On Weariness

Pablo Neruda wrote a poem called "Cierto Cansancio" -- "A Certain Weariness" -- where he described all the things he was weary of.

He wrote,
Estoy cansada del mar duro
y de la tiera misteriosa
(I am weary of the strong sea
and of the mysterious earth)
and
Estoy cansada de las gallinas:
nunca supimos lo que piensan,
y nos miran con ojos secos
sin concedernos importancia.
(I am weary of chickens:
no one knows what they're thinking,
and they look at us with dry eyes
and consider us unimportant.)

As Greg Brown points out, it's true -- they do, and we are. But it's hard to take that from a damn chicken.

As for me, I'm weary of war, even before it has been declared.

I'm weary of mourning. I've been mourning for years now -- or perhaps for months or for centuries. I've lost track. The process of protest has become routine: meet at the Capitol, listen to people speak eloquently and inspirationally, and then walk down Congress Avenue to the bridge, blocking traffic the entire way, pissing off drivers who had no idea they were being caught in a political statement.

I'm weary of marching. I continue to march because I have no other option. I feel as though I've been screaming and screaming and no one is listening to me. Over my protests, my country is embarking on a war in my name.

The weather has been beautiful in Texas the last few days, and as I've soaked in the sunshine, I've found myself wondering what the weather is like in Iraq right now, and how life is for the people living there today, a scant 48 hours before my military bombs it into oblivion and lets loose the chemical weaponry.

I'm weary of people drawing sides, naming us as the good guys, the cowboys in white hats entering to save damsels in distress from the evil sheiks who hold them hostage.

I'm weary of it all.