Exit 228 of Highway 20. Saint-Louis-de-Blandford. A tree in the box of my truck. A Tim, a convenience store and an A&W. A stop like many others. With one difference.
The snow has completely melted this week. Plowing has reappeared in the fields. A bit like Smurfette Donald Trump (am I the only one who thinks he looks like him)? If so, it’s the fourth glass of wine’s fault! And here we go again for another round of neuroses about American politics. We may be going to have our balls broken by the media every day for five more years: the consequence of a world so crooked that we will have re-elected a vile and petty guy for a second term. Is it a revelation if Trump returns? Could it be worse? The wars (around ten active armed conflicts, including Ukraine, Somalia, Gaza… speaking of Bethlehem and a story of a star), the rise of despotism, of the right. Closer to home, strikes, education, the health network. We were almost fine during the pandemic (hey, hey…).
And the Wise Men of central banks, the COP and governments know that the best is yet to come. The state of a planet that despairs and a human nature that sometimes (too often) makes one roll one’s eyes. This text will end well, we stand on the handrail and move towards the exit.
The season has been mild so far. It will have been a week catching up on what was forgotten in the fall: clearing brush, sharpening tools, tidying up hoses, sealing field mouse holes, bringing in wood, maintaining gas machines (fossil fuels are there to well, we learned from a Canadian Minister of the Environment recently), finish planting garlic, even in December. And do these worries before the obsession with balance sheets. Because we’re going to have our eyes and ears rinsed with the end-of-year reviews before long. It seems so important, these cycles. And yet.
It was gray and snowy on the 20. A dark and sad December day. Trucks as far as the eye can see on the highway with men behind the wheel; like Santa’s sleighs overflowing with gifts. On the radio news, more and more killjoy news between a few seasonal songs. It can’t always go wrong, we end up telling ourselves. A good providence will certainly guide us towards better things.
It is said that kings once followed a star in the sky. Full of promise, they said. I also sometimes look for it. It would be fun if she had an address; we could enter it into the GPS and follow the directions.
I took exit 228, drawn by some kind of magic (I smell these things, and I was hungry). When I entered this stop, I was granted: there is a long steel panel on the wall, with sentences engraved, I had never noticed it. I read.
Sitting at a table, in front of a burger and a Root Beer, I smiled. Strangely crossed by desires and romantic desires. They say that to piss off Destiny and feel alive, sometimes you can love. Literally as well as figuratively. With body and soul. Ideally both at the same time, but we won’t discriminate here, it’s your “call”.
On the way out, I stood again in front of the steel plate where we find the words of Serge Bouchard: “They are chasing a star that they will never reach” (excerpt from one of his books). It’s in a rest stop almost in the middle of nowhere, I remind you. How light is possible. Thanks to the architects for making room for this glow. We could take more, please. Sometimes metaphors tell reality better than reality itself. We have been sorely lacking stars to guide us for some time. Artificial lights have limits.
What if, collectively, we had failed by following the wrong star? The question needs to be asked. I look at the star snowflake on the top from my tree and I smile again.
This Thursday will be the winter solstice. This means that the days will start to get longer again. We cling to what floats.
Happy Holidays, I wish you to receive and give hugs, kisses, excess food and alcohol, a truce in grievances, bitching and indignation, time to catch your breath, and more ‘instinct only promises. A door frame and a branch of mistletoe for feelings without bullshit. We sometimes consent to magic out of desire. See you in January.