Why Vers Paris?

It's simple. No, I lied, it's fairly complex. Let me say up front that I don't speak French; sorry. -Had a friend translate the title of the blog from English. So why a French name for an American working-class blog? Lots of reasons, now that I reflect a bit.

Vers Paris, (Towards Paris), because it was the direction taken by one of the most famous peasant uprisings of the European Middle Ages, the Jacquerie. It was notable not because it succeeded (it didn't), but because it had no initial leaders, no plot, no planning; it was simply an expression of white-hot peasant rage. This after the ruling classes had broken their age-old promise to protect them, and after they had imposed crippling taxes. It was also a notable uprising for one very important reason: it left a scar on Europe's ruling classes that lasted for centuries.

Vers Paris, because in modern times, the French have a socialized medical system that works, and that they like, for the most part. A system that might actually be the best overall on the planet.

Vers Paris, because they care enough about their language to keep adding words to it. -As opposed to here, where we just can't seem to shrink our vocabulary down to a string of vapid acronyms fast enough.

Vers Paris, because I always wanted to see it with my own eyes. Because I love Art Nouveau, and want to see it in it's native habitat.

Vers Paris, for my first ancestor on this continent, a young man called William, a recent arrival from France, who fought in the Battle of Concord. He got lucky, unlike the men to either side of him.

Vers Paris, because it always seems to draw the most highly civilized, and the barbarians, as well. The earliest universities, but vikings, also. Later, jazz musicians, and Nazis. Scientists, and Jihadists. The very first industrial revolution, but then again, the Plague. It would seem to remain a lodestone for defining the times, even now.

Vers Paris, after a conversation with the poet Dawn Saylor, who told me about her trip there. -About feeling the weight of history everywhere, like a solid presence; about being moved spontaneously to tears as the beautiful singing of nuns filled one of the ancient cathedrals.

Towards Paris, because I still yearn to fall into the sweet depth of centuries.

Of course, this could all just be in my head, like religion. Putting all this on a city I've never even experienced. Assuming that all the history I've read about it is close to accurate, and not coloured by some OTHER person's sloppy-brain-chemistry demons. I hear it's another big, smelly city. So maybe this is my take, entirely. Maybe this is an idealized Paris floating on the edge of my imagination, somewhere where reason and intellect are still valued beyond their ability to make money, somewhere that cares enough about itself to rebuild even from the ashes. A city with a very long memory, and a love of art. A city that finds ignorance repellent, and that might just have in it, yet another world-changing revolution of thought, or technology. A city that has pulled itself up by its bootstraps so many times, that it does it as naturally as breathing. So, yeah, this is probably just my dream of Paris, and I'm sure it has nothing to do with renewing the land of my birth, right here and now. Still, I'd rather move towards it.

Exhaustion is not the same thing as Liberty

The image below this blog's title is of the former site of about 5000 jobs, here in my hometown. That mangled mailbox used to serve one of the factories. The address, to me, says it all. 222 Liberty Avenue, presently that patch of weeds and cracked pavement stretching away between the mud puddles. You'd almost think that something's been lost, here. I took these photos, and stitched them together as best I could, because there's something about Liberty spelled out in still-shiny letters, on a bed of battered rust, that seems iconic to me, for this state; for too much of the country. See, without good jobs, Liberty is just a word on a mailbox, just a shiny memory on a fading ground. It's no mistake that sailors still call their time off-duty "liberty". I expect that anyone who has felt the constraints of lousy jobs clawing at their free time, more and more over the years, knows exactly what I'm talking about. I'll come back to Liberty; maybe until you're sick of it, some other time. I had planned to cover other issues in this first post, but it's late, I have to work in the morning, and we can get to other questions, like the name and purpose of this blog, in future. But I figured I had to get it up and running, even if it had to stagger onto the Net, still half-asleep. Appropriate for a working-class blog, I think. Good Night!