It started with the news report on the oil spill off the coast of Louisiana. I was in the locker room covering my face with my hands. I hate what we do to the sea. I hate it so much I could cry. Such beautiful worlds under water, and because they are out of sight out of mind to us, we drill and blast without regard. It's such a horrible mess, and so devastating to our collective soul, I think, that I don't know how we recover or unravel. We need the oil for our system. We need the sea for our soul. I want to cry about it for a very long time.
When I have kids, I will make sure they understand the power of soul, and that every living thing has one and every living thing is precious and sacred and holy. And you must not trample them for your gain. And should you find yourself tempted to trample, you should immediately question the value you are placing on the thing to be gained.
(Except spiders. Fuck spiders, I say.)
(I'm kidding. More or less. But I really dislike them. I'm sorry. I know they serve purpose. I just want them to serve their purposes elsewhere. I could say the same about a few people. Please understand I am innately hypocritical.)
The fact that the Louisiana alarm is sounding only because the spill is creeping so close to shore makes me sad. "Well, at least if the devastation is far away, we won't see it, so it won't matter. But oh my, look, now it's close! Now, it's a tragedy!" I don't understand our collectively short sight. That we have to see and touch to feel the poignancy. I don't get why loss has to knock on our back door before we understand grief. We are so lost.
I feel sad about our systems, and how they perpetuate illness and dysfunction. That a low socioeconomic status puts you at greater risk of countless health complications and nutritional deficiencies and educational failure and psychiatric disorders. And that those health complications and nutritional deficiencies and educational failures and psychiatric disorders nudge you into a revolving door of continued complication, deficiency, failure, and disorder.
I drive down E. 9th every morning. Just north of University, I don't understand the neighborhood. One side of the street Asian. The other side, Hispanic? A small business on the corner -- Latino Realtors? -- gets tagged by the latest Gangsta King every week -- sometimes multiple times. And every week, the owner paints over the latest territorial marking in another neutral color. There are at least 5 different shades of white and tan on the side of this building. God bless the owners for keeping up, but when does it stop, and to what end? The tags are getting larger, more bold.
I did not walk to the plaza today. Too windy. Mama Earth blew my hair and knocked me sideways. She is not pleased. I sat in the grass under a tree near the capitol and let the ants crawl up my arms. I took a book, but I didn't read it. I watched the cars and listened to the discordant scales howled by the wind. I felt small and like I didn't matter, but in a way that was okay.
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