Our issue on the left is one of organization (which, as part of an assembly, I have seen live quite a lot) and choosing a path forward. We all know we want to protect 2SLGBTQIA+ people. We all know we want to protect women, children, the unhoused. Do we work with the government, like the Social Democrats want? Do we burn it all down, and rebuild smaller communities, like the Anarchists want? Do we simply reject capitalism, build our communes, and work together there?
The answer to all of the above is yes I said yes I will Yes.
a longer answer
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed
to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for
a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There
was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my dream
to the lodgekeeper, and had no answer, and peering closer
through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge
was uninhabited.
No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice
windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was
possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like
a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound
away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always
done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come
upon it; it was narrow and unkept, not the drive that we had
known.
At first I was puzzled and did not understand, and it
was only when I bent my head to avoid the low swinging
branch of a tree that I realised what had happened. Nature
had come into her own again and, little by little, in her
stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with
long, tenacious fingers. The woods, always a menace even in
the past, had triumphed in the end.
They crowded, dark and uncontrolled, to the borders of the drive.
The beeches with white, naked limbs leant close to one another,
their branches intermingled in a strange embrace, making a vault
above my head like the archway of a church. And there were other
trees as well, trees that I did not recognise, squat oaks and
tortured elms that straggled cheek by jowl with the beeches,
and had thrust themselves out of the quiet earth, along with
monster shrubs and plants, none of which I remembered.
The drive was a ribbon now, a thread of its former self,
with gravel surface gone, and choked with grass and moss.
The trees had thrown out low branches, making an impediment to progress;
the gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws.
Scattered here and again amongst this jungle growth I would
recognise shrubs that had been landmarks in our time, things
of culture and of grace, hydrangeas whose blue heads had
been famous. No hand had checked their progress, and they
had gone native now, rearing to monster height without a
bloom, black and ugly as the nameless parasites that grew
beside them.
…did you get that from Pig Bodine?
The answer to all of the above is yes I said yes I will Yes.
a longer answer
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodgekeeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited.
No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come upon it; it was narrow and unkept, not the drive that we had known.
At first I was puzzled and did not understand, and it was only when I bent my head to avoid the low swinging branch of a tree that I realised what had happened. Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers. The woods, always a menace even in the past, had triumphed in the end.
They crowded, dark and uncontrolled, to the borders of the drive. The beeches with white, naked limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace, making a vault above my head like the archway of a church. And there were other trees as well, trees that I did not recognise, squat oaks and tortured elms that straggled cheek by jowl with the beeches, and had thrust themselves out of the quiet earth, along with monster shrubs and plants, none of which I remembered.
The drive was a ribbon now, a thread of its former self, with gravel surface gone, and choked with grass and moss. The trees had thrown out low branches, making an impediment to progress; the gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws. Scattered here and again amongst this jungle growth I would recognise shrubs that had been landmarks in our time, things of culture and of grace, hydrangeas whose blue heads had been famous. No hand had checked their progress, and they had gone native now, rearing to monster height without a bloom, black and ugly as the nameless parasites that grew beside them.