I see, as in I understand, said the JD, I see.
Thousand and yet one, formless yet distinct, out of the mists of conflict she came. Rising from the cold surf of the eastern Atlantic shores, bathed in the melt waters of the Pyrenees, the Alps and dipped, unceremoniously, in the Baltic shallows, up into the northern latitudes of dusk. Stretching its back, stiff with the burden of old conflicts, it raised its many starred flag about the northern Mediterranean coast and stone raft of the Iberian Peninsula.
Designed by committee, like the camel, and riddled with frailty, the democratic enclaves wrestled with their conscience and each other.
Shapeless in shape, morphing and tumbling, until its constituents have ceased their grumbling. Democratic in nature, slow to anger, slow to decide, just generally slow, the machinations and decision-making processes are glacial but arrive by consent and arguments etc.
She, the goddess Europa, using a handy bull for transport, washing her hair in the Danube, the Loire, the Vistula, the Tagus. Blow drying hair in the winds that trouble the Carpathians, the Pyrenees and the Pindus. Europa clothed herself from the endless Tiga Forests of Lapland, through the Black forest and the Vercors Massif
In mist clothed, in forest to lay down, in summer to harvest, in winter to chill. Frowned upon, strong and weak, the greatest in potential, the weakest in action decided.
Here she comes, a bull for transport, nothing to do with Zeus, she doesn’t even like him, much. Feet in the olive groves, the vineyards, the polytunnels. Livestock adrift on small seas of grass, the farmer and the industrialists in the same room toasting, Sante, Cheers, Prost or Na zdrowie. Drinks all around, drinks on me, the dark beer and the wines so sure, the olive oil and the chocolate.
Will she rise? Will she define? Will she expand and gather her children in school halls and tell the tale. Old enemies, old friends, a square place in a round world, exceeding all expectation, Salut to you and you and you. Place your investment, cheer her on, she is our only champion and deliverer.
Grand old dukes are gone, and kings and queens are safely lodged in scrap books of memories away, from the reins of power which they left loose on the horse when the crowd pulled them down, now taken up in all to undivide and compromise, to wrangle in the night parliament until the cows come home. Where have they been? Out all night at the disco clubbing place, with blue plastic drinks and flashing decoration to dull the senses.
Europa, a continent, not a continent, what is a continent, played in the surf of seas and walked along the steeps of wild grass where the mounds of burial played havoc with the ploughing and trench art.
There she goes, there she goes again, bucking the winds of commerce, spilling wine on the tablecloth of the multinationals, spilling the beans on lies.
Don’t get me wrong, imperfection is her middle name, wrestling with the dissatisfaction and inhibitions, arguing her away out of a tight corner, lifting the corner of the dust sheet and whipping away the covering of the vintage system.
There she goes, talking to herself all the time, prattling on about the price of freedom, petrol, chic peas, and pizza bases. Standing tall in trade talks, rhyming slang, ancient tales of magic beans which permeate the soil and climb into our children’s bedtime stories. Singing songs to make you cry of Joy and Sadness. There she goes, multiplying her shadow, a day goes by, a night, a millennium.
Above all, above and beyond, she tries to be rational. One foot in front of the other, one and one makes two, two and two makes for a better outcome. One thought leads to the next, evidence based, science and technology. Emotion, fine but keep it to yourself, let logic rule us, let knowing be known. Neither driven by anger nor desire.
She cannot be, she is never entirely, but she tries and tries, listening all the while. Containing still yet the remnants of insane religions and nationalism soaked in the red stuff, scratch the skin and ruffle the feathers, it soon shows its rusted metal detection, but held in check, balanced out and held in place by rationalism. Will she last, remain in good health, provide the best of the rest for her citizens, who knows. But now, in this time of, she is the only game in town worth its salty crisps in a bowl.
