Postcards

Today I left Bray, and drove to a garden centre ten minutes away (maybe less). It felt strange to go on the dual carriageway, to leave the shelter of my little town. Nice though, in the sun, and I was on a mission, to buy organic compost for peas and herbs, some parsley, lavender if they had it (they didn't, but they had sweetpea) and all in the hot, hot brightness of this ongoing heatwave. I watered the plants to a guilty degree, I deadheaded some roses, sprayed some aphids (the way they cluster in parasitic clumps makes me ill) and picked other roses. I bought an impractical rose, they're pale pink, look like peonies, but they're tissue delicate and fall apart at a touch. It doesn't help that they have short, soft stems and the weight of their heavy heads pulls them groundwards, upside down on the bush, but they're also so hard to pick. Perhaps it's worth it for their transient beauty. The bush, which I bought a few years ago at the supermarket, has grown enormously, from a tiny plant - my whole front, er, area has grown wildly. It's a little intimidating. I'll have to prune stuff vigorously this Autumn. 

I planted peas, having fucked up and soaked them all, despite only having space for a third of them  (why? Why do I do these things?). I'm trying to re-dry them, but I don't imagine they'll survive. I planted the sweet pea, repotted herbs into and old winebox FILLED with scary bugs 'n' slugs. I tried to re-pot my magnolia, but it won't come out of the round pot it's in, so horribly pot bound it is. I'm soaking it hopefully. I threw Bee Bombs of wild flowers onto the hard, hard earth of the flower bed, though I think it's too hard, too dry, too shaded to let them grow. We'll see. In two years, maybe. I tended my garden in the heat, and it felt good to do it, but oh, I'm so aware of my safety, my privilege, the fact that all my young, growing son has to fear is spiders in flower pots right now. 

I remember the nineties, and the 'shit is burning show' comments about the riots - I see people I know making comments on the terribleness, the 'this isn't us'-ness of burning and looting and I think, people should be out burning the fucking world down, in protest - but ... would I send my son out there, to fight for everyone's lives on the street? Twitter shows me wtf is going on videos - police batons raising and falling with such viciousness, a journalist losing an eye to a rubber bullet, a cop macing a child, ugly violent rhetoric from the thing in the White House. I look away, I don't watch. I didn't watch the video of George Floyd's death, no-one should. Everyone should know, no-one should have to watch that. The stills were too much. Reading about him calling for his mother was too much. Oh, my heart, this suffering. The evil. It needs to be fought, railed against, people's complacency needs to be jolted, screamed at, burned down - but such sacrifice is necessary to face down the strength of this hateful adversity. Trump's talk of setting dogs on people, as if he's a real life Mr. Burns. I loved my mother for going to see some crappy alien invasion movie for the delight of seeing the White House explode. I wish all the people of the US would rise up against the inequality, corruption and ugliness of the country and raze it down, metaphorically, at least. God knows the country has been at war with its own people for a long time. But who are we to point fingers?

I know, too, how disingenuous we all are in this country, where are new population of second generation Irish people are rejected, where people say ugly, vicious, murderous things about refugees who have lost everything, where we imprison people in Direct Provision and profiteer from them - children grow up in that state, during lockdown, gates were locked on them. They were locked in. And I keep seeing people protesting that we don't live in a racist country. 

We do. And we villify and ignore our own problematic minority people, the Travellers, who are complicated, difficult, suffering, who have their children taken away. We send money to the Navajo and ignore their plight - they're safe to hate, for so many. They provide good reason, but it's a chicken and egg situation. Their life expectancy is over 15 years less than settled people's. Forty is truly old for them, as so many don't live into their sixties. It's shameful, but we don't care, because they rob stuff. They really do. And they send their little kids in to do it for them if they can't. But does that mean they deserve to die? We're hypocrites. I'm a hypocrite. I do so little for the good. I send money in units of ten euros, to all the causes I care about, while worrying about not spending it on my mortgage, on my home, my kids, stealing the luxury of charity from my not-quite- husband's wages while being too lazy to be an activist, or a volunteer. But if I were, I'd feel guilty about that time stolen from my home life, too. Ugh, what am I left with, thoughts and prayers? 
I hope I get the chance to be a shit kicking older person, pay my dues when I can afford to no longer give a fuck, like the heroic grandmother who went to jail with cancer, for protesting our collusion in letting US planes land at Shannon airport. Neutral country, my ass. 

I will continue to worry about my little problems, my non-life, all the things I don't do, my own sadness at the state of it all. The fact that there is no way to burn it all down and still be safe, but people have no choice, because there is no safety either way.