Friday, February 15, 2008

A thousand flower infraction

If I was a hula hoop artist; this week, I might have applied for funding the way forces swung around me. Around and around.
The weather is a cold mother, sick in bed with the fever. Delirious. The tree at the top of my street blooms purpley flowers and birds seen, sing their spring song until it gets so cold that I run to work, wrap myself well within blankets of rings of fire, and soak for hours in a hot tub, curled so the water touches everything.

I flash in and out of connection with the entire world. No television. No wi-fi. No microwave. I only find there is a federal-instated two-hour delay twelve hours later. I choose to vote on paper with a miniature pencil. One day, I attempt to correspond through e-mail and can't get a seat, the next they close early because I am the only customer.

Most importantly, people, in larger and more frequent numbers, are starting to realize that industrialization, capitalism, consumption, self-consumption are fleeting expenditures bubbling over with waste. That wasting doesn't really mean it just goes away. We must start now to undo the things we've done, to make them okay. To yin ourselves now from the yang.


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