Given the deep need for cultured humans at this moment in an increasingly antiseptic and increasingly cultureless world, it is good to wonder when and where culture might be made. If culture is fed by our troubles, then it is hard to find something that troubles and stymies humans so much as limit and endings. They are both stitched deeply into the fabric of how it is, dyed in the deep indigo of grief and gratitude as it is. Endings are a particular place where culture might have a chance to appear and the place it is most notably absent.
Dec 1, 2022·edited Dec 1, 2022Liked by Tad Hargrave
I am dizzy. I am reminded of how many times my generosity was met with a shrug, a strange, silent wave of invisibility. Or worse, the aggression of envy, and call-outs, the contortion of authentic gifts into a mere ploy for status, power, or "street cred."
I am nauseous. I am reminded of how many times generous acts in my direction were met, by me, with ignorance. Met with an uncouth cloud of inaction. With not knowing how to properly demonstrate that it matters, and being too lazy to even try.
I am suffocating. Ungraciousness, seeping in from all directions, is drowning culture. In me. In you. In us.
Humans are ritual creatures by design. Without the magical honoring of our gratitude, the pronouncements of our griefs and our praises, we harden into stone. Our naturally soft, warm bodies frozen with grievance, we cease to exist.
I am dying. We are all dying. I figure we might as well dance on our way down. Might as well thank one another on the way out.
And in that small act of thanking, maybe, just maybe, a tendril of culture will curl out of our necessity, glistening with tears. We can finally set down our hoard of hatred and ingratitude, a pile so ridiculously huge, we can bear it no longer. We can finally set it down and let it become mulch.
Yeh, that’s the one. Hits real close to home. Thanks for the heart wrench.
Story of my life.
Slowly building a homestead by hand, tending soil off grid while the rest of the world spins faster into bling and tech culture.
I stubbornly spent 25 years without a fridge. Finally, plugged one in last week.
Made a FB post about it but besides a few platitudes, no one really gives much of a fuck.
Another opportunity for culture, sailing on by, into the night.
I find it so interesting that nearly all the spaces I inhabit these days, folks wax nostalgic about how they want to split from the city, live on a homestead, flex their permaculture skills, make their own medicines from the plants they tend, homeschool their kids etc etc etc.
I’ve been actually practicing people’s fantasy for decades, yet there is simply no fanfare, no reality testing of the travails or triumphs of said fantasy life, no appreciation for the subtleties, for what the land is really asking — and not asking — of us.
Sadly it seems folks would rather keep their fantasies intact and let elders with real skills take ‘em to the grave.
Another deep sigh, I focus again on the Long Game, and steer my ship towards the North Star. 🌟
I am dizzy. I am reminded of how many times my generosity was met with a shrug, a strange, silent wave of invisibility. Or worse, the aggression of envy, and call-outs, the contortion of authentic gifts into a mere ploy for status, power, or "street cred."
I am nauseous. I am reminded of how many times generous acts in my direction were met, by me, with ignorance. Met with an uncouth cloud of inaction. With not knowing how to properly demonstrate that it matters, and being too lazy to even try.
I am suffocating. Ungraciousness, seeping in from all directions, is drowning culture. In me. In you. In us.
Humans are ritual creatures by design. Without the magical honoring of our gratitude, the pronouncements of our griefs and our praises, we harden into stone. Our naturally soft, warm bodies frozen with grievance, we cease to exist.
I am dying. We are all dying. I figure we might as well dance on our way down. Might as well thank one another on the way out.
And in that small act of thanking, maybe, just maybe, a tendril of culture will curl out of our necessity, glistening with tears. We can finally set down our hoard of hatred and ingratitude, a pile so ridiculously huge, we can bear it no longer. We can finally set it down and let it become mulch.
So, so good. And more importantly, moving.
Yes!! This drives me absolutely crazy. We could all probably call up a list of stories like this. Love these reflections.
I love this. So helpful and needing to be voiced into the culture.
Yeh, that’s the one. Hits real close to home. Thanks for the heart wrench.
Story of my life.
Slowly building a homestead by hand, tending soil off grid while the rest of the world spins faster into bling and tech culture.
I stubbornly spent 25 years without a fridge. Finally, plugged one in last week.
Made a FB post about it but besides a few platitudes, no one really gives much of a fuck.
Another opportunity for culture, sailing on by, into the night.
I find it so interesting that nearly all the spaces I inhabit these days, folks wax nostalgic about how they want to split from the city, live on a homestead, flex their permaculture skills, make their own medicines from the plants they tend, homeschool their kids etc etc etc.
I’ve been actually practicing people’s fantasy for decades, yet there is simply no fanfare, no reality testing of the travails or triumphs of said fantasy life, no appreciation for the subtleties, for what the land is really asking — and not asking — of us.
Sadly it seems folks would rather keep their fantasies intact and let elders with real skills take ‘em to the grave.
Another deep sigh, I focus again on the Long Game, and steer my ship towards the North Star. 🌟