tough titty!
It was GRITa.’s fourth calendar year last November and yet, since then, my voice has been sounding lower than ever. Maybe not to scream was exactly the reason I started to write it in the midst of our happy course of that other apparently calm in and outdoors whirlwind, the pandemic. Whether it's a cry of eureka or despair, it seems that I keep coming back to it for more. Maybe these are called growing pains, but I don't even know if we've taken any root, everything hurts and takes a toll on us and it feels that we've not found the exact temper to face so much with little more than a silent shout.
So here I am certain that there will be no home while the Earth is shifting fast and furiously wrong. The worst thing, which is also the most ironic, is to realize that ultimately it doesn't really matter from where you participate in the global charade, given that in every tiny social fabric there are degenerate cells in favour of the catastrophe that lies in stupidity, selfishness and, always, lethargy. The good thing is that I don't have so many great emotions left, so it's more like a blanket of mild desolation with shades of humour rhyming with powerlessness. It allows me to recover by covering myself in times like these, dreading the fact that the zeitgeist contrary to my purpose has taken hold irreversibly, escalating until after we've ended. This is how the urge to survive the dystopia alone overcomes the collective ability to ever aim for utopia, by banalizing brutality in everyday life, at the bus stop as in the neighbor's fence or a friend’s silence, assisting to the truth distorting and the memory becoming irrelevant, with no resort whatsoever to dialogue or any other civilizational process; crippling the community of the common thing and then calling it nature.
Anyway, I was on my way home with the dog the other night when the neighbor's van and trailer, parallel parked - on our road, which was widened decades ago to let the lorries that support agriculture pass through - , made me feel like I was approaching a suburban tunnel cutting the horizon like a series of buildings that are absolutely parochial in their suffocating verticality behind a trailer park. And then I laughed on my own, I might have felt at home, the one I escaped from, or I realized that there is no escape to escapism. My partner says that all kind of asocials come here thinking they can hide and escape the bureaucracy or the law, he might have forgotten to include us in the conjugation. We also thought that we could escape Babylon to an earthling social design that is in extinction when it should bloom the most. Then I realised that I have never actually lived in a place such as a trailer park, but I definitely recognise trailer trash in any breeding ground.
That was days ago. Meanwhile it was Inauguration Day for Trump, this time he said we will drill, baby, drill, the millionaires smirking just behind him this time, and Elon Musk approaching the masses with a nazi salute. There is no mistake, it has been happening all the time. I’m about to lose a tooth and wait to see if I can pay for an implant to replace it. The neighbor gladly takes the tons of wood cut by those finally forced to clean the river stream’s margins before the floods came. She appears by the works on her own to grab and drag when they are away, and then again before they are done smashing and cutting in her line of sight. They help her carry the wood in heaps to her private ground, among the iron, concrete and brick tiles abandoned to the sheep, she offers them a beer; another time after the storm her son will arrive to bring it closer, with his machines, as usual, as the growls and the coats overlapping dying trees and bushes. When we say the water is now too much, pouring down the hill through her whole land to the little water canal in our patio by the house, she says the patio used to be a common path with a common water canal; when we say that so much water floods the soil we’re regenerating if it’s not redirected to the public water canal, she says the soil belongs to the river stream; when we say she’s dangerously moving the earth on the hill and suffocating the nature with construction rubbish on her side of the old common path, she says that she is entitled to have a building site and that we have no reason to step on her land. It doesn’t matter if she is away when the rain is pouring down in cascades on us. She says Pech with a smile, a universal way in Germany to say bad luck, that is, one couldn’t care less, fuck you or deal with it. It also means tar. They keep going ahead with a net of illegal human structures for dummies on dead soil and we keep fixing the damages around and beneath us, just barely surviving the noise. They toast with the shepherd who want us finished and the land deserted, we try to keep caring for its life despite the murderous alliances. We say nature and so they do, though words mean the opposite too. It’s been as childish as it sounds.
Not sure if these vibes would be closer to those of the Cold War or the end of the Weimar Republic, if we were still Berlin. In any case most of us have perceived them coming here and there before overall installed.
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der Mutterboden
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