@sharpdistant____space
While following Naomi Klein's book tour and feeding the wild bees their winter protein, I hear a friend speaking out – exactly that.
I turn around and am caught in exactly this moment. The beginning of a thought crashing into another one, and into deeper, new knowledge.
I could wait. A bit. I could await my own clarity within these layers. I don't. I jump into a sentence. My mouth does. As do my hands. They start a communication of their own. Explicit.
I look at myself. Well, I am for sure disconnected. I should understand what each layer wants to say or contribute. I refuse to say parts. Even though they are my body parts.
I should, could video myself and watch. I perform. But what. I really would like to know.
Also why one part is able to continue the content it started, while another layer adds an insight, undisturbed by what I say. Yet confusing for others.
I am not confused. I wrote a play about politically correct Tourette syndrome. Do I feel a touch of its shadow? Just checking.
The unfinished. And the silence. The humming of the wild bees.
They never stung. They know me. Know I feed them. Sometimes they bump against my forehead. As if saying hello.
Cascading thoughts and the wild humming of bees. The fluidity of ideas and the thick stickiness of the paste. The dance of the bees and solid nourishment.
There is structure in a swarm. There is a complex organisation. And communication.
Bees. Thoughts. Who forced us into logic? Rigid logic. Does it allow complexity? Just wondering.
I never looked at the cloud my unfinished sentences form. Its patterns. Its three-dimensional space. The choreography within. Do they build around centres? Of topics? Clouds within clouds?
I love to get lost. Or astray. Within these swarms of my thoughts. But. And for sure. There is no fascism among bees.
So why Naomi Klein? Because I feed the bees, because they don't find any food within the concrete desert we live in. No flowers. Climate in extremes. Bright ken. They desperately entered our flat when we prepared food with honey. Dying. Starved. I carried them one by one back into the garden. I am still angry writing this. Each one of them. 50 or 60. Or more. Each one placed on a spoon of honey. In the garden.
I later bought special food for bees. They returned every day. Till winter.
I am heartbroken about it. And have flowers and food for bees on every windowsill. Food and water. I am proud when a hornet is within a swarm.
That's what fascism does to all of us. That is why we run this project. To reclaim what is precious. Reclaim and protect.
That's why my unfinished sentences increase. As do the hungry bees.
Brigitte
End Times Fascism and the Fight for the Living World by Naomi Klein and Astra Taylor