Yes, that thorny (cactusy, even) subject of legacy, you have brought that up before relative to misunderstanding with ‘him indoors’, and a certain kinship it might share with dreaded ‘beliefs’. The uncertainty of the structures that support them do seem to have become very stuttering. Maybe that becomes more obvious, even, in those suburbs you describe as, perhaps, supplying the best of two possible worlds, that space where the over-wrought tilled field meets the motorway to London. I guess that the reason why I couldn’t manage to accommodate that crossover point is that I have never driven, and never will. Pottering on my balcony I recognize the attractions of the verdant garden, that noble piece of land, that artfully under-cultivated border that might provide a waxed landing strip for passing flora and fauna, or the occasional Monsanto blow-in. I saw a shelf full of ‘Round-Up’ in our local garden centre a few days ago, and I was, verily, shocked. I have seen the documentaries and have looked at the lawsuits, generated by that singularly monstrous idea; an idea that has allowed the patenting of a (manipulated) living organism, that legacy, that sin. To find it on the shelves in this, supposed, bastion of Socialism, and proud generator of the first ‘Stock Exchange’, speaks volumes about bleed-through and trickle down. Trickle down the wind, indeed. If one errant corn, or maize, kernel crosses border from one farm to the next, and that virus gets mixed in with next season’s seed, then there is the danger that all the seed, thus contaminated, might fall subject to having to be defended by a cadre of, blindingly expensive, lawyers, as to ownership. It’s a thorny subject, this idea of patented life, this other legacy which might be achieving pre-dominance. There has to be a Pfaster way to undo ourselves, an exploitable, Teflon coated, escape route. I am with you there. One cannot help but feel the draught, loitering at this here exit.
It is a horrible ‘Legacy’ to be leaving. I wonder what ‘youth’ will make of that one, when they have sorted out their pronouns, and the conundrum as to which statues should fall, and, probably more tellingly, which should take their place. Iconoclasm would seem to be evincing its cyclical nature, yet again.
So that idea of “sorting out one’s (own) mess” becomes somewhat pressing, especially relative to other viruses. We might have been, collectively, pushed up against this anyway. We can ignore it; pretend it’s not happening and apply for a vaccine passport so we can enjoy contagion spreading on the sunny beaches of Portugal, or whichever sandy destination might temporarily turn green. But then the other man’s sand is always greener, even when it’s starting to develop an orange, Martian-like, hue. We can, alternatively, lock-down permanently, and turn into the Abelard and Heloise of the Anchorage Community. I find myself returning to that 'Hold'. I like the idea of us being, re-born, Virgin Snipers.
No, thankfully, legacy is not controllable. To try to do so would be a denial of what is to come. Death, thankfully, takes it out of your control, and it has to be put down in the knowledge that it can, or can not, be disposed of, according to the whims of time and fashion. It can as easily go in the (post-partum) skip, or to the pecuniary, hallowed, halls of Sotheby’s, or simply flip-flop between the dump and the gallery. I am not at all sure which would be better. That jury is currently out, and also none of my concern.
Perhaps they are the same, that skip, or dumpster, and that hallowed hall, eventually.