The crimes of the colonialists have to be exposed. The insane arrangement of the world has to be defined and then smashed into pieces.
The cute trams, bicycle lanes, parks, museums, operas, cafes, universities and hospitals in Europe are built on rivers of blood and the bones of ‘The Others’…
There is no other topic that matters, right now, on our planet.
Everything is connected to this, including the fear and hate that the West feels and spreads about countries like Venezuela, Russia, China, Iran, South Africa, Syria or Cuba.
… They hate those who resist, who are standing tall. And they should and will get back the same in return…
– Andre Vltchek, How Come the World is Suffering from Stockholm Syndrome
No Screaming
I knew it was only a story, a movie, maybe even a dream, that I’d seen before, and it was scary but I’d be all right. Those I was with weren’t so wise… especially Derek, whom I last saw headed for the house where the giant T-Rex would soon be browsing for tidbits. Yes, I had seen the monster looming like a shadow puppet on the dusky horizon, setting this play in motion.
It was Jurassic Park sequel, to be sure; though I couldn’t recall exactly which one. The rest of us were sitting by a campfire in the dark, on a little point of land within earshot of the house. So far no screams; but I knew they would come, and then the T-Rex would come for us. Not to worry, I at least would be okay. Because I knew it was only a movie, and I’d survived my last viewing of it, or living of it, unscathed, if rattled.
I kept surfacing toward awakeness, enough to know that it was part of the series, unsure which one. Enough to know something of what to expect from the big bruiser, though the outcome was still tense enough to catch my breath when I did awake, glad after all that I didn’t see it through.
Peasantville
Where the serfs throw straw on the floor, while the Petro Lords run 600 horse over the waves.
Willis: “If y’not running with d’big boys, y’out on d’shtreet.”
Interviewer: “Yes, I can see that, it’s a sort of marginalization, don’t you think? A way to excise the “unfit”?
Willis: “Who you callin’, bitch.”
Interviewer, ruffling her feathers: “Boomers, you see, unless they yuppified themselves sufficiently to withstand the crash of 2008—”
Willis, eyes big and brows raised, “Orchestrated, or willful neglect?”
Interviewer: “The young, at low wages, starting families. Artists, and other low income—”
Willis: “Grifters. Is that a word? Xcuse me, I gotta appointyment with y’mamandaddy.”
Exeunt.
Ghetto blaster: But we gotta be strong, and do what we know is right, oh yeah.
The Mother Tree
What is important? For weeks now, while sojourning in a comfortable villa in warm and sunny San Marcos de Laguna, on Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, I have doggedly claimed my time, concluding work on a memoir some three years, or three decades, in the making. Telling myself and my partner, no quarter, that my priority is to work, work, work, maybe go to the odd dance or drumming event, but that’s it, I’m here to work. It’s my strategy for cutting the inevitable distractions of life, making sure I do the work, honor my craft, stay true to the discipline of the profession.
Then yesterday, after a final marathon of queries and submissions to publishers, taking a day off for errands in the bigger town of Panajachel, with a side trip to charming Santa Catalina de Polopo. Mosquito repellent for the upcoming jungle trip, wound up leaking all in my satchel which I discovered when paying for the trip at the travel agent. (Cue “first world complaint.”) Getting more cash for the rest of our stay, from the ATM. S. buying a stunning blue birded huipol from Santiago, the traditional village where they had the most recent massacre, back in the bad days.
This morning in the village square as we waited for her shuttle to Antigua, a dozen men gathered in conversation under the giant tree. Were they talking revolution, how to save their land from pirates as for centuries, or just planning the day’s road work?
I remarked to S. how it struck me the day before, how despite my obsession with writing as the only “real work” and purpose in life, somehow everyone else managed to find purpose in going about their daily lives. Shopping, sitting in cafes, attending concerts, commuting by boat… somehow for them it was enough. And ror the ducks on the lake watching our launch pass on its way back to San Marcos, maybe it was enough.
I added that, in truth, everyone had their own focus, of whatever nature. The dentist in her office all day, the workers in the street sewer project, the avocado vendor, the tourist with their plan of the day… It was not just empty-headed leisure, for most, but each had their own agenda of priorities, their own preoccupied dreams and regrets, their own focus of self and lens on the world.
I might, for instance, decide to fill my day of leisure with photographs—a quick and easy way to turn empty to purpose, travel to mission, life to art. On our walk to the village this morning we passed a young man sitting against a wall in an alley, baby-blue hoodie pulled tight over his head and hiding his face; his white-socked feet shoeless after, who knows, a night of drink? We passed by snapping only the mental photo, and I wondered if it might have been intrusive to sneak a camera shot… then an hour later found myself in a café, where on the wall were displayed a dozen arty photographs, including one of just such a person huddled on the street, beside a dog in like posture. So it can be done, to paint a picture… for what purpose, though?
Is it to make a statement about socioeconomic disparity? To advance a program for the betterment of the masses, or of individual souls mired in addiction? What solutions do I advocate, and on what authority? Or do I simply observe, record, share, in the morning with my peers under the spreading branches of the mother tree in the village square?
High Ground
At high tide I take to the high ground,
and skirt the farm of the pioneers.
At low tide I stand at the edge of dark
bright waves reflecting black stars.
Who am I?
The voice of the road home:
Take nothing of civilization for granted.
It is all given, by the grace of oppression.
Therefore repress nothing.
It will all be swept away.
Question everything: authority,
the so-called news… who benefits?
Our convenience comes at the cost
of someone’s suffering, daily extinctions.
Not your fault. Nor mine. Everyone’s.
But call it sin? Maybe nature.
Who will win? Maybe nature.
In this casino, house rules.
