By Gail Ingram, New Zealand
And Christmas is coming, your friends are coming for dinner, there’s shopping to be done for a group, for a planet. How to feel, apart from general unease, I mean how to feel empathy? Am I capable of suffering? Nobody knows what it means to die. Or is it a fault of mine to curb? Another one, how I always fly straight to the end. Too big to comprehend, we laugh at the loss of life on a global scale. On route we might feel pain – is this bad? the shifting of seasons and Antarctica a tropical forest, 36-degree water around the equator, the lilies grow. The last time we had this much carbon the sea was as hot as our spa. And still the ocean is warming. I’m looking for a scream. I’m swooping and sweeping for questions, but why? The Goldilocks theory comes to mind – how our planet spins but not metaphorically, I don’t know enough about the world to tell you where I’m going with this. I know it’s lime and yellow-frayed – the winter rose, and the machinery grumbles next door, the blackbird swoops and Christmas is upon us, there are routines. As I drive home from the groceries these things I hear on National radio about the UN, Myanmar. If there wasn’t such a thing as genocide, if the president cared about his people. Look here. The red geranium flies from my mouth.