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French Wisdom
Jul. 24th, 2014 10:38 amSi Dieu me prête vie, je ferai qu'il n'y aura point de laboureur en mon royaume qui n'ait les moyens d'avoir le dimanche une poule dans son pot!
(If God keeps me, I will make sure that no peasant in my realm will lack the means to have a chicken in the pot on Sunday!)
Thank you Henry of France, Fourth of that name and state. Centuries later across Europe there's a chicken in the pot every day, never mind just Sunday. The Guardian has just brought out an expose of chicken processing plants in the UK. My god, what a filthy industry: http://www.theguardian.com/world/video/2014/jul/23/sick-chicken-need-to-know-video
The video made me gag. I recall how my mother responded to any dirt she ever came across; she would have actually fainted at some of these photos. Certainly we would never have been allowed to eat chicken again, though she would probably cook chops for Dad if he insisted - I have visions of her wearing a radiation suit, cordoning off the kitchen prior to making his supper then spending the rest of the night scrubbing the house down.
Who would feed their kids diseased meat? Oh but we don't want to know. Everyone wants cheap chicken so the processing lines mustn't stop; and who profits? Naturally our government won't intercede, because the market looks after itself, same way it did in the banking crisis. Governments don't tell money what to do, money tells governments what to do. Or at least money tells our government what to do, and our government obeys every time.
Meanwhile the blank cruelty of intensive farming sustains us while we live in fantasy TV worlds of sport and drama and war by proxy. I love story. There are several reasons why I have experienced a recent inability to write anything that pleases me; One may be a slight resistance to creating yet another world-hiding mirage. May be that is why I like my current poetry. It may have faults, but it is a different angle on the world I see, as opposed to my prose writing which is all about escape.
I can't help really; can't help the many who blankly stuff their faces only to be sick hours later and never wander why. You can tell someone not to eat shit, but if they do it anyway, best leave before they try to kiss you.
Meanwhile, last night, I saw a fox cub come tumbling through the nettles, enjoying the night breeze. The rose broken by our clumsy if well meaning handyman has developed the most gorgeously scented flower, and the summer nights are incomparable. I am not going to be stupid, or cruel, if I can help it and I am not going back to sleep. Instead I shall refer to another wise Frenchman:
'Excellently observed,' answered Candide, ' But we must cultivate our garden.'
(If God keeps me, I will make sure that no peasant in my realm will lack the means to have a chicken in the pot on Sunday!)
Thank you Henry of France, Fourth of that name and state. Centuries later across Europe there's a chicken in the pot every day, never mind just Sunday. The Guardian has just brought out an expose of chicken processing plants in the UK. My god, what a filthy industry: http://www.theguardian.com/world/video/2014/jul/23/sick-chicken-need-to-know-video
The video made me gag. I recall how my mother responded to any dirt she ever came across; she would have actually fainted at some of these photos. Certainly we would never have been allowed to eat chicken again, though she would probably cook chops for Dad if he insisted - I have visions of her wearing a radiation suit, cordoning off the kitchen prior to making his supper then spending the rest of the night scrubbing the house down.
Who would feed their kids diseased meat? Oh but we don't want to know. Everyone wants cheap chicken so the processing lines mustn't stop; and who profits? Naturally our government won't intercede, because the market looks after itself, same way it did in the banking crisis. Governments don't tell money what to do, money tells governments what to do. Or at least money tells our government what to do, and our government obeys every time.
Meanwhile the blank cruelty of intensive farming sustains us while we live in fantasy TV worlds of sport and drama and war by proxy. I love story. There are several reasons why I have experienced a recent inability to write anything that pleases me; One may be a slight resistance to creating yet another world-hiding mirage. May be that is why I like my current poetry. It may have faults, but it is a different angle on the world I see, as opposed to my prose writing which is all about escape.
I can't help really; can't help the many who blankly stuff their faces only to be sick hours later and never wander why. You can tell someone not to eat shit, but if they do it anyway, best leave before they try to kiss you.
Meanwhile, last night, I saw a fox cub come tumbling through the nettles, enjoying the night breeze. The rose broken by our clumsy if well meaning handyman has developed the most gorgeously scented flower, and the summer nights are incomparable. I am not going to be stupid, or cruel, if I can help it and I am not going back to sleep. Instead I shall refer to another wise Frenchman:
'Excellently observed,' answered Candide, ' But we must cultivate our garden.'
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