries, that have been breached by “alien” species, often imported by you, requiring extermination because they disrupt your sense of order. Want to know the most “invasive” of species on the planet at this moment? Look in the mirror.2
The oxygen content continued to increase, giving rise to radically new forms of life. Multi-celled life began around 1.5 billion years ago in this hyper-oxygenated atmosphere, but the bizarre menagerie of clinging, crawling, burrowing, flapping, splashing, slithering creatures didn’t make their appearance for another 750 million years. One of the hallmarks of these creatures is they are fragile; they don’t last long. Slight changes in my temperature or atmosphere, relative to what I have experienced, result in wholesale extinctions. 444 million years ago, glaciers amassed at my poles; 85% of the species died. Life reformed, rejuvenated, then 60 million years later enormous volcanic eruptions caused oxygen concentration to plummet; 75% of the species died.
Once again, life reformed, rejuvenated, and once again, after a period of stability, massive volcanic eruptions raised sea and soil temperatures by 25 to 34 degrees, the sea surface temperature at my equator reached 104 degrees, oxygen levels plunged, and the atmosphere filled with methane and other greenhouse gasses; 96% of all marine species perished and 75% of land species died.
Do you see a pattern? Let me continue, just so you get the full scope of my quite recent experience with oxygenated life.
After many millions of years, life regenerated only to be mostly destroyed around 200 million years ago by, you guessed it, another round of huge volcanic explosions. Carbon dioxide levels quadrupled, temperatures rose by 5 to 11 degrees, and many species perished. The next round of extinction was precipitated by a novel cause: an asteroid crashed into my surface raising the dust and killing 76% of all species.
A period of relative stability gives rise to new species. My environment changes, most species die. Stability is achieved for a while, novel species arise by adapting to the new conditions. Things change. They die. Repeat. What has remained stable during this oxygenated stage is not species, but the predictable cycle that leads to their routine rise and fall.
Narcissism. You only see a very small sliver of Planet Earth’s existence—that which directly applies to you. The stability you think you see is self-serving. Your time horizon, while conceptually encompassing, is woefully blinkered and overwhelmed by your own needs, your own concerns, your own dread and panic. But this is your biological destiny. All life is about self-preservation, is “narcissistic” about its own interests, its own importance; driven, determined, desperate to preserve its own life. You are trapped by your own biology. I understand. But your grandiosity is particularly grandiose. That too is your birthright, born, as you are, with a head size so huge you cannot even support it for the first 6 months of life. This should have been a warning to you; a clue of your inability to manage your own brain and, ultimately, to be destroyed by it.
But you have distinguished yourself. Every other species has perished because the environment changed beyond their ability to cope. You have, yourselves, changed the environment that will end up killing you. That is a first. Something that sets you apart. God-like, if you will, which is a term you like to apply to yourselves. Congratulate yourselves—this, too, is one of your biological instincts.
I am rather young, not even middle aged, as I have another 7 billion years ahead of me. My existence has been marked by dramatic, abrupt, tumultous change, often precipitated by unexpected events and surprising developments. I know my future will continue to be riotously volatile and cataclysmic. This does not surprise me—it is the cosmic order. Look up. Look around. Steady states are brief (cosmically speaking). You are simply an insignificant dust mote. Even to me, an only slightly less insignificant pile of cosmic debris, your presence does not comprise an hour’s worth of my time, using your temporal metric.
So, you see, you are not saving me, Planet Earth. It is not my termination that looms—it is yours. And, to put my attitude toward your ending in terms you can understand: “I don’t give a shit.” When you finally leave, which will be much sooner than you think, if I happen to notice, my response will be: “Adios.”