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Storms

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

The storm yes­ter­day after­noon. The sky sud­den­ly became gray­er than the bad weath­er, the tem­per­a­ture dropped, the wind began to howl, then the rain fell, oblique and rough. It seemed like one of those win­ter storms where noth­ing is pos­si­ble, each in their own den wait­ing for bet­ter times to come back. And they came back, pick­ing up where they left off their reg­u­lar knitwear.

Is this true of this stu­dent move­ment, of the social protest that has tak­en root in the hearts of a few peo­ple ? On tele­vi­sion, a doc­u­men­tary on Michel Char­trand’s life showed me Que­bec in the 1960s and 1970s, dur­ing the time of laws 63, 19, war mea­sures, etc. Beyond the folk­lore of atti­tudes, we can only make a con­nec­tion with what is hap­pen­ing now. The degree and strength of the ges­tures dif­fer, but the col­or seems to be the same.

Thun­der­storms flout, dis­turb, desta­bi­lize, burn. Vol­ca­noes spit, oceans drown, mete­ors erase. If this Nature seems to know where it is going, if it knows how to com­pen­sate, restore the good times, and use the death of one to feed the life of the oth­er, I remain per­plexed by human activ­i­ties. I some­times have trou­ble see­ing the pur­pose of their actions, I don’t under­stand their anger, their greed, I find them strange­ly mechan­i­cal and use­less. The anger of one is not there to feed but to protest against forces that do not give a shit about fer­til­i­ty, and that pre­fer to degrade them­selves in greed. The storms of the peo­ple come only to call out their fed up with sit­u­a­tions they have accept­ed for decades as if the game of slave and mas­ter were just a pale the­atre of cat and mouse.

There are, of course, all these cre­ative mead­ows, these noble hearts, these beau­ti­ful peo­ple, these genius­es, these great voic­es, these sub­lime writ­ings, this angel­ic cir­cle to which I would like to belong. There is cer­tain­ly all the good­ness and beau­ty of human inventiveness.

But there is still in me the mem­o­ry of that song that asked why the world is with­out love and that it should­n’t last forever.

The mas­sacres, the injus­tices con­tin­ue. Syr­ia will get away with it since, on a glob­al scale, war is still being played out as in the days of the brave knights. I see no bal­ance, no rea­son behind it. I see only one race strug­gling with a sur­pris­ing­ly bad, defec­tive assem­bly, or even an acci­dent that Nature will even­tu­al­ly cor­rect. Maybe it’s already started.

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