It’s sickening to my already sickened, red-eyed, Greyhound-stiff frame to think that Miss E.G. or the other Lebanese chicks I went to school with are in danger, or their families are. Real danger - ‘peril’ is, I believe, le mot juste. Not just the vague queasiness of commuting through financial districts of G-7 countries in the days after planes fly into the World Trade Centre, not the creepy get-home-fast feeling of biking through a nasty ghetto at night, not the nauseous menace of being firmly instructed by an ex that one will die an ignominious death at his hands – but the peril of fucking bombs falling on one’s fucking country via an organized military that has lots of practice dropping fucking bombs on one’s fucking country. A foreign country deciding it’s a good political decision to ‘imperil’ their lives. Precious, clever effervescent lives that have made me laugh until I wanted to pee, leant me their course notes, invited me to their homes, collaborated with my academic projects, fed me, bought me drinks, made relentless fun of the French with me, tut-tutted my erstwhile whoredom and given me man-advice; those ones, yes. It has been decided that it’s a good idea to subject those to peril.
Coke once wanted to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Not having anything to sell, I just want to box the world’s ears until they bleed. I’m pretty sure I’m operating at a fairly average level of sanity, but if Miss E.G. was hurt and the person responsible presented to me, I would try to beat him to death with anything in reach.* And imagine if she was my sister, my mother, my daughter . . . what connection with moral realities could I expect from myself then?
I know I haven’t been the most cheerful blogger on God’s green and intensely unfair Earth lately. Sorry. I’ll write about food tomorrow. Dips. Yes, I’ll write about dips. I love dips. And/or some of the lovely things from Bluesfest, like lovely Wilco.
*Hopefully a leg of lamb. And if you haven’t read the short stories of Roald Dahl, stop being such a fucking sucker, I’m already pissed off enough.
5 commenti:
I can't imagine what it's like to have loved ones in Lebanon! I only have vague connections like the family of the Lebanese-Canadian couple we hung out with on our honeymoon, or the Lebanese woman who gave me a facial at the spa. She's waiting for her husband to get approval to live here in Canada....
Sorry you're stiff from the Greyhound, but hopefully your weekend here was worth it? I hate the Greyhound. What a dumb name for a bus line too.
For sure it was worth it! I had a really nice time altogether, there were lots of happy suprises and so nice to see youse guys. I'm just in a pisser from the Greyhound (it *is* a stupid name, but when I had to take it to New York once it gave the awesome driver a chance to thank all us passengers "fo ridin' the Dawwwg", which I thought was the coolest thing I'd ever heard), waiting for the Red Dragon and fucking worried about Miss E. G. et al in Lebanon. And Grandpa, though things are looking pretty good and he's walking around.
I'll be perkier once I get a solid nine hours of Bedfordshire behind me.
That's great about your Grandpa!
I need to go to bed, soo tired!
Um, I can't access my blog?? Have you noticed that? Weird...
I can't either - that is strange, but I'm sure it will clear up.
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