I wonder how I ended up here and why.
Sometimes I climb up the top of the barricades where the bungee catapults are. I listen to crazy poets recite freedom poems. I watch mums with tea pots of hot tea and plates of hot cookies trying to woo the riot police who stand in rigid black lines with steel shields overlapping as if a medieval shield wall. They do not acknowledge the gestures which are of course mostly being staged for TV and Youtube audiences. Buddhist priests alternate with Catholic priests who hold crosses though Zendula is not a big Christian bastion. They are forming symbolic human shields. I resist waving toward the Gaol where almost all of the Logan Party is locked up in sanitary cells with bright lights and clean water. Are they watching from their cell windows? What are they thinking? Then I jump down and wade through snow, slush, ice, and mud to survey the camp. Wooden plywood is covered a lot of the walkways now. Electric lights are stung on poles. There are sign poles. The Falconer Statue is all but completely covered by flowers and placards. I wonder how I ended up here and why.
