the amusement park of rebellion

it is a saturday, not quite midday, almost afternoon. the people huddle in the parks outside city hall, stepping around the bodies who curl in the stoops of street corners and building edges, ask for a dollar and sent self-righteous prayers. the excess cardboard of a hard seltzer box and last night’s pizza transformed into a late-night comedy show punchline. the people chant but the words feel empty, too far to hear the loudspeaker, and the people mumble amongst themselves, a cacophony of protestations said the same way with the same agitation in the echo of its former day. but, the signs are funny and reflect a cultural irony, and the people laugh. there is song and everything is so pervaded by symbolism it seems to signify nothing at all. say the speeches, repeat the phrase, organize, mobilize, deny, defend, delay. not that there aren’t people to talk to, and connections to make; however, the commitment to resistance falls short by a dime every time. the food trucks round the corner, ten-dollar coffees for those who can afford it. the syrups are house-made: blueberry, mocha—matcha ceremonial. the people eat and they laugh at the festivities and the games and sing tunes of moral self-praise; they have checked it off the grocery list and may return for the loose change of nourishment later. this is enough; this suffices.

and is it fair to be so critical? who am i to critique the little disruption we have carved into our worlds? but, then, who am i to be satisfied? a representative spoke, but i found she only talked about herself, and the way she fights, and the important things she has done and will do. we’re here, in this space to stress the struggle that complicity and ignorance inflict on those in the margins of our cultural mind, and we talk about us. i know what this is for. i know what this is about. i know why we’re gathered here—but it won’t sit with me that in the same place we speak of starvation in gaza, we eat feasts. a protestation of a celebration by all means mirroring its very enemy. is this productivity, or do we bask in the narcissism of our moral superiority? people brought their film cameras from amazon, posed in the crowd for their instagram story to prove themselves to themselves and to prove themselves to a court founded socially. the demonstration is a stage of change and the people perform wonderfully.

i don’t know if there’s anything better in being the critic. i wouldn’t think so. the horseshoe finds both ends point in one direction, and it is only my insecurities that i truly mention. but people are being thrown into detention, and people are allowing people to unbecome people with little, true attention. we continue to call ourselves a land of steeples.

the party ends at four, and most people leave by three. i imagine where they might go. maybe brunch, a walk. maybe to read, sit by a tree, inspire themselves to be dangerously. maybe to meet more people who cant stand the incessant montage of atrocity that finds shelter in social media feeds, to plant their feet on the properties responsible for monstrosity. i could be so much better and it’s a bitter rumination. i don’t want a festival—i want a microphone. everything feels too cautiously strategic and more suited to the fantasy of screen, and even here, in this place where we strive for better, i still don’t know what to believe.