I’ve stopped typing as much. Or at all. I think I’ve stopped talking as well. I say platitudes. I am anesthetized with social media and watching war tragedy on a small screen. I see women abused. Children neglected.
And again I know in two days I will hear “happy Monday” like a lollypop given after an injection.
Does it feel sometimes like no one is honest? Yes. Or that drops of honesty have been sprinkled on curated confection – words and certain words in particular, designed to see off the paucity of ideas. Like an expensive handbag. Admit me to your ranks, it calls. See I have the admission ticket.
Money.
Some of the best writing and by the most intelligent commentators is very simple, straightforward. They still write in paragraphs. Not for them the
One line
Intimate thoughts
Another line
My attention span
Can
Only be
Saved
By
Jumping
To
Another
Line.
Intimate details, interspersed with please subscribe.
Order my new…
Whatever it is.
So silence is a way of fighting back against the tech war as well. But it’s an uneven victory.
You can’t steal my words or render them meaningless in the marketplace until you take them over if I’m silent. Lucky birds and animals, who haven’t had their meaning hollowed out by some billionaire argument. Give me more! The top men blow things up, lock things up, screw things up, and scream like spoiled toddlers. Toddlers mixed with villains. A paltry combination to fight against.
I was in a meeting the other day, and someone said – aren’t we just making a lot of this because our donors have invested in it?
Silence.
Later I discovered there was shock at this speech. Weird how accurate statements now cause panic, but the unthinkable invites rational discussion. Or invites us to accept rationalization, and smacks us if we refuse. Elbows off the table! Talk about bombing apartment buildings and weigh both sides. Both sides of a hollow coin. What idiots we have become.
Two birds came to my windowsill this morning. It’s quiet here today, chilly and windy and rainy. Perfect weather. I’m not in the mood for burning sunlight and false jollity and happiness.
Every stupid action I see affects me more than ever. Whether its weed spray on once happy dandelions, the destruction of farmland through this incessant grasping to kill things, or the unthinkable insanity going on seemingly everywhere now. They hope we acquiesce, wave at the drones, applaud the arches, wish for superyachts. Hear tyrants tell embassies to close and then wonder what to make for dinner. Our minds grated with images, they hope we can no longer make connections, not see the cigar burning a new $250 dollar bill with an insane fascist on it, currency for criminals.
Maybe later I will drive to the co-op and give a dollar to the woman who sits and plays harp on the sidewalk across the street. She isn’t there all the time. Humanity and animals. Leave the forests and fields, rivers and oceans alone. Give us somewhere to get away from your endless assault on our senses. Summaries I didn’t ask for. Sales pitches for things I don’t want.
And it’s a full moon. A good moment to say, heavens, I’ve not putting up with being treated as if I don’t matter, as if my right to even speak needs to be vetted through a cabal with dollar waving devils.
Someone said to me the other day that you can’t run away. But it’s tempting. But battle – refusing to be ignored – that’s the watery struggle to engage with. Like Emily said, Hope is the thing with feathers. Let’s not forget that they tried to “fix” her style, her syntax. What have you been told lately is normal?
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
