A Saturday

I love to sleep in on the weekend, but on the morning of the 22nd, I rose early in order to be at Ron Robinson Theater when doors opened just in case the line was long to see the Oscar-winning documentary No Other Land, which no US distributor will touch. Little Rock Peace for Palestine and a professor at UALR helped bring it here for a free screening. So I layered an agave-colored linen sundress over a long-sleeved cotton top and grey and black leggings with a floral print and wrapped a solidarity keffiyeh loosely around my neck before slipping on robin's egg blue Mary Janes. The whole outfit was meant to allow me to doff layers through the day as it warmed up.

The film was moving. It left me feeling motivated to research how to be a conscientious objector to war tax. Do I have the courage to risk imprisonment? And who said "no taxation without representation?" We the people certainly are not represented by either party; they both serve the oligarchy, the corporations, lobbies, AIPAC, the military industrial complex, their purchasers, their owners. If they cared about the people, 70% of whom want universal healthcare, we could get that. Don't get me started. I'll rant all night and be late for bed.

The man who helped bring the film to our city gave a very short introduction to it and invited us all to join in a march afterward. I was glad to have brought my water bottle and a snack. I will have to find out his name.

The film was well-attended considering it was 9:30 a.m. on a weekend. These are my people--people who will rise early on a Saturday to show support for a free Palestine. It feels very good to have made room in my life for a Saturday like today. I wonder who else might be my people? Central Arkansas Democratic Socialists of America? Check.

After we chanted and followed our megaphone wielding leader with her watermelon kippah into the farmers' market space overlooking the river for inspiring speeches punctuated by a bass drum, tambourine,  and a djembe, I made my way into the River Market and over to my favorite stall, Middle Eastern Cuisine, where my friend whose name I've now forgotten after a year and a half stationed out near the port authority remembered that I always ask for the same thing: a lunch with no meat. She gives me two little bite-sized pieces of baklava for free and two more for my mother at home. That was our ritual; she remembered.

In the afternoon I visited my recuperating boyfriend; he's almost over a very bad cold or case of flu made milder by the fact that he was vaccinated. Coming into his house and being surrounded by all the clutter no longer triggers me. His garage is an obstacle course, but I can follow him in there to pass new lightbulbs to him as he stands on a step ladder.

We lazed on the bed a while exchanging stories and narrations of recent dreams, then I ventured through a layer of last fall's leaves down, down to the bottom of his deeply sloped woodland backyard to the Muskoka (Adirondack) chair that sits as if planted at the base of a very tall pine tree. I had brought my library book just for this--to enjoy sitting there in my favorite type of outdoor chair, shoes kicked off and bare feet pulled up almost under me.