Sunday 30th October 2011
ON MY own again, scribbling thoughts on the coach home from London, trying to put aside the emotion of the past few days and reach some rational conclusions.
I jot embryo notes: how we choose to value people… the future awaiting my granddaughters… teasing out the meaning beneath what is said.
(It has been a long wait for the coach: drivers are harder to find than back in 2011; everyone wants to be a solicitor now, for their articles guarantee earnings five times what a PSV licence brings; consequently, two hundred people must join the queue for each coach.)
I am confident the Occupy Movement will continue to abide by the will of consensus. If the national media are upset by there being no leaders, no spokespersons, no clear ‘political agenda’, that’s just tough. Ideas are caterpillars, growing only through cycles. They are not answerable to the demands of corporations.
(Scholars return to classrooms; teachers are harder to find than back in 2011; everyone wants to be film star now, for their contracts guarantee earning twenty times what a Certificate in Education brings; a hundred children must now sit in large halls in order to acquire knowledge.)
Talking of demands, I think I’ve detected a small paradigm shift. The larva that is Occupy heeds not those who clamour only for the emergence of their own singular vision. I have learned to be more wary of Siren voices, with their, “Why don’t you… We must… You should,” imprecations.
(There is an accident on the motorway; paramedics are harder to find than back in 2011; everyone wants to be footballer now, for their skills guarantee earning five hundred times what nursing training brings; a thousand patients must wait in pain before being attended to.)
Home at last, I tumble into bed.
Like pupae cling those tents, with delicate filaments, to the hard stone of the West Courtyard of that London cathedral. Will the adult imago emerge, in a host of brightly-coloured butterflies?
Or will fear unleash insecticides upon them?