[The EZLN and other zapatista translations are all resting comfortably in the Library. Awaiting your pleasure.]
Head and hands have been immersed in Work all day, but, despite the associated guilt [amazing how ethnicity will out - even when not coupled with any actual religious component], I’ve decided to come up for air.
The words in question were universes away from the rhetorical shock and awe [though I wanted to say sturm und drang] of late. Although located in the very same geographical neighborhood, the communities, in fact. Schools, clinics, henhouses. Yes, domestic detail.
In case anyone is unfamiliar with my position on domestic detail, they could visit one of my first posts, Myth-making and sex.
And, since I’m clearly feeling reckless this evening, more on Dionysus.
It should be obvious by now that I’m not a fan of the Apollonian.
The sternly rational, intractable tract, pitching Logic in the face of Truth. Despite the always acceptable and endless rewriting of tract, gutting of logos, in the face of error, pique, regime change or outing.
What WMDs? The EU? The USSR?
Logos adores acronyms, no? They must be part of that panoply, the accoutrements, the much fancied trappings of desperately frightened male power [please note, gentlemen, I speak of that one type of male power, never thine].
They adore uniforms, whether motley or Hugo Boss, and, yes, I’m treading on thin ice, but it’s my rink. War begets nothing but war, and certainty fathers nothing but oppositional rigidity.
There is a reason why the women of the villages threw their pots and pans to the floor and, lured by the music, followed Dionysus to the hilltop, risking life, soul and chastity. And it had everything to do with that logic that lurks beneath the surface of things.
It really is the magic grove where seduction and true revolution meet.
The anarchist impulse that can indeed mother the turning upside down of things. Of everything.
But instead we are suffocated by hordes of the smarmy pompous ones or the righteously indignant or the insufferably correct. In every institution, on all fronts. No one who seems to understand the truly terrible risks inherent in metamorphosis.
Or why the phoenix leapt into the bonfire.