I simply can’t remember it the way everyone else seems to. Other accounts I have heard talk of the violence, the presence, our “desperation”. Many words from mouths of participants – struggle, attaque, triomphe, – make me think I must have been elsewhere. I see myself more as at a party, a rock concert, you know? It is loud, people pushing about. I see a woman at intervals; I make eyes of the revolution at her. I convince myself at lust in her glance, but really I doubt that I can be made visible from the fifty, sixty, three hundred other women and men at the roadside.
People now say, ‘Oh to have been there’, but I do not say anything. I know that I was there, my feet were on the ground non? But the nature of “l’experience”? I know nothing more about that than my feet were tired and the ground covered with rocks. ‘Those guys really showed them’ is what some people, looking backward, say. But I always ask ‘Yes? What did we show, and to who?’ You know? That gets me the bad look, sometimes the curled lip. Sometimes even the punch.
I don’t mind, it all feels the same to me. You get angry, you get loud, you hit or be hit, you calm down and it goes away. Of course, you are back where you started.
It is all the same trial. Napoléon in Russia 1812; the Sex Pistols in Club De Chalet Du Lac in September ’76; our battles. Where is the difference? Boom or bust: revolution as economy, non?
Forget it, I sound like a fifteen year old. I am too tired to try anymore. I dream to remain static, you know? Ah, screw you, screw me; is all the same.
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