just a taste of seared righteousness

Some days I long for militancy. I build a little hope in my heart that somewhere, somehow there is a little band of true believers diligently preparing the footfalls of history. I see little glimpses here and there. Occasionally I read a paragraph or two in the Green Left Review or the Tertangala that has a little righteousness seared through, but just a taste.

I wear my own history of faith on my shoulders, the heraldry of an adherence to promises as yet unkept. They bind me to a course aimed toward hope. This is protective. I have the capacity to critique until I self immolate with rage. To prevent this endless dead endism, I refuse my bitterness as sustenance. And I must look away from the material, and the fucked, to the indeterminacy of circumstances yet to be fixed in hindsight.

In my discipline of not allowing myself to gorge on the awfulness which I cannot help but endlessly loathe, in detail, I have quite a capacity to line up with militants. Show me a band of brothers and I should move, without noticing, to their side. As long as there is that searing righteousness that binds all that hope to a world unmade, I am there. I also have a sheepish sympathy with backing oneself into a corner intellectually and defending it no matter what.

There are, however, precious few militants going around. It isn’t much of a career option anymore, no one believes in militancy (especially those who espouse it). There is more room for imagination in the third world but righteousness is a comfort of home.

It is days like these then when I turn my face to the mountain and think, is it time? To start laying down caches and building shelters beyond the holes in the whole. To begin to secrete away the currency and the literature for the great battle ahead that will see justice stand tall and the righteous beside her? Could it be time for a foco in the national park?

Well no, plainly not. I don’t think it is ever going to be that way. But even so, somedays I wish someone believed so that I could kid myself that yes! this could be it, the way to the light on the hill and so I could make that belief mine too.

It wouldn’t have to last long, just a taste would be okay.


About rustichello

A rather too quiet fellow of little reknown.
This entry was posted in domesticity, things belonging to the emperor and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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