some mornings, i'm late enough for work to catch the tail end of a strike. a labor union, or migrant farmers, or immigrant housekeepers. this has been going on since at least december, when i smoked a cigarette on 9th street and thought a parade in celebration of our president was being conducted. their production isn't captivating enough for me to yield and consider their plight, but the aesthetic pleasure behind their demonstration is...
pleasurable? relieving?
let's go with calming, actually. the security staff at my building e-mails me notices of lockdowns almost biweekly; i never notice them. long gone is the era of card-buring and american-flag-patterned-shirt-wearing-- present is the days of silence and iPetitions. in the center of capitalism and democracy, it seems as if there's always a group of college students protesting something. if it's fiscal responsibility or solidarity or global responsibility is no matter, at least to me, because the action of the 70s is the inaction of the new millennium.
maybe this is only on my mind because of the music i listen to on the train-- but no matter. on the corner of 9th and F in the district, a group of mistreated persons (i struggled to find that noun) walks in a circle with the intent of being heard. i need no acoustic melodies and lyrics of revolution. give me the sound of fist against bucket and the chants of the unjust. i hear them, and although i cannot offer them fair pay or heath insurance or union contracts, i can watch and listen and march against my own enemies.
No comments:
Post a Comment