a little different.
I was just re-reading this article written by Derrick Jensen in 2006. It’s about freedom and slavery. I have one of those metal chords with magnets hanging from my ceiling next to my desk- it’s my idea chain. Something resonates, or connects with some larger story I think I want to tell and it goes on the chord. I found a button the other day as I was cleaning out my desk drawer. It was a quote by Paul Robeson- “The artist must take sides. They must elect to fight for freedom or slavery”. I read this button and the words felt like they were the most perfect thing I could hear. I am packing up my place, a place I’ve been fairly miserable in. Trapped by a rent I can’t afford and bills I can’t pay. I read here, I wrote here, and I hope I have gotten clearer here. I read “A language older than words” by Derrick Jensen two years ago. When I finally got through it, I felt something change in me. I realized I was strong enough to hear and see what is going on in this world I live in, even if it breaks my heart. What is truth? My truth? I don’t always know, I just know that I’m not free. I know that when I eat my fruit I wonder about the crap that’s on it, and if it’s going to kill me. Buy organic. Why do we even make it an option between making stuff that causes cancer and stuff that prevents it. Blueberries with pesticides, blueberries without? You choose. I realized the other day, after walking with Murray down to the lake and seeing a huge pile of garbage outside the garbage can, that really we just don’t give a shit. We don’t care about our freedom, other people’s freedom, our earth, the animals, the fish, the plants, the babies, the women, the men, the elders. We don’t care. We don’t care enough to say no to all of this. To pick up our own shit, to be ourselves in all our imperfect awkwardness, to stop if people need help, to love each other, to really challenge each other to do better, to do what makes us happy, to share, and to see each other. All I hear is blame shifting. I’ve needed alot of time to heal and am still healing from the violence I was raised in, the violence I live in on this planet. I hold this place inside me that is young and hopeful, innocent and full of love. She, I can see how people suffer, even the people who dump the garbage at beautiful Brohm Lake. They don’t care, because they have lost hope, we don’t care, because there doesn’t seem to be a point, because the Government is just going to do whatever they want anyway, and so will the cops, so will the medical and education systems and the developers that are planning our communities.
I don’t want to feel this way. I never want to go there, to the place where I realize most people are content with slavery. Enslaved into a system that requires us to be addicts, ignoring the needs of each other and the planet. I am leaving my apartment in a few days, and in the process of getting rid of as much stuff as I can. I’m putting the rest in storage for a couple of months until I figure out how I can do this all different. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know that I’m prepared to give up my stuff, or do what it would take to live in a way that feels better to me or if it even matters. my deprivation or cutting of ties isn’t going to change it, it could just push me further into a too serious, earnest and kind of boring place. Right now I don’t want to set up another apartment, accumulate more stuff, eat more fruits and vegetables covered in poison because organic is too expensive, get a partner, bring a child into the world so they can do the same. I wish I was one of those people who believed I was just here for me, and that I should just have a good time and fuck everyone else. I want to some days. I want to be one of those people who doesn’t give a shit, who doesn’t care. Oh well.