There are wild things afoot tonight, under the spread of cosmic constellations crocheted into meaning by mundane minds. There is political babble of black men and white women and who can be less politics as usual. People plot plunder and wars (Iran? hello?), squabbling on our earthship that is indifferent and dying because of our audacious bustling. We're reaching for oil and peace and celebrity gossip all at the same time, how big is our hand? The underground great frothing river of status quo takes almost no notice but rolls and rushes on with inevitable inertia and our simultaneous rage and complacency. Our culture can't be jammed - it's a monolith and a megaladon, with an inscrutable gearbox that stretches in five dimensions that will compost us if we throw ourselves in.
In an election year, we hear so much blaming. We hear the talking heads tell us again that we won't see a dirty election, we won't see mudslinging, we won't see character assassinations. Then each year it creeps in, so soon after these promises that it's almost unbelievable. This process gnaws at us, undermines our hopes, leaves us dejectedly scraping old bumper stickers off while vainly hoping for a new witty one to ease the pain. I want to believe, too - I swear that I do. I know you may not believe it, but I do so much. In light of the patterns from time immemorial, though, I say throw the TV out the window and take matters into your own hands. We can all join the Monkeywrench Gang and shake up our little snowglobes of existence, shakedown the people who want to be in positions of power, and shake off the blues of a world that was handed to us without our consent. Take up your chainsaw and cut down the billboards that spoil the expanse of red rock desert. Find out for yourself which way the wind blows. I hear more people say that want to make art and find soul mates and let go of fear and eat healthy and take the power back. We know the ability is within us, sometimes dancing through our eyes and heart as we offer an act of kindness, sometimes slumbering like an ill-defined giant that can swiftly and graciously liberate us if only we knew the charm to awaken it.
Plant fruit trees and watch them grow. Finally awaken to the fact that we (you and I) are running out of clean water and access to it (plans exist to drain the Great Lakes... sigh). Call an old friend and invite them to dinner. Clean off the bike and ride it - it's cheaper. Transcend the fear (a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid) that we carry from past experiences which very likely have no bearing on our present reality. Start a block party and paint an intersection - if you've never seen the ones in Portland, they are sweet. Make 'health conscious' a good word instead of a dirty word like 'plain rice cake.' Walk in the woods - that's all you have to do. Just take a breather from the people on The Boob Tube and The Paper telling you what's important and listen to your own voice. You can trust me (in spite of my now being 30 years old) that if what They say is important is actually so important as to merit lots of your attention, it will still be there when you get back from your vacation to your own liberation.
I've got no answers, just fatigue from the blue light of the television cast faintly on the opposite wall in the dark. I'm waking to see all you beautiful people out there reaching and trying. It's the sight of a field of poppies to someone who has just turned on her rods and cones. It's me pushing beyond foolish consistencies. It's you keeping your promise that you made to yourself. It's the hypothetical beautiful shockwave of everyone in America buying nothing for one day. It's these endless arrangements of type, combined into words and loosely assembled to try to express where I'm at. Guided by a north star, it's all of us in the boat on still water, glad to be together in the unfamiliar, expansive twilight as we seek out a place to wait for sunrise. It's our big chance, each morning that we get up and look out the window and see that the revolution is still saving a seat for us on the bus.
