Monday, 14 March 2011

Subversive Squirt Gun

I awaken to a crashing sound. It isn't a tsunami or an earthquake–just the cats at it again, wreaking havoc, digging up the plants, knocking stuff down for the fun of it.

Begrudgingly, I rise from the warm bed where Charlie has been cuddling me all night. Though bleary eyed, she accompanies me into the living room, shaking her head at the soil spread across the floor like gravel dumped over a winter road. A tropical plant has been upended, it’s roots exposed to the light like an albino naked in the sun. Charlie hisses at the cats, then fires blasts of water at them with a squirt gun.

I make coffee as she saunters off to the shower. My eyes follow her gait–such animal grace–as she moves through the room, naked. Will I ever grow tired of watching the way she walks? I doubt it.

Last night she ordered me to strip. She was armed and dangerous, threatening me with the same water pistol she fired at the cats; the pistol I’ve noticed she’s been brandishing a lot lately. I had no choice but to comply–at least for a little while, since one of the biggest turn-ons for me is a girl well armed. But I can only play submissive for so long. Passivism goes against my nature. I’m more like one of those Situationists from the 60’s–so when the situation presented itself, I lunged for the gun.

A struggle ensued. We crashed around the room like Hotel and VV in that  Kills video. When we fell onto the bed I was on top, but the thing about Charlie is she is almost equal in size to me and just about as strong. I’ve tried to topple her in snow banks from the Kootenay Mountains all the way to Vancouver, but it isn’t easy. She’s got this way of planting herself so solidly–she becomes grounded like an old Ponderosa Pine tree.

Our struggle didn’t last long before it turned into a kiss. Her lips were like sugar, and her tongue made me feel like I had a bottle of organic merlot coursing through my blood. I throbbed, my DNA engaged and acted with a determination all its own. Willingly, Charlie dropped the squirt gun.

A puff of smoke surrounded us. Orange crystals lit up like glowing embers as we floated upon a blanket of crushed velvet. Everything went earth toned, and we moved with mammalian synchrony until our individual forms coalesced into a unified whole for an extended moment. After, we lay coiled around each other like a double helix, with no other sound than our breath expressed with the rising and falling of our chests.

That was last night, but this is the next morning, and as I said, Charlie’s off to the shower. I pour black liquid into a mug, then sit down to read the headlines at Democracy Now. A massive earthquake hit Japan with a thirty-foot tsunami wave following. The eye in the sky shows an ocean of cars and trucks floating alongside ships and houses. Everything is flooded with sea-water. Black smoke rises from floating infernos, an oil refinery is burning, and there is the threat of at least one nuclear meltdown. At the end of the report they say the whole Pacific Rim is under a natural disaster warning.

Click on a link, switch to the Middle East, where the Saudi government has suppressed the call for a national day of rage. For anyone caught out on the street, a minimum five-year jail sentence is being threatened. It is beginning to look like governments around the world will do anything to subvert what has been termed: “The Impending World Wide Revolution.”

Here in North America, in Madison, Wisconsin the government has just passed a law busting up the unions. Corporations want to protect themselves. No more will they be vulnerable to worker solidarity. But this brash move could backfire on them. It seems their arrogance may ignite a kind of class-consciousness unheard of since the beginning of the 20th Century. Something to hope for, anyway.

I look outside the window. A transcendent blue sky sharply contrasts the ridge where my valley gets its drinking water, straight from the mountain unfiltered. Out here, it is easy to feel removed from the severity of world events, but on the north end of that ridge, a tribe called the Sinixt (officially classified as extinct by the Canadian government) is bringing it all back home. They and their white supporters have set up a camp in the tribe’s ancestral use area, on a piece of land a logging company has been granted the right to cut. The police came yesterday. The extinct Indians and their supporters were informed if they impeded industrial development, they would be subject to arrest, regardless of issues surrounding clean water, ecological integrity, or indigenous traditional uses.

I think of the Zapatistas in Chiapas, and the international youth uprising of 1968. Both reached that critical point when sentiment had to grasp action’s hand because no more could be tolerated. It's true, those were different times; different conditions. Unlike us, they weren't facing total global ecological collapse. But I have to wonder–how much more we are willing to lose; how much more damage can we sustain before our souls are ruined by inaction?

Charlie emerges from the shower. She’s got a towel wrapped around her. She comes up and looks over my shoulder at the news on the computer. She never bothered with current events in the past, never thought she needed to, but with the rapidity with which the world is changing, ignoring them has become impossible. What she sees on the screen makes her brow crinkle. Somehow it sparks a memory of a veteran of the Spanish Civil War I once met. He was an old man in his 70’s, telling me about his youthful days fighting the fascists:  “You’d be surprised how fast things can change,” he said, assuredly. “One day I was a peasant, the next day I was a revolutionary.”