Non-fiction

Morning diary

Woke up to the clockwork herring gull alarm: a fight for territory, one gull swooping repeatedly in a pendulum swing over the other, who cawed three brainless blasts in perfect time over and over.

I never want to forget this day, this bubble bursting, this slow cooking oppression in which me-in-the-abstract is an object of vilification. I never want to forget this day when stupidity reigned so supremely that even the stupid were dumbfounded, holding the remnants of their piñata of a country in their hands, asking—how?

How?

How to be radical now? Not to talk to yourself in a way that pleases people to overhear.

How to take anger and use it? Not indulge in the palliative fix of reconciliation and liberal sense-making.

How to be radical? And to whom? Not ignoring or mansplaining to the bungled and the botched about the streamlined curviture of necessity, in a dead language spoken by people with nothing to say to anyone but themselves.

We are eavesdroppers in our own national dialogue, making sense of a violent din just to feel that all this talk must mean something.

How to be radical? And to whom?

By representing the violence of the mundane.

To the very ones who have forgotten how to listen.

Unmasking the illusion of choice for what it is: violence and necessity.

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