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October 29, 2008
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I just got several books I’ve been waiting for, and after reading just a couple of interviews I feel so revitalized. I’ve been closing in on myself, losing the emotional ground I’d gained from isolation. There’s no one to talk to in this City about becoming wild again, about regaining what I’ve lost through socialization, education, brainwashing. Occasionally there are people who say they want things called “clean energy,” “local food,” and “social justice.” It’s not enough. Not enough to connect. I can only find it in books written by people far away.

Among the people I work with, I often find myself in cynical-bitter-bitch-land, mouthing off about radical environmentalism every time someone says something like, “Oh look, this building has a plaque that says its “Green” because it uses recycled plastic in it’s insulation. You like that kind of stuff, right?” or when one of the Local Authority Figures try to manipulate me into believing they actually know a damn thing because they’ve got years and letters behind their name.

And I just realized it is because I am angry. I am so fucking angry. I am angry that I am trapped in this City by financial-familial responsibilities, I am angry that I cannot see the stars at night either because of smog or because of the lights, I am angry that there are no trees except infant saplings in concrete cages, I am angry that the birds have been so brutalized by noise pollution that they no longer have any instincts. I am angry that there are no grasses, and no insects, and that people tell me I’m asking to be molested by not wearing a bra, I’m angry that no one looks at each other here, no one says “hi,” that no one smiles, that people move away from me in the subway when they see my arms smeared with clay. I’m angry at my loneliness and that I can’t seem to connect to people, and I’m angry that there are no large predators here other than humans, I am angry that I am expected to be pacified by political lobbying, “Green,” slogans, voting, democracy and other slow ways to die miserably. I’m angry that in some places the water isn’t safe to drink, I’m angry at my own inability to detach myself from abstraction, at my own willingness to compromise, I’m angry at patriarchy, sexism, paternalism, and the fact that no one will speak back to me in Spanish because I’m white. I’m angry at cars and the people who drive them, and people who think that their personal gratification entitles them to import coffee beans from Colombia. I’m angry that I don’t have enough skills, that I don’t know how to dress a deer, snare a rabbit, grow pears, make fishing hooks, build boats, tan hides, grow herbal medicines, dance, build a decent fire, smoke meat, give a good massage, or make my own toothbrush.

There is no field for me to go lie down in, no tree that I can climb without being called down by a uniformed man with a gun. There’s no fucking respite from the cars, or the people who look at their MP3 players more than they do at other human faces, there are no frogs singing or crickets zipping at night, no hawks riding thermals during the day, no beans growing for miles. And I’ve been brainwashed to not even seek it out, to not even acknowledge my own anger.

Once I get out of here I’ve just got to disappear for a while. Find a place with a few sane people and heal.

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