When I was 8, I was cleaning my fish tank. A small pink fish was in its temporary water bowl, but jumped out & down the sink drain. I hadn’t thought to cover the bowl. My mother was mad. She flipped the switch on the garbage disposal. I remember crying; I remember the several seconds of ¢rµñ¢hïñg followed by the clean w̶h̶i̶r̶ of unobstructed blades.
That spring, my grandpa sent a dude over to deal with our overgrown yard. He smacked a lizard with a shovel and left it crippled & dying. I grabbed a rock to mercy-kill it with, but I started crying; I couldn’t follow through. I told the lizard I was sorry and put it at the base of a flowering ice plant. I liked the flowers. I thought they’d be nice to look at while dying.
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26 years later, I’m at a Pro-Abortion rally, protesting at the State Capital with my partner (who I love). On my person is :: (ʀᴇꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ 2x, ɢᴏɢɢʟᴇꜱ 2x, ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ-ᴀɪᴅ ᴋɪᴛ, ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ, ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ, ɴᴏᴛᴇʙᴏᴏᴋ, ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀᴄʏᴄʟᴇ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏᴍᴀꜱ ᴘʏɴᴄʜᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ᴛᴏᴏʟ, ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴋɴɪꜰᴇ, ᴘᴇɴ)
It’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 that is the most useless . . . making it the most intriguing. I will know my experience by my tools; I will know my soul by my totems.
There is this part in the book where unearthed bones of WWII G.I.s, after ambling through the unemotional mind of the 🄲🄰🄿🄸🅃🄰🄻🄸🅂🄼, find their ‘ʙᴇꜱᴛ-ᴜꜱᴇ-ᴄᴀꜱᴇ’ as a bulking agent in cigarette filters. ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 finds new utility as stimulant delivery.
After marching, 1000+ protesters mill about a park near the Capitol Building. There is loose chanting, and that is about all there is to do in this awkward liminal. I am familiar with this moment in a protest’s arc–after the march–where many leave to go home. Once the physical m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ of marching ends, there’s not a easy metaphor of m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ to the cause itself. But those who, either through experience or attunement, perceive the electric potentiality in stillness stay. A new flow might rush forth . . .
“. . . where revolutions break out spontaneously and leaderless, and the soul’s talent for consensus allows the masses to work together without effort, automatic as the body itself.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, p. 88)
I’m perceiving it, because there are old ghosts here—old ghosts and willing vessels. Union potentia, a ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ waltz.
Abortion’s connection to ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 is there; it has to be. Every cell is connected to the entropic m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, as they are connected to the creative gestation of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ is a turning— m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ within totality. I’ve been calling this type of thing a ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
The protest signs are a list of wearily highlighted contradictions. A thorough of accounting of state 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 sanctioned ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 . . .
Underscoring the American panoply of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 is a bummer of a tactic. Good points that would have worked by now if they were gonna. The journey to modernity reads like a 𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖎𝖗𝖊 of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 hexes. What can a mind do when presented with so many passive links to ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 but predictably retreat into numb denial of cognitive dissonance?
And the abortion, this particular cell ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, is cut from a different cloth? Is it because the agency is in the hands of an individual? Is there a threat there, in that bit of personal sovereignty? Among the plethora of cell ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 dealers in our bodies (bacterial overgrowth, cancer cells, tumors, viruses), this bit is absurdly exempt from the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ. Veiled in a false notion of innocence of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ which hasn’t yet touched the curse of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘? This rationale illustrates a deep fear of a beautiful and frightful truth.
ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ touches all things.
ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘! As if ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 was not the holy comrade of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. When did the Gටᗪ that touches all things become so tough to touch? When was it decided that ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 was not another facet Gටᗪ? When did this idea become radical?
I see a poster near me. It says . . .
A call to trade 🅅🄴🅁🅃🄸🄲🄰🄻 command for ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ compassion. Lovely. There is m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ again, en mass toward the Capitol Building, the 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 metaphor. A crowd of hundreds (down from thousands) settles there. Above ᑌᔕ, police line rooftops, piloting drones. In the center of ᑌᔕ, a delicately avoided bed of flowers.
Why not trample them? Flowers are more vulnerable than stone and plexi-glass. This protest is a macabre celebration of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 (as the 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 claims), but still, no one bothers the Capitol’s flower bed.
How many lives does a human life cost? All the animals killed to eat, killed to grow the plants to eat? How many humans die in drudgery to extract & produce the constituent objects a life consumes? How much ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 can a life dish out if the right 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 decides to sanction the killing?
Absurd questions. It is absurd to attempt a ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ/ʟɪꜰᴇ 𝙘𝙤𝙨𝙩/𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙩 analysis of a life lived. I only see the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
In that totality, I think all we can try for is sovereignty. To navigate the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ of modernity with just a tad more reign over the soul’s garden, the body. We are all in the ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ totality together, facets of the Gටᗪ of all things. I want to live here in sovereignty, in recognition of all others' same sovereignty. And we are back to that ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ.
The ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ is not something that can be regulated by the State 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂. It just is. This is a protest for ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ sovereignty within that ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
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In a ░f░l░a░s░h░, I remember years back, vomiting into dirt, 100 miles deep into the Amazon Rainforest. I was learning crude facts about Crude Oil extraction and the 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ experience of the Sápara community. It’s 4 am and I am up-chucking ½ a gallon of Guayusa Tea. Among me is the dank smell of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 and a cacophony of animal 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. Beneath me is a growing puddle of bile, bits masticated river-fish meal, and several billion of my own biota. A ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ spew. It’s inside me, it's all over me, it’s all over this jungle, this world. Everything is going according to plan, according to the Sápara community. I see the folly of force interlocution; I leave ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ to the Gටᗪ of all things. I enjoy the feeling.
“Because you hear and see things, even smell them, taste like you never could. Because the world is so abundant. No end to it, baby. You’re an antenna, sending your pattern out across a million lives a night, and they’re your lives too.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, 18th ed, p. 107)
A large group of protesters start pounding on the plexi-glass of the Capitol entrance, in demand of a lived experience of autonomy. A minute later, canisters of chemical weaponry ᴛʜᴜɴᴋ •°*”˜ᴛʜᴜɴᴋ •°*”˜ skitter through a crowd of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ.
I enjoy this feeling too, so tangibly affirming of the abstract idea of 🅅🄴🅁🅃🄸🄲🄰🄻 power. The rarity of full analog in the digital epoch—the scroll, the swipe, the comment in the feed felt in the mind is now B̾U̾R̾N̾I̾N̾G̾ on my meat. Real pain, real tears, real aid, in real time, and still real careful not to tread on the quiet 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ of a bed of flowers. For a few moments, “the soul’s talent for consensus” takes hold.
As we don respirators, my partner (who I love) tells me that tear gas can cause a pregnancy to miscarry. I think about those pulverized bones in cigarette filters in ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49.
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Human 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ pounding on the plexi-glass that is not alive. On rooftops, Human 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ lines up in armor . . . loading. Soldier bones in the filters of the cigarettes smoked by soldiers. Canisters of capsaicin, synthesized from the 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ of a chili pepper. My body is the garden of my soul, trampled by tactical boots manufactured by 𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗥™. My body is the blade of my sovereignty; it defends the flowers.
12 hours later, I am reading through an article a friend shared covering the event . . .
"ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ ᴘʀᴏ-ᴀʙᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇꜱᴛᴏʀꜱ' ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜱᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴡᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀɪᴅᴀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴏᴄᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴀᴡ ᴇɴꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ," ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴋɪᴍ Qᴜɪɴᴛᴇʀᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄᴀɴ ᴄᴀᴜᴄᴜꜱ' ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ.
. . . and I am grateful to have read ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀʀᴄᴜꜱ ᴀᴜʀᴇʟɪᴜꜱ a dozen times in my 20’s.
And I go back over highlighted passages in my battle-worn copy of ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 . . .
“It was not an act of treason, nor possibly even of defiance. But it was a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic, from its machinery.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, 18th ed, p. 99)
That spring, my grandpa sent a dude over to deal with our overgrown yard. He smacked a lizard with a shovel and left it crippled & dying. I grabbed a rock to mercy-kill it with, but I started crying; I couldn’t follow through. I told the lizard I was sorry and put it at the base of a flowering ice plant. I liked the flowers. I thought they’d be nice to look at while dying.
26 years later, I’m at a Pro-Abortion rally, protesting at the State Capital with my partner (who I love). On my person is :: (ʀᴇꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ 2x, ɢᴏɢɢʟᴇꜱ 2x, ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ-ᴀɪᴅ ᴋɪᴛ, ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ, ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ, ɴᴏᴛᴇʙᴏᴏᴋ, ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀᴄʏᴄʟᴇ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏᴍᴀꜱ ᴘʏɴᴄʜᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ᴛᴏᴏʟ, ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴋɴɪꜰᴇ, ᴘᴇɴ)
It’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 that is the most useless . . . making it the most intriguing. I will know my experience by my tools; I will know my soul by my totems.
There is this part in the book where unearthed bones of WWII G.I.s, after ambling through the unemotional mind of the 🄲🄰🄿🄸🅃🄰🄻🄸🅂🄼, find their ‘ʙᴇꜱᴛ-ᴜꜱᴇ-ᴄᴀꜱᴇ’ as a bulking agent in cigarette filters. ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 finds new utility as stimulant delivery.
After marching, 1000+ protesters mill about a park near the Capitol Building. There is loose chanting, and that is about all there is to do in this awkward liminal. I am familiar with this moment in a protest’s arc–after the march–where many leave to go home. Once the physical m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ of marching ends, there’s not a easy metaphor of m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ to the cause itself. But those who, either through experience or attunement, perceive the electric potentiality in stillness stay. A new flow might rush forth . . .
“. . . where revolutions break out spontaneously and leaderless, and the soul’s talent for consensus allows the masses to work together without effort, automatic as the body itself.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, p. 88)
I’m perceiving it, because there are old ghosts here—old ghosts and willing vessels. Union potentia, a ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ waltz.
Abortion’s connection to ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 is there; it has to be. Every cell is connected to the entropic m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, as they are connected to the creative gestation of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ is a turning— m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ within totality. I’ve been calling this type of thing a ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
The protest signs are a list of wearily highlighted contradictions. A thorough of accounting of state 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 sanctioned ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 . . .
(ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴀʟ ᴘᴜɴɪꜱʜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ, ᴡᴀʀ, ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪɴɪᴛʏ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ, ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴡ ᴄᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ, ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴇ, ᴘʀɪꜱᴏɴꜱ, ɢᴜɴ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ̷̡̧̪͉͙͕͎̲̠̝͛̉̑͒̏̃ᴰ̶̾ᴱ̸̼̠̹̐͊̓̈́ᴬ̴̛͆̿́̀ᵀ̷̧͍̙̖̹̮̮̠̂͑̈͛͂̓͜ᴴ̴͙͗̈͝𖣘, ̷̡̧̪͉͙͕͎̲̠̝͛̉̑͒̏̃ᴰ̶̨̧̣̼̾́͂̈͋ᴱ̸̼̠̹̐͊̓̈́ᴬ̴̨̧̛̺̜̰̪͆̿́̀ᵀ̷̧͍̙̖̹̮̮̠̂͑̈͛͂̓͜ᴴ̴͙͈̩̜͗̈͝𖣘 ̷̡̧̪͉͙͕͎̲̠̝͛̉̑͒̏̃ᴰ̶̨̧̣̼̾́͂̈͋ᴱ̸̼̠̹̐͊̓̈́ᴬ̴̨̧̛̺̜̰̪͆̿́̀ᵀ̷̧͍̙̖̹̮̮̠̂͑̈͛͂̓͜ᴴ̴͙͈̩̜͗̈͝)
Underscoring the American panoply of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 is a bummer of a tactic. Good points that would have worked by now if they were gonna. The journey to modernity reads like a 𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖎𝖗𝖊 of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 hexes. What can a mind do when presented with so many passive links to ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 but predictably retreat into numb denial of cognitive dissonance?
And the abortion, this particular cell ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, is cut from a different cloth? Is it because the agency is in the hands of an individual? Is there a threat there, in that bit of personal sovereignty? Among the plethora of cell ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 dealers in our bodies (bacterial overgrowth, cancer cells, tumors, viruses), this bit is absurdly exempt from the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ. Veiled in a false notion of innocence of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ which hasn’t yet touched the curse of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘? This rationale illustrates a deep fear of a beautiful and frightful truth.
ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ touches all things.
ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘, ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘! As if ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 was not the holy comrade of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. When did the Gටᗪ that touches all things become so tough to touch? When was it decided that ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 was not another facet Gටᗪ? When did this idea become radical?
I see a poster near me. It says . . .
ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴏꜰꜰ! ᴡᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ.
A call to trade 🅅🄴🅁🅃🄸🄲🄰🄻 command for ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ compassion. Lovely. There is m͎o͎t͎i͎o͎n͎ again, en mass toward the Capitol Building, the 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 metaphor. A crowd of hundreds (down from thousands) settles there. Above ᑌᔕ, police line rooftops, piloting drones. In the center of ᑌᔕ, a delicately avoided bed of flowers.
Why not trample them? Flowers are more vulnerable than stone and plexi-glass. This protest is a macabre celebration of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 (as the 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 claims), but still, no one bothers the Capitol’s flower bed.
How many lives does a human life cost? All the animals killed to eat, killed to grow the plants to eat? How many humans die in drudgery to extract & produce the constituent objects a life consumes? How much ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 can a life dish out if the right 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂 decides to sanction the killing?
Absurd questions. It is absurd to attempt a ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ/ʟɪꜰᴇ 𝙘𝙤𝙨𝙩/𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙩 analysis of a life lived. I only see the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
Gටᗪ eats Gටᗪ to create Gටᗪ.
In that totality, I think all we can try for is sovereignty. To navigate the ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ of modernity with just a tad more reign over the soul’s garden, the body. We are all in the ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ totality together, facets of the Gටᗪ of all things. I want to live here in sovereignty, in recognition of all others' same sovereignty. And we are back to that ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ.
ᑌᔕ and flowers and Gටᗪ.
The ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ is not something that can be regulated by the State 🄰🄿🄿🄰🅁🄰🅃🅄🅂. It just is. This is a protest for ᕼටᖇIᘔටᑎTᗩᒪ sovereignty within that ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ ᐯටᒪᑌTIටᑎ.
In a ░f░l░a░s░h░, I remember years back, vomiting into dirt, 100 miles deep into the Amazon Rainforest. I was learning crude facts about Crude Oil extraction and the 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ experience of the Sápara community. It’s 4 am and I am up-chucking ½ a gallon of Guayusa Tea. Among me is the dank smell of ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 and a cacophony of animal 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ. Beneath me is a growing puddle of bile, bits masticated river-fish meal, and several billion of my own biota. A ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ spew. It’s inside me, it's all over me, it’s all over this jungle, this world. Everything is going according to plan, according to the Sápara community. I see the folly of force interlocution; I leave ᴰᴱᴬᵀᴴ 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ to the Gටᗪ of all things. I enjoy the feeling.
“Because you hear and see things, even smell them, taste like you never could. Because the world is so abundant. No end to it, baby. You’re an antenna, sending your pattern out across a million lives a night, and they’re your lives too.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, 18th ed, p. 107)
A large group of protesters start pounding on the plexi-glass of the Capitol entrance, in demand of a lived experience of autonomy. A minute later, canisters of chemical weaponry ᴛʜᴜɴᴋ •°*”˜ᴛʜᴜɴᴋ •°*”˜ skitter through a crowd of 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ.
I enjoy this feeling too, so tangibly affirming of the abstract idea of 🅅🄴🅁🅃🄸🄲🄰🄻 power. The rarity of full analog in the digital epoch—the scroll, the swipe, the comment in the feed felt in the mind is now B̾U̾R̾N̾I̾N̾G̾ on my meat. Real pain, real tears, real aid, in real time, and still real careful not to tread on the quiet 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ of a bed of flowers. For a few moments, “the soul’s talent for consensus” takes hold.
As we don respirators, my partner (who I love) tells me that tear gas can cause a pregnancy to miscarry. I think about those pulverized bones in cigarette filters in ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49.
Human 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ pounding on the plexi-glass that is not alive. On rooftops, Human 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ lines up in armor . . . loading. Soldier bones in the filters of the cigarettes smoked by soldiers. Canisters of capsaicin, synthesized from the 𖣘 ʟɪꜰᴇ of a chili pepper. My body is the garden of my soul, trampled by tactical boots manufactured by 𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗥™. My body is the blade of my sovereignty; it defends the flowers.
12 hours later, I am reading through an article a friend shared covering the event . . .
"ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ ᴘʀᴏ-ᴀʙᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇꜱᴛᴏʀꜱ' ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜱᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴡᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀɪᴅᴀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴏᴄᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴀᴡ ᴇɴꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ," ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴋɪᴍ Qᴜɪɴᴛᴇʀᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄᴀɴ ᴄᴀᴜᴄᴜꜱ' ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ.
. . . and I am grateful to have read ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀʀᴄᴜꜱ ᴀᴜʀᴇʟɪᴜꜱ a dozen times in my 20’s.
“The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit. The second is to look things in the face and know them for what they are.”
And I go back over highlighted passages in my battle-worn copy of ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49 . . .
“It was not an act of treason, nor possibly even of defiance. But it was a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic, from its machinery.” (ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴛ 49, 18th ed, p. 99)