Friday, September 02, 2005

La vida loca

[Just wander over to the Library if you're seeking the EZLN and zapatista translations. I put a new one on the sideboard today]

I suppose there are any number of topics I could discuss this evening, given the chaos of thoughts, words, images swirling about.

I could whinge about technology, of course, though my silly computer only crashed once today. It was the cable that went out. The cable boy was a delight, but others muscled into the mix - in a way that only the left coast of the continental States seems to demand. Trying to conjure a fighting word, fantasizing it when none appeared, red face thrust into brown one.

Race provides such a perfect foil for that rage that demands outlet. Here, there, here.

In this part of the universe, persons of color, any color except sun burnished alabaster, do not exist. Ever. They are not bagging one's groceries, mowing lawns, washing dishes, minding babies. Until they become necessary.

A family dysfunction, an unplumbed ennui, a vacant life or stare and they become profoundly necessary. No boundaries are ever observed here, so the fury finds its mark. The cable boy was from another, more northern city, had moved here when he was 14 because his father, an engineer, had been offered a sumptuous promotion. The cable boy spoke not one word of Spanish, had never heard of Chiapas, but once upon a generation someone in his family tree might have hailed from the southern colony.

And so he became the unwitting Other for the sun burnished alabaster 42 year old twice imprisoned violent felon recovering alcoholic surfer dude who claims this building as his feifdom whenever he requires emotional release from his demons. Whatever, of course. I simply stepped between them, daring the psychotic one to smash my face in, which he so clearly would have enjoyed.

But there were witnesses, and this state has a three strikes and you're out policy. The dude was trumped.

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