I’m feeling revolutionary, ever so mildly, from my arm chair, latent, pregnant with an urge to join the throngs down at Wall St. The great unwashed, but the emphasis is on Great. I’ve been down there. I’ve seen the ‘sledgehammer cracks nut’ ratio of police : peaceful protester. The boys in blue’s firepower is impressive, glistening metal in the sunlight, the walkie talkies, the trucks and zip ties and the helicopters. I do so love the New York police for their harnessed aggression and ability to deliver on it immediately. Police states have always been kind to me so I doubt very much I would feel so forgiving if I were on the receiving end of a bit of police boot. And the protesters, their bad haircuts, the smelly armpits and general air of being unemployable made me second guess my support for them. Indeed, from my silent position standing down there I did examine them. They’re a rag tag, unkempt bunch of ruffians under a noble cause, however. I owe them something and we all do, we do. What prevents me from going down there with my tent and cammo netting, in truth I know it’s the only thing, is that my life would change dramatically were I arrested for protesting against what is essentially american government. Free speech can land you in a lot of hot water in some places and America is one of those places and I’m a guest here. My shameful passivity. This poem from Oscar is apt:-
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,–
But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea
And give my rage a brother–! Liberty!
For this sake only do thy dissonant cries
Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades
Rob nations of their rights inviolate
And I remain unmoved–and yet, and yet,
These Christs that die upon the barricades,
God knows it I am with them, in some things.