I have come to revere this Woman. I do not speak her language of words, yet my heart and spirit relate to everything she roars and rages.
A kind friend has since translated her verse into english, which has served to blossom my admiration of her Fight for Liberty and Action.
Sobriety, or at least a healthy, long overdue injection of the same into my weekly routine, certainly leads to better skin, calmer steps, more lively adventures in my slumber, but…there is a cost counted in the clarity in which I perceive people around me. Absent of the difference in synapses and ability to peek beyond my own sphere, I see them all more clearly…Too clearly.
It is those thrown away by society who solely bring me a semblance of alertness, a surge of vitality, as my eyes fixate and my body tries to move with the crowd, to ignore them, continue the automated safety or tried and tested pathways through life, which rarely, if ever, divert from a straight line of predictable and uninspiring, yet the gold keeps coming, the TV gets bigger, and better definition, the clothes get renewed to the hollow applause of kinfolk assuming the same mainstream mantra…
I understand and accept the need to be calm. The need to embrace solace. Yet this is not the same as behaving like a robot. This is not the same as speaking in script, exchanging hollowness of different colours which never startle, never warm, never inspire, never cause you to feel anything other than you have emerged from a collision of thinking, feeling creatures, with…nothing said of any meaning or value. You survived…when survival of your perception and concern for the perception of another of YOU was all that was at stake.
I would rather walk in the trees and find myself saying nothing, just hearing, feeling, sensing my solidarity with…the wind and the rain. When not marvelling at the eye of the storm.
It is spirit and heart which matters most to me. And to those ever more revealed as few who appreciate the same.
Seeking those who make me feel alive, focus my attentions on the moment, leads to sorrowful sensations of the only spastic corpse in the graveyard dancing to Keny Arkana who doesn’t realise he is already dead.
There are others pouring out their vitality. Who are fighting the good fight in other ways…pixie minxes masquerading as elves, rugged brothers who have smashed their way through a life which threatened to smash them, former mafioso who have decided to love and make a family whilst retaining the need to combat the horror…for example.
They blaze their own trail, come hell or high water, which is all I ever hope for, and try to unearth in others.
Unfortunately, it is enough for many to simply get by. Seek a laugh where possible, yet when everyone is speaking in scripts, the laugh is part of the stage-show.
Those I accept as valuable, who are simply ‘getting by’ are those who have suffered mega Hades; gazan youngsters, syrian mothers who have seen their husbands and sons lose their heads, their daughters raped, Yemeni farmers who are left standing as their flock and shack are burned to ashes by UK supplied Saudi bombs…To meet these people, those who have known true suffering, and to know them, is startling, it causes the pulse of the soul to quicken, and makes us feel alive as we do when thunder strikes in the distance…
Where are the living?
I can learn from that finest of flurries of Chaplin’s words…
‘Soldiers! Don’t give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you; who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel! Who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder!
Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men—machine men with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have a love of humanity in your hearts! You don’t hate!
Only the unloved hate; the unloved and the unnatural.
Soldiers! Don’t fight for slavery! Fight for liberty!’
We have to fight.