Lions With Flickering Tails

Standing on the outside with eyes wide open

Photo by Geranimo on Unsplash

1.

We readily dig deep holes within ourselves and bury that which we cannot stand. Deep inside, these feelings lie, like ancient bodies frozen into glaciers, not gone, not even hidden, but slowly working their way toward the sun. And when these Ötzi feelings finally begin to surface, they have not been dead and buried, but alive and percolating, biding their time in the process line, waiting to be counted, to be dealt with, to be seen.

Time erodes all things. Mountain ranges become flatland’s as the eons roll by, but in our own parochial and brief lives, those buried feelings stand fast against the rigors of time. They’re not eroded, but instead they lie in wait, threatening to appear, a constant unseen danger, like stones in soup.

To be buried beneath the surface is not to be vanquished, but instead, these buried things are carried around as extra weight.

It is not just we as individuals that bury that which we cannot stand. Whole families can hold the spade and dig together. Whole villages, whole cities, whole countries, whole periods of history can dig in unison, burying deep those painful things, turning away from the truth, refusing to own the consequences, so that eventually, at some time in the future, it will be others that must pay the price, it will be others that will choke on the smoke from fires lit in the distant past.

We all know this for we are choking right now. And yet we live, ready and willing, shovels in hand, prepared to dig and bury all that we cannot stand, all that we cannot process, all that we cannot fathom, weighing ourselves down, billowing smoke and uncertainty into the future and blinding ourselves to the present day.

2.

I see her, this women, standing there, nervous and fragile, wine in hand, smiling and chatting, doing her best to be taken seriously. But I can see her. She’s carrying the weight of something from her childhood, buried deep. Nothing too dramatic. Most likely just the common cruelty of having been made to feel insignificant for years, the routine bullying that is casually passed from one generation to the next, so that now, decades later, she reeks of insecurity and stage fright.

She’s nodding along in agreement as the others talk. More powerful others, higher up in the feeding frenzy, to whom she looks with exquisite envy, painfully aware of the subtleties of status, as those who have been bullied often seem to be. I see her kicking hard below the waterline to hold the smiling facade. But it is not those others for whom she is paddling so hard. It is for herself, convinced as she is that she is a master of the Dark Arts, and has what is required to thrive in her chosen world.

They’re discussing investment, talking of "international talent” and reeling off examples of stupefying philanthropic donations. I see her watching carefully as the others speak, calculating and biding her time, waiting for the right moment to encourage or agree, waiting for the right moment to be seen. I see her begin to shuffle a little less, the wine fueling her courage as she imitates the person she believes herself to be.

And I see the others, so refined and practiced, smoothly exclude her, nonchalantly demean her, even though they have thrown their arms around her, encouraging their plaything to continue her desperate social dance. These others, some of them at least, reeking of privilege and entitlement, are casual, like gorged lions lying in the shade, patient and dangerously bored, tails flickering. She stands there believing herself to be a lion too, as these others contemplate the gazelle in their midst.

3.

I am empty-handed. I was born from a lineage of the vanquished and the poor. I understand the disposition of serfdom, I feel the weight of my conquered ancestors, who were taught to expect nothing, crushed as they were by the Great Stupidity, broken as they were by the intolerable greed of the few.

So I am fascinated as she stands there, with her wine in hand, glowing with covetousness, surrounded by these others, believing the stories they feed her. She imagines that power is close, almost within her grasp. And I smile pathetically as I watch her thrashing about like a small fish in a tidal pool, convinced that she’s in the ocean, sipping on her wine and nodding along as she is so triumphantly ignored.

And although I am ashamed to witness this blatant appetite, I still cannot quell a feeling of melancholic pity and awe. As the barbarism rages all around us, lustily crushing and destroying everything in its path, I cannot help but feel a strange merciful sorrow for those who crave to join the Great Stupidity, instead of tearing it all down.

Those who scramble to march in step like Incas, who, believing they were mastering the conquistadors and vanquishing their foes, swung their swords, only to slice themselves to pieces. Those who willingly unite with their executioners, clawing for the trinkets and momentary graces, adorning themselves with these fleeting nothings. Those who are so easily persuaded and cannot drink enough Kool-Aid to drown themselves in the never-ending flood of truths and facts.

As the smoke from the forest fires lingers in the air, as the glaciers melt and the sea rises, as the land empties and we are dragged along by this quiet, cold brutality that marches across the world, as the monster with no ears and no eyes and no heart thrashes around, there are those who cannot join the melee fast enough.

And there she is, sipping her wine and smiling like sweet death, desperate to be handed the whip.

4.

I watch her closely as the others refill her glass. I watch her demure as she edges toward them, her eyes widening, her heart fluttering like first love. I watch the silken hands of power wrap themselves around her as she leans in to be taken. I know that she imagines she is in the realm of pharaohs and emperors and crafty entrepreneurs. I know she has forgotten the deep truths whispered into her deaf ear by long demoted poets. I know she clings tightly to the invention of the historians who so easily persuade her that single-handed hero’s deserve all they receive.

I know these things because I feel them myself. I am not impervious to these spells. I am not above these temptations. I too am hungry and there is but one table and I too must eat. But something in me refuses to sit and feast upon these delectable treats. Maybe it is the whispers of my vanquished ancestors, maybe my lineage has been fooled once, twice, and now they whisper, fool me thrice and shame on me. Maybe there are long lines of the dead calling out to me that I must learn those things that they learnt too late. Maybe the dead are the only ones who can fully grasp life.

How can I tell her that all this pretentious frippery is but a mirage conjured up by the Devil himself? How can I tell her there is no Devil himself, but that we are the Devil himself? How can I tell her to set her shovel aside and rest a while? How can I tell her there is no hurry, that time will pass, and these shimmering days, like gardens wet with rain, will eventually dry away? How can I tell her that which she has forsaken is everything and that which she has embraced is nothing? How can I tell her that she is a tender gazelle and the lions are eyeing her, their tails flickering as they lie dangerously bored in this increasing heat, about to slaughter everything, for nothing more than entertainment?

5.

What are the words I wish to say to her?

Nietzsche said, “you will often be lonely and sometimes frightened, but no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”

In every society, since the beginning of time, there have always been people who have stood on the outside. They are not the power brokers, nor the ideologues. They are not the gate keepers, nor the beneficiaries. They are not the followers, nor those who hold on tight and fret of what might be.

They are the artists, the outsiders, the true barbarians, who, since time began, have dared to look and see, and dared to own themselves.

Napoleon said that “History is a set of lies that people have agreed upon”. He was only half right. He should have added that the present is also a set of lies that people have agreed upon. Those who dare to own themselves, the outsiders, know this to be true.

It is lonely, and it is frightening, but we should not stand amongst the lions and sip our wine and have their lies poured into us. Instead, we should struggle, and we should write, and we should open our eyes and dare to look and dare to see, so that one day, we may all gain that privilege of owning ourselves too.

These are the words I wish to tell her, as she lets them caress her with their arms of sweet death. These are the words I wish to tell her from where I stand on the outside, amongst my vanquished barbarian ancestors, with eyes wide open.