snow

today it's so cloudy you can't even see the mountain out of the window. i'll attach a picture of the view regularly:

that's a shot from the back porch during a rainstorm, so it's a little obscured by the misty rain and a rainbow, but you get the idea. today, a curtain of gray hangs just behind that first row of trees. the entire sky is also gray, and it seems to break apart and fall straight to the ground. that's the snow. in the air, it looks like white skyflakes, but as soon as it hits the ground it dissolves into melty wetness.

i'm listening to alternative radio. george galloway is telling some truth. instead of making me feel hopeful, hearing him reminds me i feel helpless. it makes me angry; it makes me cry. but i see how people refuse to hear it, refuse to critically examine their own lives, refuse to relinquish their illusions of power and control.

and the people that brought us here are still in power.

and the wolves are still being shot for taking livestock.

and the days are still getting warmer and wilder.

and we still spew toxins into the atmosphere.

and we still bleed the earth of oil, of gas, of coal, of diamonds and gold, and we imagine it can survive on landfill.

and we are still buying. and we are still buying. and we are still buying plastic things and coke and paxil and distance, distance from our consequences.

drive faster. we are not distant enough.

Comments

Anonymous said…
I don't know if this is true for you, but in the last couple of years, I have found that I almost always have tears very near the surface. It is so easy for simple glimmers of hope or good things to make me cry. Because everything is so terrible and strained and crashing right now, that any respite from that is such a release.

does that make any sense?
brooke said…
my psychologist calls me an 'empath,' which is some kind of jungian term for people like us.

thinning skin... a product of drinking soda and breathing smog...

it makes perfect sense.

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