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| sometimes it seems
as if all of heavy history's weight
is placed upon the shoulders of knowledge.
| | |
| for the curious:
"it's summertime and the living is easy."
sweeping kansas summer sky and all existence feels itself flying on the
very wings of the wind. brilliantly booming lightning storms a week or
a day away; breezes lightly rustling the lengths of a few dresses bring
not a scent of rain. an evening ripe to capture the raw power of
man-made electricity.
"there's something happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear..."
ponder how to capture what escapes boundaries of sound and space with
mere words. mind soaked and seeping of fresh knowledge, at first there
is only a reeling, ringing dizziness. the senses are stunned at
absolute freedom in thought; distractions no longer more than a
nuisance. nothing deemed worthy of detracting from a pure and renewed
state of mind.
...
the lines fill, brim with eager anticipation and wait to spill into a
single space. cool people and calm exteriors do not betray beating--no,
bursting--hearts holding hidden treasures. one step closer to security;
don't let it get to you, man. they only want to hold a nazi party. let
them play their game. not everyone is blessed with the will to follow a
spark towards conscious awareness. humour their reality a short while.
dancing steps into a concrete concert hall constructed to withstand an
F5, surely not built for acoustics, but from its center come the sounds
of musical perfection: well-thought, well-played intelligent music. the
band kinski must be the four lead members of some sort of kick-ass
electric orchestra. (a definite add to my pandora. and projectplaylist.
and life soundtrack.) rock on sister, your bow-work is so goddamn
intriguing. slow friends are missing out on this phenomenon; most are
seated, eyes fixated. the floor is quiet, relatively--heads trained on
the indefinably operatic opener.
"i get by with a little help from my friends."
trembling at this point. mind racing in time with blood's beat. a trek
for water to murder time through the set change. friends finally in tow
and negotiated good seats. now they want drinks. Schnell! Schnell! slow
docile sheeple crowd themselves around the scattered meccas of
consumerism. pause unwillingly in line, wondering at how united
meditation with environment is achieved with a greasy pizza held
mid-way to mouth. sicken a little that couples can't stifle the need to
spend on twin sets of t-shirts (cheaper online. oh well, let the posers
pay for that expensive-looking light show. an exception here for new
wardrobe staples purchased way prior to stage time; oh yeah, and kinski
schwag.)
don't you understand what we're trying to make happen here?! if you're
lost, kindly step out of the way for others with knowledge of the path.
please, it's time to fucking hurry.
"lend me your ears..."
introspection is a dangerous thing. it twists and turns, not completely
conscious and thus uncontrolled. deep meditative exercise is necessary
daily, and still distractions force the unconscious into the mind's
deep corners. all around there are signs of people feeding a personal
I, Me, My schema. where's that fat security bitch on a power trip?
ponder that some just stand there, sullen sodden stones. these are
songs of revolution! patriots should be stomping out the rhythms of
songs for the good fight. ambivalence and avoidant-agression in the few
of this multitude infringe on attempts at a collective carpe diem.
certain herbaceous plantlife has calming, restorative effects. nearly
two songs in, and this is no time to worry about drones. is this an
imagined lag? sounds hit the ears twice and lock into a new
synchronity. someone's not singing these melodies correctly; drunk
mumbling muffles the impact of a vocalist eager to play. schism helps
establish a basic level of communication as the screens slowly come to
life. knowledge from previous experience prepares for rosetta
stoned--just look and listen. silently lips form words; important bursts
of sound tear forth at gripping verse. the crowd can no longer compete
with the men molding both music and moment.
anticipation for right in two turns to disbelief at its actualization.
defying limits of beauty and wisdom; simple in its truth. a skilled
mind and hands wield the drums that strike power into this mantra while
a twirling ouroboros graces the screens ... wings/tenthousanddays
unspeakably truthful, and yet still some refuse even an ounce of
reverence. laser lights guide the inner eye to focus; sympathy turns to
empathy for those willing to explore their own hearts: a shared
pounding at the gate of heaven for all inspiring figures gone before.
(a tear perhaps, or two, for a personal hero's passing.)
"feel inspired to, fathom the power to, witness the beauty to..."
the familiar virtuousic opening notes of lateralus energize active
participants in this consciousness-experiment; pushing towards
awareness, all are caught up and lifted with the sheer force of sound
in this attempt to spiral out. eyes riveted by the scene, mind opens
wide ...
"pull your head on out your head, please, and give a listen."
vicarious may truly rival all other attempts at visual impact. white
noise and green laser lights enclose the stage; justin and adam stare
out as if caged. the band a visual parody of themselves--idolized,
pedastalized entertainers calling the fans out on their bullshit: a
life vicarious and falsely lived. a song not without hope: the
information imparted forces a meaningful impetus to action for
reflective listeners.
"some say the end is near..."
a single expectant shout from seating--aenima!; an immediate
reply--f-a-n-tastic. (could he have heard ... me?) nothing more pertinent
now than this farseeing, decade-old song; the world cannot abide this
life of illness longer. fret for warming trends, fret for carbon
emissions, fret for violent consumption and violent storms, fret for
careless ambivalence, fret for all this trash, fret for recylables
discarded thoughtlessly in the grass. | | |
| ah, i remember the golden days... | | |
| Alice Walker, "Once" (1968)
I
Green lawn
a picket fence
flowers--
My friend smiles
she had heard
that Southern
jails
were drab.
Looking up I see
a strong arm
raised
the Law
Someone in America
is being
protected
(from me.)
In the morning
there was
a man in grey
but the sky
was blue.
II
"Look at that
nigger with those
white foks!"
My dark
Arrogant friend
turns calmly, curiously
helpfully,
"Where?" he
asks.
It was the fifth
arrest
In as many
days
How glad I am
that I can
look
surprised
still.
III
Running down
Atlanta
streets
With my sign
I see heads
turn
Eyes
goggle
"a nice girl
like her!"
A Negro cook
assures
her mistress--
But I had seen
the fingers
near her eyes
wet with
tears.
IV
One day in
Georgia
Working around
the Negro section
My friend got a
letter
in
the mail
--the letter
said
"I hope you're
having a good
time
fucking all
the niggers."
"Sweet," I winced.
"Who
wrote it?"
"mother."
she
said.
That day she sat
a long time
a little black girl
in pigtails
on her lap
Her eyes were very
Quiet.
She used to tell the big colored ladies
her light eyes just
the same
"I am alone
my mother died."
Though no other
letter
came.
V
It is true--
I've always loved
the daring
ones
Like the black young
man
Who tried
to crash
All barriers
at once,
wanted to
swim
At a white
beach (in Alabama)
Nude.
VI
Peter always
thought
the only
way to
"enlighten"
southern towns
was to
introduce
himself
to
the county
sheriff
first thing.
Another thing
Peter wanted--
was to be
cremated
but we
couldn't
find him
when he needed it.
But he was just a yid
seventeen.
VII
I
never liked
white folks
really
it
happened quite
suddenly
one
day
A pair of
amber
eyes
I
think
he
had.
VIII
I don't think
integration
entered
into it
officer
You see
there was
this little
Negro
girl
Standing here
alone
and her
mother
went into
that store
there
then--
there came by
this little boy
here
without his
mother
& eating
an
ice cream cone
--see there it is--
strawberry
Anyhow
and the little
girl was
hungry
and
stronger
than
the little
boy--
Who is too
fat
really,
anyway.
IX
Someone said
to
me.
that
if
the South
rises
again
it will do so
"from
the grave."
Someone
else said
if the South
rises
again
he would
step on
it."
Dick Gregory
said that
if the
South
rises
again
there is
a
secret
plan.
But I say--
if the
South
rises
again
It will not
do
so
in my presence.
X
"but I don'
really
give a fuck
Who
my daughter
marries--"
the lady
was
adorable--
it was in a
tavern
i remember
her daughter
sat there
beside her
tugging
at
her arm
sixteen--
very shy
and
very pim
pled.
XI
Then there
Was the charming
half-wit
who told
the judge
re: indecent exposure
"but when I
step out
of the
tub
I look
Good--
just because
my skin
is black
don't mean
it ain't
pretty
you old bastard!)
what will we
finally do
with
prejudice
some people like
to take a walk
after a bath.
XII
"look, honey"
said
the
blond
amply
boobed
babe
in the
green
g
string
"i like you
sure
i ain't
prejudiced
but the
lord didn't
give me
legs
like these
because
he
wanted
to see'm
dangling
from a
poplar!"
"But they're so
much
prettier
than mine.
Would you really mind?"
he asked
wanting her to dance.
XIII
I remember
seeing
a little girl,
dreaming--perhaps,
hit by
a
van truck
"That nigger was
in the way!" the
man
said
to
understanding cops.
But was she?
She was
just eight
her mother
said
and little
for
her age.
XIV
then there was
the
picture of
the
bleak-eyed
little black
girl
waving the
american
flag
holding it
gingerly
with
the very
tips
of her
fingers.
| | |
| in one hour of fox (at least what i could stand), i heard:
a republican strategist give cynical "props" to the new york times
and
ann coulter claim that the word "faggot" has nothing to do with sexual identity...it's just a "sophomoric" school yard taunt. she's pro-gay, didn't you know, just anti-gay marriage. "along with all blacks, i don't know why all gays aren't republican."
....oh, you crazy bitch--claiming all knowledge when you hold none.
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