There was a temporary lull in the storm, which provided for a brief opportunity to go out on the bike. Right away I was greeted with harsh blasts from the southwest: the storm wasn't finished, and the rest of it was coming in from the ocean. I happened to be right in the middle; over the mountains to the northeast the storm was raging on after having passed us.
The nearby gates to the bike trail were locked to keep people away from the storm-waters, but it was easy to get the bike over them and then take a quick hop onto the other side. The "riverbed" surged with filthy rainwater, one of many concrete troughs sloughing the city byproducts out to sea. There is simply too much volume of unfiltered water. Given our collective priorities, it would be uneconomical to install the volume of filtration it would take to keep the water clean. With a city sprawl such as this, and a collective drive towards constant expansion, the polluted water must flow out and free by necessity.
Out in the grasses beyond the wastewater treatment plant, an enormous coyote was foraging, smack in the middle of the drainage system of north Long Beach. It was very beautiful, and looked quite healthy: well-fed and a full and vibrant coat of fur. A symbolic show of force from the wilds, much like the blowing winds of the distant storm. And I get to thinking.
Currently across the nation it appears that the mimetic waves of hope are cresting once again, at least within various activist groups, which do happen to be particularly broad this time around; the spirit of resistance, birthed anew, is testing its movement on unsteady steps, gaining confidence. As a sufferer of bipolar depression, I am overjoyed and humbled by the sight of the reappearing sun. But as much as I dislike the depression - and as much as I savor the mania for that matter - I've learned to distrust the mania even more, as I know where it leads. This is one of the reasons for developing a meditation practice; it contributes to a more even distribution of energy.
Nevertheless, such bursts of mania effect certain transformations in various directions, which change the landscapes within which these patterns arise. A nation, or geopolitics for that matter, is not a person. It is much larger, and it cannot seat itself and meditate. And there is joy to be had in riding waves.
I think somberly of the American police and the other security institutions. When one thinks of democracy theoretically - or at least the self-determination and self-rule of a community - one thinks of conversation and circulation. A mutualism and a sharing of information.
But if one tries to engage an American police officer in conversation - especially after one "breaks" the law, though they're not all like this - one gets nothing but a stern frown, and a "don't argue with me, this is the law" bit. The conversation stops at the officer's discretion, or for that matter, at the club and gun. One "cedes" the conversation to the officer only because one is too afraid to take the conversation further. And this is from the perspective of a relatively privileged white person, no less.
And are we so surprised at the resent? The officers of the nation go about doing the equivalent of whispering into pigeon's ears: "I am the enemy" and then setting them free, systematically, everyday.
In other words, one looks up at authority only to find grey walls of silence. The flow of power is immediately apparent. The individuals making up the police structurally form a band around the body of capital, heating up as their masters produce the turbulence they are tasked with "pacifying."
Much like the metal band around the fire-spout at the top of the disposable lighter. The entire lighter produces the fire as a whole, but it is the retaining band that grows hot and burns the skin.
As a greater device, we have a function of our own. We expand constantly, up and out, expelling waste outward to circulate back up against our walls of silence. We glance out wide-eyed and in surprise as the wild storms grow, and the dispossessed flood back into the city limits, their persons growing stronger and healthier, their coats shinier and fuller. And the police grow angrier and more sullen, unable to see that if they were to leave their iron band, the fire torture would stop.
Well, the sun has become sheathed again, and now the rain pours down once more.
