what is the value of one human life
does it rise with the fall of the pigment in skin
What is the value of one human life
does it increase with the size of the genitalia
decrease with the size of breasts
what is the value of one human life
does it fall with iq
rise with wealth
what is the value
what is the value of one human life
with age comes wisdom
but is there also a corresponding inflationary effect
what is the value of one human life
if i am a poor young black woman
if you are a wealthy blue-eyed male
does one of us count for more
for less
what is the value of one human life
is there a formula to work out
the many combinations and permutations
that come when humans create other humans
without checking first on the status quo
what is the value of one human life
in a world artificially divided
by colour
by sex
by ability
by wealth
by thought
by belief by age by stage by choices by food by space by things
what is the value of one human life
do i decide
do you
should we
why
joeann
august 7, 2011
I just feel like writing, and writing, and writing. I don’t have anything particular to say but there are words that need airing. I think there are stories waiting to unfold. I think there are memories untold. I think there are those whose time has come to step out into the light, even if they are shades, even if they are just the ghostly whispers in the ear of another, more substantial, being. I just want to write because its the only way I know to stir up the fires, to stir up the feelings, to stir up the memories I’ve stored so long away. I just want to write because it’s the only way I can silence the voices that talk all the time, that vie for attention with the rest of the world. There’s more than one person living inside my head, but not like that. There are people that come and go, that have lives they are living in places my mind has set aside for visitors. If their stories aren’t told they show up in dreams; they show up on street corners in other cities, mocking my ignorance and my surprise. That which is inside my head is supposed to stay there; it is not supposed to be waiting for the next streetcar, sitting in the next booth in the restaurant, running fingers through the glass beads in the next aisle over. It is not supposed to smile slyly at me, daring me to speak, or to run away. That which is inside my head is supposed to wait until I have decided how the story will be told. I am the one who in control. It is supposed to wait for my direction, for my command. It is not supposed to duck down the next alley and come out sauntering with a girl on each arm, as if I had given the signal to live freely, and large. It is definitely not supposed to bring friends over. There is enough chatter without the party growing larger and more outrageous. These new voices I can’t control, and without control the story slips out of my grasp, runs down the busy avenue, weaving through traffic and always staying just steps ahead of me as I desperately try to catch its coattails. I have to chase after it for otherwise how will it end? I don’t want to come upon it, lying battered and bleeding in the road, victim of its own hubris. Would I kneel down and try to hear it’s dying words? Would I try to keep it alive until help arrived? There is no help. There is only me and it is my choice to save it or let it go. If I save it, there is no guarantee it will not flee again, that it will listen to my pleading. If I let it go, I may end up alone, standing on a gravel road heading out of town; the party over, the party over. We need to find way, the story and I, to work together, to paint the picture that satisfies us both. We need to find a way, the story and I, to agreed to disagree in all the right places, to reach a consensus on where everyone ought to go. It is the consensus that will kill us. All those voices speaking together, shouting to be heard, shouting to be right. The meetings will take days. There will be a lot of tears, and possibly laughter too? Yes, laughter. For without, it there is no story at all. Humour in all things keeps the world from tilting; keeps me from sliding off into the darkness where lips may move, but no one makes a sound.
is fungus inanimate?
Year thirteen: country fair time yet again. You’d think I know enough now to get out of town but something always seems to interfere with my escape. Tonight is tractor pull. Sigh. For anyone not familiar with this event… well, I can’t help you there. I’ve only ever heard it. I can assume that it has something to do with tractors and heavy objects in need of pulling. I know it is practiced by people who soup up tractors and give them crazy names. I know this because those tractors drive by my house on their way to greater glory.
Did I mention that the fair happens right across from my house? Midway, country and church gospel singers all day long, and, of course, the prized evening events: tractor pull, mud bog and demolition derby. To be fair, aside from the horrific amount of traffic pouring through my quiet little small town neighbourhood, most of the fair is not that bad. The midway isn’t loud, and it’s kind of nice to watch the ferris wheel light up and go around at night. The country/gospel music is bearable, if they take breaks. After a while, I can just tune it out. Besides, it drowns out the constant techno beat from the midway rides, at least briefly. It’s also an odd but endearing treat to have wagonloads of prized farm animals driving past my window in the early morning, nattering away in their various animal languages.
Really, only two things get to me. The first is the tractor pull. It gets louder and louder as the night wears on; and it is night that wears on as they usually don’t finish it up until about 1:00 in the morning. The heavier the “pull”, the louder the tractor and, of course, they save the heaviest for last. Later in the evening it is almost impossible to have a conversation on my porch, it is that loud. There is also the very enthusiastic woman who calls the event, the speakers for which are pointed in my direction. Clearly, she loves her job. Sadly, she practices it too close for comfort.
The second thing that gets to me follows from the first. It is the patrons, who leave at 11:00 or 12:00 or at the end. They are loud, feel the need to squeal away from whatever parking space they have found and, with any luck in this disaster, enough of them are drunk and/or high that fighting is a constant possibility. Yelling in preparation for those possible fights is a given. The cops, who I know have a lot on their plate, usually don’t show up until it’s all over. I know this may sound unreasonable but, given that this is a predictable and yearly occurrence, one would hope they would already be there as a deterrent. Once the neighbourhood empties out of the majority, then I get to put up with the teenagers who like to sit on the curb outside my house and talk. Normally, I wouldn’t mind talking but they tend to get into loud arguments on a regular basis, usually about who did or did not sleep with whom. As someone trying to sleep, alone and ten feet away, it’s a pretty compelling reason to bring in a 10:00 curfew for anyone under 40.
And so I dread this night. I will hope that things end early (it does look like rain after all) and that maybe the cops will hang round long enough to see that everyone goes home without future scars. I will also hope that my newly removed fence does not give people ideas about cutting through my yard or even hanging out in it - yes, one year I did have to tell some young drunk to get off the tire swing - and maybe no one will feel compelled to throw up in my hedge. I will hope that my sculpture tree is undamaged and my newly exposed garden is not trampled, although I fully expect to have to pull garbage out of the pond. I am thankful that my dog is deaf, although nervous about that at the same time. A deaf dog is not much of a watch dog, even if I know she would defend me… once she woke up.
I’ll just put one last thought out there: if you’re thinking of heading to that country fair to check out how the locals pass the time; if your thinking it might be fun to see the tractors or the mud or the smash up derby; by all means come on out. You’ll have some fun, meet some great people and see things you might not otherwise see if you’re a city-dwelling human. Learn where your food comes from and meet the people who grow it for you. They are an awesome bunch. Just remember: when you leave, leave quietly, leave respectfully, take your garbage with you, and whisper “sweet dreams” when you pass the sleepy little houses.
never give up
(c) 2011 joeann
Some things look clearer through the morning mist.
(c) 2011 joeann
I often wander fields of flowers looking for the unexpected
(c) 2011 joeann
