Everything is awful especially the tories. Finished my degree. Shipped my broken self off to Seattle to read and walk and have some much needed dental work. The tories were elected while I was in the air somewhere over Greenland. Not sure quite what to say: let’s hope none of us wobble, mentally, physically, queerly, economically, gender-ly, for the next five years? I want to be angry, though the sadness hasn’t yet made the switch, and I want that anger to be tireless, to help build and support and create. I want to leave and know that I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t have to. And shouldn’t. I want to stay, too, and say, ‘fuck first past the post, come on, let’s wear our resilience proudly, and let’s put this dispossession to good use.’ And I will, soon.
I’ve been re-reading Precarious Life, and hoping desperately that what she says is right. That grief is not privatising, but generative, something that makes ‘a tenuous ‘we’ of us all.’ I think this is grief. I think I am grieving. I think a lot of us are: for the welfare system, for the human rights act, and for the people that we know will perish at the cruel hand of this government. And I want to make use of this grief and of the privilege I have by building, creating, and maintaining spaces that resist these policies and that support the people these policies effect most. But this week, while I’m away and too mad and ill to put my body to good use, I want to allow spaces for sadness and to go through the process of sadness before I unfurl myself, try to comprehend this in its full and ugly horror, and put myself to good use.
I am doing this by presence. By sitting on the balcony as the sun slips behind the mountain ridges, and noticing. And taking notes. Perhaps because the conservative city is so quick, because the message that the quick sends to the slow is ‘speed up, be productive, and fear those who are not,’ that being still is resistance, in some small way. That whilst all that haste presses up against me, I have the time to notice the breeze that makes my hairs prick up, and that can feel like an objection. Like I am objecting.
Sun sinking behind the ridges of the cascades, four or five blinking red lights atop or beyond them. Wobbly fingers of light on the water, look like Lee Ulfan paintings. Boats crossing the crushed velvet sea beneath West Seattle, en route to glittering Bainbridge or Bremerton. A barge or two. Some container ships. A train marked BSNF, countless carriages, took at least six minutes for the level crossing to open again. Oil, coal, containers. Planes: a few passing overhead & the stars all turning on. A blinking red light on the sound, atop a structure somewhat like a crane. Too small to man.