i tried to write a letter to the editor of the sun times, and r. said don't send it, and i say thanks for saving me from an act of folly. i was not an activist. i just did not assimilate well. here is where i'm active most, when i'm not out there. 
when i was on the trail in bobolinkless meadow with the head bird pat talking about the advent of obomba to this place he never knew and never will, a place he'll control in absentia, and tower over in space, i noticed with the part of me that is connected to the life of this place containing my heart and my dog, that my dog was pooping some twenty yards behind. i thought, that is the genius of place, it is connection, not plans, nor towers, nor monumental men, it's the quiet connection, of roots, the air, love, that the monumental man cannot control. that's the activism i can appreciate, and can't send to the editor. it only makes sense to the ones who feel it too, the ones who know. 

and i gave up, and i realized, that's the kind of activist i am. i give up, and carry on.