by Scott Creighton
(Please pardon the stream of conscience rant. It happens sometimes.)
This is what baffles my mind. It’s why I lay awake at night, wondering about where this will all lead and why the hell I’m still doing what I do.
Chris Hedges recently wrote about how he sees himself on occasion and I thought how perfect it was as a description of where I am most days:
“I spoke three years ago to the sparsely attended state gathering of the Green Party in New Jersey. I felt as if I was a character in Mario Vargas Llosa’s novel “The Real Life of Alejandro Mayta.” In the novel, Mayta, a naive idealist, endures the indignities of the tiny and irrelevant warring sects of the Peruvian left. He is reduced to meeting in a garage with seven self-described revolutionaries who make up the RWP(T)—the Revolutionary Workers’ Party (Trotskyist)—a splinter group of the marginal Revolutionary Worker’s Party. “Stacked against the walls,” Llosa writes, “were piles of Workers Voice and handbills, manifestos and statements favoring strikes or denouncing them which they had never got around to handing out.” Chris Hedges
Sometimes I feel as if I’m a tiny little ant, a misguided Learesque ant, raging against a tempest of change that I have no hope of stopping, taking comfort in the act of resistance for resistance’s sake and for nothing more. My work hides with the dusty fliers in the corner while the “Revolution™” is televised daily to massive critical acclaim.
Willy Loman remains an apt analogy.
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