We joked about the fact he’ll have to settle down. His personal belongings now extend to two backpacks and a small sports bag, presently stored near my couch. One of the backpacks contains his books and school supplies. Three bag are too much to lug around if you don’t have some storage space, somewhere, even of the temporary kind.
Over morning coffee, we talked about his family, about his trip – journey is a more appropriate word. I listen and wonder at the lack of imagination on the part of those who decide the fate of others. For some, the imagination deficit is willful: they don’t want to know because they can’t be bothered. For the others? A kind of blurring. A kind of air brushing out facts that don’t fit in the latest regulation. The regulation is something like a powerful – and potentially wrathful – god they don’t want to offend in any way.
Therefore, life plays as a combination of one-step-at-a-time and glimpses at the road ahead as some of its potentialities come into view. Yesterday, for instance, we discussed the three likely scenarios when the court hands down its decisions in mid-April. Not to angst over the unknown. Not to build fabulous plans for all three eventualities. Simply to keep in mind some of the terrain ahead. Eleven days is too long a time period to establish final plans. You don’t set out the same way under glorious sunshine as in drenching rain. (Metaphor, obviously, this whole post is an exercise in metaphor).
Meanwhile, the Garment War rages on with the following absurdities tacked on: for commercial reasons, airline hostesses on Air France may have to give in to their company’s directives, and cover their heads when the planes land in Iran. There’s a lot of money involved for the company, you understand. However, for ideological reasons, the notion of attractive long dresses and veils for practicing Muslim women in France continues to spark vitriolic exchanges. In this instance, the commercial motivations of the companies involved are anathema and said garments, the enslavement of women who must be freed and made to wear jeans or short skirts whether they want to or not. (Variations on the theme of clothing the natives, maybe?)
A few days ago, someone posted the photo of a veiled woman who had saved lives some years back. At first glance, she looked like an Iranian woman with a black veil on her head. In fact she was a Russian nun, thus making the veil A-OK. So, I assume this veiled woman ins’t a terrible threat to la République française, and the question becomes: Is la République française on foundations so unstable that a length of fabric can bring it crashing down?
In a different vein: as I prepared for bed last night, my thoughts meandered as they often do in the wonderful world of books. I thought with pleasant anticipation about a particular story and stopped brushing my teeth with some astonishment: the story I had in mind at that moment was none other than the one I’m writing these days.
What happens next, and to whom in that dimension? I have no idea. I intend to find out.