If I seemed rather jaded and frustrated by social and cultural systems in my last note, it’s because I am. Some days are like so... I can’t seem to work or talk or progress because I just don’t know how. And progress isn’t measured by the end-product like I’ve been trained to measure successes by. The objective doctrine of quantification flew out the window and I’m left with a mountain of messy emotional qualifiers: "Today was VERY good/bad; I MORE or LESS accomplished my goals at the municipality today; I think I KIND OF communicated what I wanted to say; the mayor is FAIRLY supportive of my ideas; we ALMOST had a meeting but it rained; INDEED, there are A WHOLE LOT of tarantulas in my house and EVEN MORE in my latrine..." and so on.
I’ve got an overly analytical and uncomfortably pessimistic eye for all cultures right now. Where did my optimism go? Was my idealism just a rose-colored lens effect of trendy local food movements, supportive college professors, like-minded neo-hippie friends, free press, and liberal art?
Am I bitter now because I pour kerosene down my latrine hole to kill the flies and am frightned by its too-close and uphill juxtaposition with my garden while, at the same time, I own a lifetime of memories of clean, tiled, and shiny white-porcelained bathrooms? Do I miss that just-bleached bathroom smell? Qualifier response: SORT OF. I’m MORE angry than in need. Who the fuck thinks they’re special enough to be entitled to a sparkling white toilet bowl and warm running water? Or the royal comforts of clean, soft carpet and private transportation? How can anyone justify sleeping soundly on a pillow-top mattress and memory foam pillow in an actual semi-soundproof bedroom when an enormous portion of the world’s population ironicly separates their bedroom from the kitchen by a worn-thin but well-hung bedsheet? Could I ever again sleep free of guilt under the luxurious breeze of a ceiling fan? Will the comfort of central heat/air be a bit too much to bear?
And who could condemn the rural poor that live on the fringes of the world’s disappearing rainforests for their illegal wood extraction when they themselves have not desperately sought materials to build shelter or make a cooking fire and found that the earth underfoot provides exactly what is sought. So what if the land is a national protected area? The tree an endangered species? Political boundaries and lofty designations carry no weight when the issue-at-hand is survival and the governmental and social systems are too corrupt and/or inept to actualize their grand promises of reward or consequence or service to their people.
My tiny house was built from a rare and spectacular native tree cut from the last 3% of the Atlantic Forest that remains. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. My bookshelves that support my small resource library on how to protect and preserve the Atlantic Forest were cut and constructed from that same rare and threatened tree. The burdens and blessings of awareness are heavy.
Who can blame anyone for anything?
