Nowadays, you seldom hear people talking about the quality of a handcrafted wooden tables
If i looked at a simple wooden stool and told a group of onlookers that it was fashioned out of the finest walnut wood from so and so, they would likely think i had a special interest in either woodwork or interior decoration. Especially if i began naming where the forest where the wood was grown, or the name of the artisan. One of them might exclaim, āWow you sure do know your furniture!ā
Itās funny then, to think that such intimate knowledge about oneās belongings was once commonplace. Once upon a time, it wouldnāt have been any surprise that i knew the exact origins of my walnut stool. Why, because it was made by me! Or if not by me, then by one of my forefathers. If not them, then by our local carpenter who joins us for a meal every now and then.
Iām typing this out right now on a device made by countless people i will never be able to name. This near-weightless thing was once a piece or ore, untouched and lying in a part of the world i have never been. Then it was uncovered by people, maybe even children, before it began its long journey that ended in the sterile white box, now housing trinkets and collecting dust somewhere in my drawers. It sickens me to think about it, and fills me with a guilt that feels pointless and irrational at the same time.
Ok this was part of a writing practice where i make myself pen down my thoughts eloquently as opposed to journal language..and now that weāre back to journal language i must rant.
I know the tone of this post was one of guilt/sadness but i need to emphasise that GUILT IS NOT THE TAKEAWAY HERE. I think feeling shame and guilt for being part of a larger, unjust system is exactly how those systems get you to turn against each other and ourselves instead of THEM. So no, i donāt think every action we take in a capitalist world should be plagued by guilt. At the same time, I like to think about these things all the same because this is not just cosmic injustice at play. The world can and will be a better place.
I often think of Marwan Makhoulās āthe warplanes must be silentā poem and catch myself wondering why Iām writing about woodwork while children younger than Nongda (my nephew) have never known a world beyond rubble. But somewhere between apathy and gut-wrenching guilt, is the knowledge that I may not have the power to change the world but i can make a conscious choice to remain kind.
It doesnāt help that Iām only twenty-something and often feel like a tadpole in the ocean ( i know a tadpole wouldnāt survive in the ocean but letās suspend disbelief for the sake of the metaphor).
As long as i wake up everyday, thereās a minuscule chance that things will change for the better. Until then, iāll start by learning the names of the trees in my backyard.
izzy806
discoholicmusic
baratheonpilled
amandla
prguitarman
areudirty
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
