rlbourges

Slogging through the wetlands

In Circus, Fun, Irish Mist, Local projects, Music, Poetry, Revision, Theater on September 16, 2014 at 7:25 am

There are mornings – this is one of them – when my dearest wish is to leave all troubles behind (somewhere, but where?), and forget about every personal and social issue I hold dear. As the final tree falls for the much-disputed dam, the President of the Regional Council meets with elected representatives of the people opposed to the project. What does he tell them? Hem-haw, the European Union might not deliver the expected funds. Meanwhile, the trees are gone, people are on hunger strike, others are wounded and there’s one more sorry mess left behind for all to deal with or ignore.

Singing in the bathtub plays sotto voce in my head. Silliness, please, and lots of it. I didn’t join the demonstrators, I didn’t get clubbed or gased, I didn’t march, I didn’t raise my fist and chant el pueblo unido jamas sera vencido. Not this time. I published news, comments, personal reactions but I kept a safe distance from the fray. Only so many rushes of adrenalin my body is willing to produce in real-life encounters of this type.

Bogged down in admin hassles. Bogged down in writing. Bogged down. I can almost hear the sucking sound rubber boots make when you pull your foot out of one bit of muck, only to put it down in the next. Oh as I was young and easy under the apple trees, indeed. I have to laugh. Must. If I don’t laugh, I’ll just sit here, thinking of my middle sister setting up phones all over her apartment for fear of dying alone with no way to call for help. I shake my head. Allez. Lift the boot out of the muck. There’s got to be a bit of higher ground over there.

Doux Jésus. Sweet Jesus. Setting out the riot police so you can cut down trees for a dam you can’t afford. The man’s up for a seat as Senator. And you expect people to take politicians seriously?

Allez, allez, allez. You start in the low ground, and you work your way up. I’m clicking on the categories fun,  poetry and music almost the way I’d chant an incantation. Because how much of this sorry stupidity can a body take and still want to lift a finger, except to thumb a ride out to another planet?

Allez? Allez.

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