Back in January we briefly mentioned a bizarre place in France. Or actually, bizarre: a place that illustrates how we—as humanity—how we… Oh well:
Here’s a river. On one side: nature, slowly shaped over centuries into a singular landscape. Flowers, bushes, insects, birds of prey—life emerging, fading, finding its rhythm. A place to wade through gently. A place to stop. To look up, down, around. It’s old. Lush. Alive. Let’s linger here a while. (Don’t read on)
The other side: quite the opposite. Shiny steel. Barrels tall as 1980s high-rise flats. Trucks beeping in reverse. Sharp smells. Security cards to open doors with. Logos. The ground is made out of concrete.
Now, one of the river’s neighbors is causing a nuisance. We won’t say which.
That party makes noise, leaks acidic substances into the water, and sprays grey clouds into the air.
(How odd, really – side-note: How is it that if everything originates in nature—everything—we still manage to create chemicals so alien in structure that nature doesn’t recognize them? No bacteria, no insect comes to break them down; they just hang around.
Anyone who can explain? -> annefs@protonmail.com)
Anyway, this month, Rita is heading to Le Citron Jaune to work on LAND. She will speak with people who live in this dual-zone by the river. How did us humans become used to the presence of petrochemical giants? Do we, does the life around us, actually benefit from these polluting mega-units?