GumptionFest is back.
Recipe:
1) Do art.
2) Do it for free.
3) Do it for your community.
4) Do it for your artists, your comrades-in-arms.
5) Pick a date.
6) Tell your friends.
7) Tell your friends to tell their friends.
8) Tell your friends to tell their friends any help and donations-in-kind to promote it would be appreciated.
9) Invite artists to participate. Tell them that they're not getting paid.
10) Invite the community. Tell them there's no admission.
11) Promote the mother-fucking hell out of it with every resource you have from start until the day of the festival.
12) Stir for one day.
13) Sit back when all said and done and marvel at how it all happened.
14) Do it again next year.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
GumptionFest returns, bigger and bolder
Photo courtesy of Shane DeLong, photo illustration by Christopher Fox GrahamGumptionFest returns, bigger and bolder
©LARSON NEWSPAPERS
______________________________
The second annual arts festival is gearing up for the main event on Saturday, June 2, with a series of smaller events around Sedona in March, April and May. The festival organizers have begun the search for artists, sponsors, vendors and volunteers.
Last year's GumptionFest was a grassroots, street festival effort bankrolled on a shoestring budget. The goal was to provide a one-day experience showcasing the best of the amateur, young, underground and under-the-radar artists that call the Verde Valley home.
It was a risky experiment in community involvement. No artists were paid to appear, they were asked simply to show up and share.
What the festival promoters proposed seemed a monumental task ripe for utter chaos: simultaneously operate five venues along a busy West Sedona streets, have more than 100 artists, 40 bands and 40 solo musicians perform from noon to 2 a.m. — and do it for free.
Would the artists and bands have the gumption to put themselves on the line?
More importantly, would there be a crowd?
Artists donated their time, local business owners donated their goods and venues and more than 1,200 Sedona residents and visitors packed the event.
"Oak Creek Brewery has supported all sort of artistic endeavors in the 12 years we've been here," said Fred Kraus, owner of the brewery. "So when GumptionFest came along, we jumped at providing a space.
"It married together people from the community and local artists," Kraus said. "A lot of entry-level musicians who were doing their thing at home to more well-known folks."
The goal of the second annual GumptionFest, according to Executive Director Dylan Jung, is to capitalize on the buzz produced from last year's event to bring in more artists, participants, spectators, and area businesses to celebrate Sedona's art community.
"We're trying to establish GumptionFest as an entity for years to come, to put on events around town in partnership with local venues, other arts organizations and the Sedona Cultural Park, which should be up and running again in the next few years," Jung said.
To prepare both the artists and the community, there will be a series of smaller events with organizations such as the Sedona Arts Center and local venues, such as The Well Red Coyote bookstore.
The goal is to help build the "artistic support system" that underlined the purpose of the inaugural event.
Education events will also be added to the festival, such as dance classes at Light Vibe Dance Studio, yoga classes at Devi Yoga, lectures on art topics from students at Northern Arizona University.
Films this year will include students from the Zaki Gordon Institute for Independent Filmmaking, who screened more than a dozen short films last year. The festival organizers also hope to work with the Sedona International Film Festival & Workshop and No Festival Required, from Phoenix, which draws student and short films from around the country.
The film-screening portion of the festival will also include a wine tasting from local wineries paired with cheeses from New Frontiers Natural Marketplace.
The Well Red Coyote will also invite local authors for booksignings, according to owner Joe Neri.
Bands already booked range from solo guitarists like Richard Salem and Keith Martini, to Sedona bands such as Yin Yang & Zen Some, the Tarantulas and the Doodles and regional bands like Carnuba, from Prescott, and Showbot, a comedic band from Flagstaff.
One of last year's unforeseen complications was coordinating 80 musical groups between the stages at Oak Creek Brewery, Creative Flooring and Devi Yoga.
The remedy, according to Jung, is that other venues around Sedona that couldn't participate on the day of the festival due to their locations will have supporting performances leading up to GumptionFest culminating in slew of performances on the night of Friday, June 1.
Painters, sculptors, visual artists and photographers will have art on display, some of which will be for sale through a silent auction.
The festival promoters will also be encouraging schools to participate, from a class painting a mural for display at the festival, to teachers encouraging individual students to exhibit their work, according to Jung.
"We want to get more of the youth involved," he said.
There will be a number of other performance events, ranging from modern dance, stand-up comedy, improv, belly dancing, theatre, fire dancing and a performance poetry reading open to the public.
However, all the art forms will cross over.
"You never know where else a poet might show up, such as when Aaron Johnson did a slam poem between bands at the brewery," Jung said.
To participate, volunteer, or contribute as a sponsor for the preliminary events or the festival itself, contact Jung at 202-8144 or e-mail to GumptionFest@yahoo.com. For more information, visit www.MySpace.com/GumptionFest.
Sedona Underground is published every Friday in The Scene. To comment or suggest an artist, contact Christopher Fox Graham at 282-7795, Ext. 126, or e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
What I Believe
What I Believe:
A 500-word essay for Rebecca Allen
A 500-word essay for Rebecca Allen
Every person is an artist
Beneath the layers of skin,
genetically imbedded in our evolution
is the need to create
all living things have one intention: to survive
they breed, kill competitors, protect offspring
knowing that even if the individual must die
the species survives
and with it, some remnant of the survivor
the quest for fame or immortality is no different
we want to survive
and knowing the body cannot, our art can
tied more completely to us
because over it, unlike genetics,
we have complete creative control
and if we can't be immortal
and only bear so many children
that drive to create and survive must release into art
or we'll go mad with yearning
the aesthetic too
is buried within us
that which is beautiful
we never want to leave:
lovers, landscapes, ecstasy, words and music
no one feels this as foreign
we want to feel the electricity and satisfaction of creation
that's why we invented god
because the sensation of making everything as we see fit
must feel transcendent
every person wants to be
Michelangelo, Mozart, Shakespeare,
Baryshnikov, da Vinci, Spielberg,
Tom Hanks, Pavarotti, Bill Gates,
Bob Dylan and a pregnant mother
all at once
but our mortal curse
is that we can not be
we all have stories
different experiences we can relate through speech and art
we differ from all other species
in that we can communicate across time
to those yet unborn
and those long dead
can tell us of life back then
a conversation is art
sounds creating visual images
depicting wit and irony
which we can laugh at
or a tragedy that can cause tears
we want to see, touch, taste and live it all
in every body, place, time, age and culture
but since we can't,
we want to be told
and live vicariously through the art
every human life is a epic tale of
war, loss and victory,
love and strife
we are all warrior poets
destined for royal thrones
in whatever realm we create
be it the page, the battlefield, the bedroom, or our daily insanities
those who aren't artists
aren't looking hard enough
and those who aren't skilled
aren't practicing enough
natural gifts and intuition go a long way
but the brilliance of the great artists
can be taught
if the student is unhindered, fearless, patient and dedicated
know that all things human
institutions, traditions, and technology
were made by overgrown children
that anyone can learn
and we change it all if want
the key is to gain collective agreement
the goal is getting others to see our logic
either rationally or emotionally
but the medium is art, language or otherwise
art is as important as air, water, food, shelter, warmth
we want to love and be loved in return
by family, lover and tribe
for what we create and provide
art makes us immortal
as if we don't live and die in vain
the only people who aren't artists
are already dead or as yet unborn
Beneath the layers of skin,
genetically imbedded in our evolution
is the need to create
all living things have one intention: to survive
they breed, kill competitors, protect offspring
knowing that even if the individual must die
the species survives
and with it, some remnant of the survivor
the quest for fame or immortality is no different
we want to survive
and knowing the body cannot, our art can
tied more completely to us
because over it, unlike genetics,
we have complete creative control
and if we can't be immortal
and only bear so many children
that drive to create and survive must release into art
or we'll go mad with yearning
the aesthetic too
is buried within us
that which is beautiful
we never want to leave:
lovers, landscapes, ecstasy, words and music
no one feels this as foreign
we want to feel the electricity and satisfaction of creation
that's why we invented god
because the sensation of making everything as we see fit
must feel transcendent
every person wants to be
Michelangelo, Mozart, Shakespeare,
Baryshnikov, da Vinci, Spielberg,
Tom Hanks, Pavarotti, Bill Gates,
Bob Dylan and a pregnant mother
all at once
but our mortal curse
is that we can not be
we all have stories
different experiences we can relate through speech and art
we differ from all other species
in that we can communicate across time
to those yet unborn
and those long dead
can tell us of life back then
a conversation is art
sounds creating visual images
depicting wit and irony
which we can laugh at
or a tragedy that can cause tears
we want to see, touch, taste and live it all
in every body, place, time, age and culture
but since we can't,
we want to be told
and live vicariously through the art
every human life is a epic tale of
war, loss and victory,
love and strife
we are all warrior poets
destined for royal thrones
in whatever realm we create
be it the page, the battlefield, the bedroom, or our daily insanities
those who aren't artists
aren't looking hard enough
and those who aren't skilled
aren't practicing enough
natural gifts and intuition go a long way
but the brilliance of the great artists
can be taught
if the student is unhindered, fearless, patient and dedicated
know that all things human
institutions, traditions, and technology
were made by overgrown children
that anyone can learn
and we change it all if want
the key is to gain collective agreement
the goal is getting others to see our logic
either rationally or emotionally
but the medium is art, language or otherwise
art is as important as air, water, food, shelter, warmth
we want to love and be loved in return
by family, lover and tribe
for what we create and provide
art makes us immortal
as if we don't live and die in vain
the only people who aren't artists
are already dead or as yet unborn
Monday, January 15, 2007
Summer Weekends
11.28.2006-1.1.5.2007
For Rebecca Allen
summer weekends
should sweetly stick lovers in the anxious embrace
they have held for days
and when the constraints
of minute hand and second hand take reprieve
the resulting cataclysm of hips and tongues
should shake the foundations
and wake the neighbors
but today, I wake alone
she loves me more
but loves him now
-- in this western desert town,
we take what we can get
because the dreams are better
then the lonely surrender
nd nothing is worth moving to the eastern cities
I'll take momentary happinesses
to stand close to her warmth
press my nose to her blueblood figure
and inhale that which may be mine
if the mathematics of time
and the chess of bodies puts her close to me
a wisp of imagination
outweighs all the metaphors for surrender
I wish I could share an honest moment with him
speak without the inferences of it in his suspicions
tell him like a prophet
but he has a poet's envy
but such things are not meant to last
because her belly burns for more:
a lush pen-in-hand interp of her punk rock passions
and non-segued speech with a loose-cannon tongue
she'll find her way home
when the vacation loses its summer glimmer
"hold fast, hold fast, hold fast
to the dreams of her"
the manta repeats cyclically
she's not that far
in this town has a thing for reincarnation
it's all B.S., I say,
but the desperation holds onto anything it can reach
and I'm at that place now
the groundskeepers always have kind words
and escaping from the longsleeved, buckled jackets
gives me something to do
shame's a silly thing
disappearing once you stop believing in it,
and instead enjoying playing cards with Santa Claus
a chocoholic bunny
and a winged dentist
with a penchant for baby teeth
hold fast, hold fast, hold fast,
time's a measurable variable,
solve, then counter,
and equations subtracts the superfluous lovers
deletes the brevity of summer
but the consistency of yearly fluctuations
leaving the simplicity of the answer:
there's no need for trigonometry when algebra will do
he's got no tricks up his sleeve
the warranty will soon expire
and toys only last so long
lovers and bone and breath,
flesh and whispers
to satisfy their boredom
with interactivity
I have faith in blind hope
and the mathematics of men
that Kasparov would admire
and our neighbors are buying earmuffs in anticipation
For Rebecca Allen
summer weekends
should sweetly stick lovers in the anxious embrace
they have held for days
and when the constraints
of minute hand and second hand take reprieve
the resulting cataclysm of hips and tongues
should shake the foundations
and wake the neighbors
but today, I wake alone
she loves me more
but loves him now
-- in this western desert town,
we take what we can get
because the dreams are better
then the lonely surrender
nd nothing is worth moving to the eastern cities
I'll take momentary happinesses
to stand close to her warmth
press my nose to her blueblood figure
and inhale that which may be mine
if the mathematics of time
and the chess of bodies puts her close to me
a wisp of imagination
outweighs all the metaphors for surrender
I wish I could share an honest moment with him
speak without the inferences of it in his suspicions
tell him like a prophet
but he has a poet's envy
but such things are not meant to last
because her belly burns for more:
a lush pen-in-hand interp of her punk rock passions
and non-segued speech with a loose-cannon tongue
she'll find her way home
when the vacation loses its summer glimmer
"hold fast, hold fast, hold fast
to the dreams of her"
the manta repeats cyclically
she's not that far
in this town has a thing for reincarnation
it's all B.S., I say,
but the desperation holds onto anything it can reach
and I'm at that place now
the groundskeepers always have kind words
and escaping from the longsleeved, buckled jackets
gives me something to do
shame's a silly thing
disappearing once you stop believing in it,
and instead enjoying playing cards with Santa Claus
a chocoholic bunny
and a winged dentist
with a penchant for baby teeth
hold fast, hold fast, hold fast,
time's a measurable variable,
solve, then counter,
and equations subtracts the superfluous lovers
deletes the brevity of summer
but the consistency of yearly fluctuations
leaving the simplicity of the answer:
there's no need for trigonometry when algebra will do
he's got no tricks up his sleeve
the warranty will soon expire
and toys only last so long
lovers and bone and breath,
flesh and whispers
to satisfy their boredom
with interactivity
I have faith in blind hope
and the mathematics of men
that Kasparov would admire
and our neighbors are buying earmuffs in anticipation
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Obligation of Artists: Why Christopher Lane has betrayed NORAZ Poets and poetry
What is the obligation of artists?
First, to answer the voice within and interpret it into your expression, be it music, poetry, dance, pottery, drawing or photography.
Second, relate joy of the human experience to any and all who will listen or look. The goal is to instill in the audience of one or thousands the same feeling the artist had when they created the art.
Third, enrich one's tribe, community, nation and world though shared human expression.
When an artist loses sight of any one of these obligations, we, as artists, see a tragedy.
When an artist willingly denies these obligations in the name of self-interest or self-promotion, we, as artists, see arrogance.
When an artist, regardless of talent, would rather charge than create while still proclaiming allegiance to these obligations, we, as artists, see hypocrisy.
When an artist, especially one who leads other artists, would deny youth the talent imbued by the creator, or the muse, or simple genetics, we, as artists, see usurpation of that gift and should demand .
If a school contacts the leader of a supposed nonprofit arts community and asks for that artist and others to display that gift for youth, and is denied for insufficient funds, namely Southwestern Academy, NORAZ Poets and $800, then the leader of that organization betrays not himself, but also his talent and his personal obligation to represent those artists.
All artists are free to make money from their work, just as with any form of work. Art is labor-intensive, emotionally draining, and in some cases, even life-threatening. However, an artist's words are not all that threatened in the posh surroundings of the Verde Valley.
An it's not as though the aforementioned nonprofit has made a stand toward these three obligations, unless, of course, one were to read the organization's mission statement:
"The NORAZ Poets Southwest™ vision is to provide the community with clear and concise information about poetry events throughout the Southwest. We will empower others, by making poetry more accessible."
"We will help make our communities' quality of life better, by using poetry. We will help our communities to pursue their creative goals through program development, readings, and other performance mediums."
"But above all, we wish to give back to our communities what they have given us -- the inspiration and means to create the written and spoken word."
You betray poetry, Mr. Lane.
You betray your community, Mr. Lane.
You betray yourself.
First, to answer the voice within and interpret it into your expression, be it music, poetry, dance, pottery, drawing or photography.
Second, relate joy of the human experience to any and all who will listen or look. The goal is to instill in the audience of one or thousands the same feeling the artist had when they created the art.
Third, enrich one's tribe, community, nation and world though shared human expression.
When an artist loses sight of any one of these obligations, we, as artists, see a tragedy.
When an artist willingly denies these obligations in the name of self-interest or self-promotion, we, as artists, see arrogance.
When an artist, regardless of talent, would rather charge than create while still proclaiming allegiance to these obligations, we, as artists, see hypocrisy.
When an artist, especially one who leads other artists, would deny youth the talent imbued by the creator, or the muse, or simple genetics, we, as artists, see usurpation of that gift and should demand .
If a school contacts the leader of a supposed nonprofit arts community and asks for that artist and others to display that gift for youth, and is denied for insufficient funds, namely Southwestern Academy, NORAZ Poets and $800, then the leader of that organization betrays not himself, but also his talent and his personal obligation to represent those artists.
All artists are free to make money from their work, just as with any form of work. Art is labor-intensive, emotionally draining, and in some cases, even life-threatening. However, an artist's words are not all that threatened in the posh surroundings of the Verde Valley.
An it's not as though the aforementioned nonprofit has made a stand toward these three obligations, unless, of course, one were to read the organization's mission statement:
"The NORAZ Poets Southwest™ vision is to provide the community with clear and concise information about poetry events throughout the Southwest. We will empower others, by making poetry more accessible."
"We will help make our communities' quality of life better, by using poetry. We will help our communities to pursue their creative goals through program development, readings, and other performance mediums."
"But above all, we wish to give back to our communities what they have given us -- the inspiration and means to create the written and spoken word."
You betray poetry, Mr. Lane.
You betray your community, Mr. Lane.
You betray yourself.
Monday, December 25, 2006
The thirteenth step is to learn not to be an ass
This follows some recent conversation with poets in Phoenix and their views on divorce between me and NORAZ Poets via its executive director.
Following recovery, 12-steppers need to learn some love.
The addiction doesn't go away, it just changes form. For many, that underlying problem, not covered rather than dealt with, just makes them judgemental pricks. I'm all for the benefits, but I suppose that if you join a group wherein the first rule is to announce that you have no power to control yourself, you have a tendency to blindly ignore that capacity in others. That, and being "saved" from addiction bleeds over into other meanings of "saved," and thus, the gentle stumble forward into arrogant self-righteousness.
To elucidate:
It seems the shift from addiction
(I must have this drug or I can't function; no middle ground)
shifts to the 12 Steps
(I need help or I will die; no middle ground)
then to personal interaction afterward
(this person is my friend or my enemy; no middle ground)
I suppose that if these people learned moderation in the beginning with drug use, they could learn that people are not a drug - there's a whole lot of gray in human relationships.
But, I guess, just like hitting rock bottom with drugs, they have to hit rock bottom with friendships before they realize they need to attend the 12-Step Program of Not Being a Prick.
How long, Mr. Lane?
Following recovery, 12-steppers need to learn some love.
The addiction doesn't go away, it just changes form. For many, that underlying problem, not covered rather than dealt with, just makes them judgemental pricks. I'm all for the benefits, but I suppose that if you join a group wherein the first rule is to announce that you have no power to control yourself, you have a tendency to blindly ignore that capacity in others. That, and being "saved" from addiction bleeds over into other meanings of "saved," and thus, the gentle stumble forward into arrogant self-righteousness.
To elucidate:
It seems the shift from addiction
(I must have this drug or I can't function; no middle ground)
shifts to the 12 Steps
(I need help or I will die; no middle ground)
then to personal interaction afterward
(this person is my friend or my enemy; no middle ground)
I suppose that if these people learned moderation in the beginning with drug use, they could learn that people are not a drug - there's a whole lot of gray in human relationships.
But, I guess, just like hitting rock bottom with drugs, they have to hit rock bottom with friendships before they realize they need to attend the 12-Step Program of Not Being a Prick.
How long, Mr. Lane?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The West: a short poem
my grandfather rode horses for a living
across the open plains of Montana
he could field strip a rifle
or fix and engine block with baling wire
like a McGuyver cowboy
I am the grandson of pioneers
a son of a barrel racer
a nephew of bull riders
who wear cowboy hats out of necessity
not fashion
but they're always removed for church
"praise God
and pass the ammunition,
a pack of coyots have been harassing my herd
and after communion
we'll ride out and find them"
these men are better armed than gangsters
but it serves a purpose
they don't care where you come from
who you fuck
the hue of your skin
or your first language
"can you rope?
can you ride?
can you work?"
beyond that, most things don't matter
"in the name of
Hank Williams,
Johnny Cash,
John Wayne,
and America, amen"
this is my West
across the open plains of Montana
he could field strip a rifle
or fix and engine block with baling wire
like a McGuyver cowboy
I am the grandson of pioneers
a son of a barrel racer
a nephew of bull riders
who wear cowboy hats out of necessity
not fashion
but they're always removed for church
"praise God
and pass the ammunition,
a pack of coyots have been harassing my herd
and after communion
we'll ride out and find them"
these men are better armed than gangsters
but it serves a purpose
they don't care where you come from
who you fuck
the hue of your skin
or your first language
"can you rope?
can you ride?
can you work?"
beyond that, most things don't matter
"in the name of
Hank Williams,
Johnny Cash,
John Wayne,
and America, amen"
this is my West
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Welcome to the Show
welcome to the show
we fit the parts cast by the playwright
dodge bullets in slow motion
according to the script
and the audience holds tightly
to the armrest
waiting for the quotable one-liners
that slip into the memes of later days
the girls said I was mysterious
over a glass of wine
and that they held onto the illusion
that I had a dark side beneath the sunglasses
the collarless navy blue coat
and the unwavering addiction to proper grammar
while I smiled inside
and wondered from where
they got that crazy idea
I'm as mysterious as sunlight
open your eyes
look up at the way it bounces off the leaves
and see what's already there
I'm two words and an invitation away
from spilling my guts
but somehow, no one wants to ask
"can you tell me your story?"
shyness, I suppose,
has unintended results
my words reveal the façade outside
put on to pass the days
to put it simply
I'm Calvin minus Hobbes
though I keep him at home on the nightstand
sometimes, in the city,
I'm Spaceman Spiff, until Wormwood
in all her incantations,
brings me back to the math class world
sometimes, I wonder,
what the world will say of me after I pass
will anyone step forward and reveal that they knew me best?
will the dots and dashes of my days
be readable to those still listening to my ramblings?
I catalogue my infatuations in my columns
each artist is a glorious interpretation
of who I might have been if born in them
instead of in this
I wish I could be them all,
but short of that, I'll let the readers know
in bits and parts
the pieces of me I see in them
my story is a transmutation of a thought:
we're all the same ash and dust
pushing out breath until we pass into oblivion
the stories, vices and art of our days
makes the moments between death and birth meaningful
though the dance is ultimately futile
but if we're doomed to fade
why make our days so trying?
smile wide, take her hand,
dance like a fool
kiss her when the moment is totally wrong
and make it right
because the judgment of a moment
is a matter of choice:
don't let fate decide the circumstances and react
with right or wrong
choose first, and fate will rewrite the facts
soapbox preaching only converts those willing to listen
and if no one does
I preach to myself
because I still need convincing from time to time
acting without forethought, in the present,
is what the zen koans elucidate
be one hand clapping
wash my bowl now empty of rice
thank the master, but don't take the stone
I need not be scarred by a bad choice
when a simple bow is all that's required
kiss when I feel like it
walk away when the time has passed
and find ways to live in freedom
that Robbins found through Satre
memes find me
at the time when I need them most
they hover around the edges
I'll known when to look for what I must find
temet nosce
and the pieces fill in the spaces appropriately
we fit the parts cast by the playwright
dodge bullets in slow motion
according to the script
and the audience holds tightly
to the armrest
waiting for the quotable one-liners
that slip into the memes of later days
the girls said I was mysterious
over a glass of wine
and that they held onto the illusion
that I had a dark side beneath the sunglasses
the collarless navy blue coat
and the unwavering addiction to proper grammar
while I smiled inside
and wondered from where
they got that crazy idea
I'm as mysterious as sunlight
open your eyes
look up at the way it bounces off the leaves
and see what's already there
I'm two words and an invitation away
from spilling my guts
but somehow, no one wants to ask
"can you tell me your story?"
shyness, I suppose,
has unintended results
my words reveal the façade outside
put on to pass the days
to put it simply
I'm Calvin minus Hobbes
though I keep him at home on the nightstand
sometimes, in the city,
I'm Spaceman Spiff, until Wormwood
in all her incantations,
brings me back to the math class world
sometimes, I wonder,
what the world will say of me after I pass
will anyone step forward and reveal that they knew me best?
will the dots and dashes of my days
be readable to those still listening to my ramblings?
I catalogue my infatuations in my columns
each artist is a glorious interpretation
of who I might have been if born in them
instead of in this
I wish I could be them all,
but short of that, I'll let the readers know
in bits and parts
the pieces of me I see in them
my story is a transmutation of a thought:
we're all the same ash and dust
pushing out breath until we pass into oblivion
the stories, vices and art of our days
makes the moments between death and birth meaningful
though the dance is ultimately futile
but if we're doomed to fade
why make our days so trying?
smile wide, take her hand,
dance like a fool
kiss her when the moment is totally wrong
and make it right
because the judgment of a moment
is a matter of choice:
don't let fate decide the circumstances and react
with right or wrong
choose first, and fate will rewrite the facts
soapbox preaching only converts those willing to listen
and if no one does
I preach to myself
because I still need convincing from time to time
acting without forethought, in the present,
is what the zen koans elucidate
be one hand clapping
wash my bowl now empty of rice
thank the master, but don't take the stone
I need not be scarred by a bad choice
when a simple bow is all that's required
kiss when I feel like it
walk away when the time has passed
and find ways to live in freedom
that Robbins found through Satre
memes find me
at the time when I need them most
they hover around the edges
I'll known when to look for what I must find
temet nosce
and the pieces fill in the spaces appropriately
They'll hover round the tomb
They'll hover round the tomb
long after I am a memory
trading stories of who knew me best
swap stories of this bar
that lover in the moonlight
while the best me smiles in the coffin in the corner
I plan an Irish wake
they'll trade the tales that made me to them
wondering who was closest
who knew the secrets that I told no one else
never guessing that the best parts
will be buried tomorrow
laughter will drown out the honesty
and they'll walk away
bellies full of my favorite dishes
eyes swelling with the booze I always ordered
stumbling home to write in lonely journals
that they learned more about me that night
than they did while I lived
and nowhere in those stories
are the nights I laid on my roof for hours
counting the stars of the milky way
or the secret soft lover I called Monica
who never existed in flesh
but danced across my pages
calling herself by a thousand different names
and slipped in silently
into the lovers I never held for more than a moment
there are gypsy Irish songs
I played only when no one was home
the poems saved on my hard drive
password-protected so no one would find them
it's so easy, friends, to read them:
just know where is home to me
and they'll open themselves to you
I loved women who will never know,
wanted to be boys who will count the days onward
never knowing that they were envied
the poems I wish I had written and
my secret sins will claw at the earth
begging for freedom if only someone would search beneath the surface
but those who venture close
will understand the magic tricks I played:
everyone thinks they know you
if you split a pitcher
and make the conversation revolve around them
I've learned the tricks of journalists
that I wish I could have elucidated earlier
most writers use their tales to show who they are
I use mine to hide me
behind those visages
that others know so well
the poet, the musician, the writer, the painter
my fascination with them
with what they create
hides my inner drives to do what I have done
and, of course, being the sad poet I am
I spit the hidden verses to reveal in bit and parts
what I wanted to say
when the moment was right
when the last girl was in my arms
when all the mathematics aligned
to find that equation that equaled me
but no one does math anymore
they merely wait for the blog entry
the poem, the song, the novel, the drunken pronouncement
to clarify their suspicions
I play harder to get
to know what hides beneath,
beat me in game of chess,
with my honesty on the line
catch me alone one night at home
with roommates gone
the dog asleep on the sofa
the computer off and all the electronics shut down
listen to that which makes me laugh aloud
read the lines that I reread a thousand times on weekends
watch my favorites movies run raw with wear
find the poems I have hidden places
where no one will find them in my lifetime
speak to the women I have passionately followed for years
and I'll be there hidden between the lines
playing this role
wherein all the players know my name
stop me in grocery stores
and chat about their day
what they want from me
or what they need me to do
they hold an image encapsulated by my name
that I often laugh at in early mornings
when I stand naked before taking a shower
we all hold our friends and foes
in the places that make sense most
puzzle pieces played on the board
to win the game
never knowing if our prize
is a coup d'état waiting for the moment to strike
to know a person is simple:
what would they die for
what would they kill for
what do they live for ..
and these are never the same
so for know
shout my name as I spit verses on stage
claim to know me on the street
or in late night bars
relate our mutual occupations of space
as stories to friends
read my writings and delve deep
pose with me for pictures for those who couldn't be there
slip between my sheets to hold me in the night
and when I pass
tell these stories to the assembled crowd
but know what foolishness you speak
because those who know this poet
will gather later
long after my corpse is resting
and laugh at my silly things
how she could make me wait with a whisper
how I cried to "Walking in Memphis"
the draw of a pretty girl anywhere
late night Irish drinking ballads
how a good story could captivate me
joy in friends' happinesses
unspoken affection for family
finding the girl I always sought
and how only those who knew me
sans façade, sans image, sans name
would have read a poem like this one
long after I am a memory
trading stories of who knew me best
swap stories of this bar
that lover in the moonlight
while the best me smiles in the coffin in the corner
I plan an Irish wake
they'll trade the tales that made me to them
wondering who was closest
who knew the secrets that I told no one else
never guessing that the best parts
will be buried tomorrow
laughter will drown out the honesty
and they'll walk away
bellies full of my favorite dishes
eyes swelling with the booze I always ordered
stumbling home to write in lonely journals
that they learned more about me that night
than they did while I lived
and nowhere in those stories
are the nights I laid on my roof for hours
counting the stars of the milky way
or the secret soft lover I called Monica
who never existed in flesh
but danced across my pages
calling herself by a thousand different names
and slipped in silently
into the lovers I never held for more than a moment
there are gypsy Irish songs
I played only when no one was home
the poems saved on my hard drive
password-protected so no one would find them
it's so easy, friends, to read them:
just know where is home to me
and they'll open themselves to you
I loved women who will never know,
wanted to be boys who will count the days onward
never knowing that they were envied
the poems I wish I had written and
my secret sins will claw at the earth
begging for freedom if only someone would search beneath the surface
but those who venture close
will understand the magic tricks I played:
everyone thinks they know you
if you split a pitcher
and make the conversation revolve around them
I've learned the tricks of journalists
that I wish I could have elucidated earlier
most writers use their tales to show who they are
I use mine to hide me
behind those visages
that others know so well
the poet, the musician, the writer, the painter
my fascination with them
with what they create
hides my inner drives to do what I have done
and, of course, being the sad poet I am
I spit the hidden verses to reveal in bit and parts
what I wanted to say
when the moment was right
when the last girl was in my arms
when all the mathematics aligned
to find that equation that equaled me
but no one does math anymore
they merely wait for the blog entry
the poem, the song, the novel, the drunken pronouncement
to clarify their suspicions
I play harder to get
to know what hides beneath,
beat me in game of chess,
with my honesty on the line
catch me alone one night at home
with roommates gone
the dog asleep on the sofa
the computer off and all the electronics shut down
listen to that which makes me laugh aloud
read the lines that I reread a thousand times on weekends
watch my favorites movies run raw with wear
find the poems I have hidden places
where no one will find them in my lifetime
speak to the women I have passionately followed for years
and I'll be there hidden between the lines
playing this role
wherein all the players know my name
stop me in grocery stores
and chat about their day
what they want from me
or what they need me to do
they hold an image encapsulated by my name
that I often laugh at in early mornings
when I stand naked before taking a shower
we all hold our friends and foes
in the places that make sense most
puzzle pieces played on the board
to win the game
never knowing if our prize
is a coup d'état waiting for the moment to strike
to know a person is simple:
what would they die for
what would they kill for
what do they live for ..
and these are never the same
so for know
shout my name as I spit verses on stage
claim to know me on the street
or in late night bars
relate our mutual occupations of space
as stories to friends
read my writings and delve deep
pose with me for pictures for those who couldn't be there
slip between my sheets to hold me in the night
and when I pass
tell these stories to the assembled crowd
but know what foolishness you speak
because those who know this poet
will gather later
long after my corpse is resting
and laugh at my silly things
how she could make me wait with a whisper
how I cried to "Walking in Memphis"
the draw of a pretty girl anywhere
late night Irish drinking ballads
how a good story could captivate me
joy in friends' happinesses
unspoken affection for family
finding the girl I always sought
and how only those who knew me
sans façade, sans image, sans name
would have read a poem like this one
Friday, November 3, 2006
Fight Club
the bass beats run wild
while the johnny walker
reminds me of the daily pulse
dot dot dot
and drink down the night
deck me in the jaw
to remind me we're friends
that's how the pulse goes sometimes
while heavy metal rips on the speakers
god, life feels close
when pain is a fistfight away
bloody my face
and we're never part friendship
while the johnny walker
reminds me of the daily pulse
dot dot dot
and drink down the night
deck me in the jaw
to remind me we're friends
that's how the pulse goes sometimes
while heavy metal rips on the speakers
god, life feels close
when pain is a fistfight away
bloody my face
and we're never part friendship
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The planet formerly known as Pluto
On Sept. 7, the former 9th planet was assigned the asteroid number 134340 by the Minor Planet Center (MPC), the official organization responsible for collecting data about asteroids and comets in our solar system.
The move reinforces the International Astronomical Union's (IAU) recent decision to strip Pluto of its planethood and places it in the same category as other small solar-system bodies with accurately known orbits.
Saturday, October 7, 2006
Pinocchio
kinetic push of flesh
moving the body art
through choreographed scenes
while the mind flutters circumnavigate
the candlestick of memory
I dance the tango of the days
spit out the lines at the appropriate scenes
and wait for the invisible audience
to reward my perfect pronunciation
at the end-of-year ceremony
on autopilot, calendar dates are irrelevant
stories are games to tell
and the drama of living
can be evaded like doing dishes during commercials
none of the day-to-day matters
so it slips away like echoes
"remember whens" archivists will have to assemble
when all is said and done
what moves me
hides beneath the shell outside
a director manipulating the scenes
a wild-haired physicist
measuring the proper mixture
of language, action, time and place
to produce results
sentience is a word it seems only I know
but choose to ignore
so as to fit in with the flesh machines
responding to stimuli of biology and linguistics
yet a wild-haired speck of skin among the pantheon
seeks me out
dotting the I's and crossing the T's I'd forgotten
backtracking me to the whys of my whats
fencing me into a corner that my science can..t elude
her language-hilted rapier
slides past my parries
cuts the skin
and stings the softer spots
car chases and explosives flash on the screen
but her teases leave more impact
and she's winning all the Oscars
the plastic mold wrapped around this name and image
melts into a puddle in the desert
the deities lose their feathers
and can't hold their thunderbolts
flesh curls over Geppetto's pawn
the liar's sins are clear as noses
and excuses make no difference
in those languid embraces
the sorrow of centuries
breaks through the skin
bleeding my ache into the sand
the words held tight for the sake of image
fall as rain
soaking the desert for the first time in years
moving the body art
through choreographed scenes
while the mind flutters circumnavigate
the candlestick of memory
I dance the tango of the days
spit out the lines at the appropriate scenes
and wait for the invisible audience
to reward my perfect pronunciation
at the end-of-year ceremony
on autopilot, calendar dates are irrelevant
stories are games to tell
and the drama of living
can be evaded like doing dishes during commercials
none of the day-to-day matters
so it slips away like echoes
"remember whens" archivists will have to assemble
when all is said and done
what moves me
hides beneath the shell outside
a director manipulating the scenes
a wild-haired physicist
measuring the proper mixture
of language, action, time and place
to produce results
sentience is a word it seems only I know
but choose to ignore
so as to fit in with the flesh machines
responding to stimuli of biology and linguistics
yet a wild-haired speck of skin among the pantheon
seeks me out
dotting the I's and crossing the T's I'd forgotten
backtracking me to the whys of my whats
fencing me into a corner that my science can..t elude
her language-hilted rapier
slides past my parries
cuts the skin
and stings the softer spots
car chases and explosives flash on the screen
but her teases leave more impact
and she's winning all the Oscars
the plastic mold wrapped around this name and image
melts into a puddle in the desert
the deities lose their feathers
and can't hold their thunderbolts
flesh curls over Geppetto's pawn
the liar's sins are clear as noses
and excuses make no difference
in those languid embraces
the sorrow of centuries
breaks through the skin
bleeding my ache into the sand
the words held tight for the sake of image
fall as rain
soaking the desert for the first time in years
These night with wide-open eyes
these night with wide-open eyes
beers poured straight from the tap cold on barren lips
while warm memories of days past
hang in the air
swirling with cigarettes and stories
they laugh in the moments
faces illuminated by the fire
telling the same stories nightly
with new characters, new names
while indoors, through the glass
the musicians try to reinvent the wheels of chords
drummers play new beats
guitarists verse new instruments
poets pen new lines
and explode from the doom of days
we are heading daily toward death
trying to forget our inborn destiny
with swift fingers, kisses and pretty words
"if only we could drink them away"
the poets and musicians say between the lines
hoping that riff, that lyric will make it so
begging the drum beats to shake loose our age
and return us to youth and oblivion
but we wake in dawn's light
to the same fate day after day
knowing the course hasn't changed:
our hair will gray
drop to the floor
and remind us in the echoes
that lover's kisses are fleeting remembrances
forgotten with too much time or distance to part us
we will spill our incoherence from lips
dream of days past
press memories into photo albums
to remind our older selves
that we lived once
when the Golden World still held its glimmer with sheen
and we will sigh at all the appropriate times
when reminded and cued
"remember when?"
"yes, drunken poet, those were the days"
we raged against the dark loneliness of life
sweating in the arms of someone young
and gloriously beautiful
we dropped synonyms
and danced with our long hair swishing about hips rocking
to the beat
loosened our fingers as through
they were broken free from hands except for skin and intention
we shook arms and legs with reckless abandon
and tipped the barkeeps
too much for their troubles
but tonight
raise your fists
beat against the blind sky
and scream out in drunken ecstasy:
"tonight with not be the last!
we have more days to forget our names!"
more minutes to press lips to microphones
and believe in our own desperate words
we are dust and echoes in the pageantry of dying skins
renaming ourselves when the dialects change
live fast, die young at heart
and leave a poem, a song, a story for those who bury you
all that matters is the moment
the musicians, the poets, the lovers and the dancers
scream into the night
forget all that doesn..t matter
which is all of the human drama
we waking shadows
we walking dreams
we face the inevitable echo
that haunts all our days
that one morning will be silent and sober
when we are forgotten
on that morning,
the songs will change
and the band will play on
beers poured straight from the tap cold on barren lips
while warm memories of days past
hang in the air
swirling with cigarettes and stories
they laugh in the moments
faces illuminated by the fire
telling the same stories nightly
with new characters, new names
while indoors, through the glass
the musicians try to reinvent the wheels of chords
drummers play new beats
guitarists verse new instruments
poets pen new lines
and explode from the doom of days
we are heading daily toward death
trying to forget our inborn destiny
with swift fingers, kisses and pretty words
"if only we could drink them away"
the poets and musicians say between the lines
hoping that riff, that lyric will make it so
begging the drum beats to shake loose our age
and return us to youth and oblivion
but we wake in dawn's light
to the same fate day after day
knowing the course hasn't changed:
our hair will gray
drop to the floor
and remind us in the echoes
that lover's kisses are fleeting remembrances
forgotten with too much time or distance to part us
we will spill our incoherence from lips
dream of days past
press memories into photo albums
to remind our older selves
that we lived once
when the Golden World still held its glimmer with sheen
and we will sigh at all the appropriate times
when reminded and cued
"remember when?"
"yes, drunken poet, those were the days"
we raged against the dark loneliness of life
sweating in the arms of someone young
and gloriously beautiful
we dropped synonyms
and danced with our long hair swishing about hips rocking
to the beat
loosened our fingers as through
they were broken free from hands except for skin and intention
we shook arms and legs with reckless abandon
and tipped the barkeeps
too much for their troubles
but tonight
raise your fists
beat against the blind sky
and scream out in drunken ecstasy:
"tonight with not be the last!
we have more days to forget our names!"
more minutes to press lips to microphones
and believe in our own desperate words
we are dust and echoes in the pageantry of dying skins
renaming ourselves when the dialects change
live fast, die young at heart
and leave a poem, a song, a story for those who bury you
all that matters is the moment
the musicians, the poets, the lovers and the dancers
scream into the night
forget all that doesn..t matter
which is all of the human drama
we waking shadows
we walking dreams
we face the inevitable echo
that haunts all our days
that one morning will be silent and sober
when we are forgotten
on that morning,
the songs will change
and the band will play on
Days Keep Counting Down
these days of weighted dreams
hanging onto my psyche
pulling me down from those lofty places
I used to hold tightly
the pitter-patter stories
we, as boys, promised ourselves
we would follow
all those paths from hand-holding
to kisses at altars
and all the mishmash afterward
we boys dreams like little girls do
but hold them much more secret
and share them only with stuffed animals
spill them later on the teenage pages
as dreams ferment in our bellies into the angst
that drives us to wars and booze
as our hairs begin to gray
those boy's dreams wage war
with the boy I have become
whose lovers are few and far between
measuring the distances
with drunken nights, the newest novels
more poems than needed
road trips, porno pages and borrowed CDs
we make excuses about the ones we left
the one we're waiting for
if only time would hurry us there
and moments of the brain-blinding joy
when we think with butterflies
is this it, is this her?
but time keeps clicking
the scope of rifle zeroing in on moving targets
waiting for the round that will hit us
before we hear it
and our bank accounts fill and empty
the calendars fall from the walls
and the numbers keep adding up
while days keep counting down
hanging onto my psyche
pulling me down from those lofty places
I used to hold tightly
the pitter-patter stories
we, as boys, promised ourselves
we would follow
all those paths from hand-holding
to kisses at altars
and all the mishmash afterward
we boys dreams like little girls do
but hold them much more secret
and share them only with stuffed animals
spill them later on the teenage pages
as dreams ferment in our bellies into the angst
that drives us to wars and booze
as our hairs begin to gray
those boy's dreams wage war
with the boy I have become
whose lovers are few and far between
measuring the distances
with drunken nights, the newest novels
more poems than needed
road trips, porno pages and borrowed CDs
we make excuses about the ones we left
the one we're waiting for
if only time would hurry us there
and moments of the brain-blinding joy
when we think with butterflies
is this it, is this her?
but time keeps clicking
the scope of rifle zeroing in on moving targets
waiting for the round that will hit us
before we hear it
and our bank accounts fill and empty
the calendars fall from the walls
and the numbers keep adding up
while days keep counting down
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sacrifices by Rebecca Allen
Sacrifices
By Rebecca Allen
I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.
At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.
Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.
I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.
By Rebecca Allen
I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.
At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.
Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.
I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.
Thursday, September 7, 2006
The Borderlander: The artist culture's need to find the frontier
The Borderlander:
The artist culture's need to find the frontier
Everywhere was once "The Frontier"
Despite the advancements in technology, the human race remains a hunter-gatherer society wherein the role of warrior, homemaker, mother and father remain paramount. As members of the species outgrew the confines of the twenty-person tribe into nations, the parameters of the tribe remained, among its core tenants: provide for the tribe, do not kill members of the tribe, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for survival.
Each tribe, then nation, and then ethnic culture adapted rules, rewards and punishments in accordance with their locale, terrain, food supplies, traditions, and value systems to enforce these basic rules.
Those that failed starved until they adapted or went extinct.
The Birth of Civilization Delineates "The Frontier"
However, as the human race spread and multiplied, those rules changed to reflect the sheer size of the tribe, which numbered in the thousands, then millions.
As each nation state adapted rules reflecting the unique genetic culture and social history, the system of laws, whether ruled by book, the whim of a ruler chosen by merit or from the most powerful and influential family, or a heritage of agreed-upon rules, became the underlying governance of the basic hunter-gather tribal structure to keep the peace.
What is "The Frontier"?
In the long history of the human race, those who disobeyed or rejected those rules found either punishment and annihilation or ostracism as liberation. The frontier has always been the salvation of the tribe.
In the small society, those who left founded their own tribes. If the new tribe failed, it died. If it succeeded, it later conquered or assimilated the founders, conquered or was conquered by another, and in some cases, created a new tribe or nation state that found an equilibrium with the founders, either as neighbor and sometimes ally, sharing a mutual common heritage, or as the dominating or subservient tribe of its founders until rebellion or assimilation reestablished a nation state capable of survival.
As such genocide, or at least a cultural genocide, is ingrained in human heritage as it is with other species on a far longer, but no less important genetic scale. The new mutated species survives and becomes something new, while the older species either adapts to the change or becomes extinct itself, or the new mutation becomes obsolete and a genetic dead end.
Physical Frontier Has Disappeared
But the human frontier has disappeared. Until travel and colonization to the deep sea and to other worlds becomes possible, there is no more wide-open frontier. The forests and wild lands have reached their limits and the barren north or south is simply too remote and inaccessible.
The human race continues to adapt and reject its own systems, but is cannibalizing the structure to reestablish a frontier. With no new terrain, the landscape is the cities and countryside in which the human race has already inhabited.
The Need to Rebel Into the Frontier Turns Inward
All human societies face rejection and rebellion from within more so now than ever. Traditions that have stood for centuries or longer are being rejected. They worked to keep the society safe when they were created, but are growing more obsolete in the face of new art, technology and interaction between nation states.
While one nation developed laws and government according to its unique landscape, both physically and sociologically, access to information bombards a nations people with new ideas. People finding error with their systems look elsewhere and find better ways to behave individually and collectively, but without understanding the systems, success and failures that led to that particular adaptation.
"Civilization" is Slow to Effectively Adapt
Thus, cultures are adapting traits that should work, but fail completely or create more problems. The heterogeneous cultures are striving to adapt and fix underlying issues that have plagued their systems and are stumbling toward developing a homogenous social structure that can apply to all of a nations people and its immigrants, however, they still strive to keep their dominant cultural heritage.
The result in the short run will be a social structure that eventually collapses into anarchy as the heterogeneous elements reject the mainstream and fight first the dominating power, then each other, until a new equilibrium is reached, or a complete restructuring of the social structure that creates a bland, cultureless superstructure that ignores the genetic and cultural distinctions between peoples that seeks only to keep the peace.
This peace will only last until the cultural vestiges evaporate through interbreeding, blending the species until a single amalgamated race, or until a majority-minority power structure ignites into anarchy and the combative tribal structure again reestablishes itself.
From the 1998 movie "Bulworth": "All we need is a voluntary, free-spirited, open-ended program of procreative racial deconstruction. Everybody just gotta keep fuckin' everybody 'til they're all the same color."
Until a New Physical Frontier is Found, Civilization Faces Violence From Within
Due to scale of the human race, especially as the population continues to increase, will still create a cultural regionalism and culture based on place reflecting the values of locale over genetics and cultural heritage that will result in regional values overtaking the super-nation or global values and result in perpetual animosity, violence and war until a new frontier, new worlds made habitable by new technology, becomes available until the human race reduces itself back to the stone age through global disease or catastrophic world war, or simply becomes extinct.
The converse is a personal sovereignty wherein the overarching rules each individual is permitted to behave obeying those few basic rules of the tribe, now the species as a whole: provide for the species, do not kill members of the species, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for the species survival. The advantage of this structure is that as the species encounters new technologies and new environments and later new worlds to colonize, the members of the species will be able to adapt and keep extinction at bay until it can find success then equilibrium with the environment.
Creating A Temporary Psychological Frontier Through Artistic Expression, Bohemian Lifestyles, and Becoming a "Cultural Rebel"
This adaptation begins earlier, and can be seen in American culture now. The borderlanders, the underground, the outlanders are those who see the laws and governance as inherently flawed as those rules are based on a time and place that is no longer applicable. They break the rules that do not harm to individuals involved. They slip beneath the radar of the system and learn to function and succeed as outlaws in the frontier beneath the social strata.
The overarching norms of the mainstream which, in America are capitalism, the pursuit of wealth and financial security are rejected and ignored.
These individuals have found that rejection of these has not lead to poverty and destitution, but rather to a particular lifestyle that is as distinctly liberated as the frontier of the West used to be 100 years ago. They have found that one can live, not just sustain, but comfortably live, without life insurance, investments, homeownership, nine-to-five employment, 401Ks, taxes, and pensions. They take little from the system and seek one underlying distinctly American value, perhaps more at our core more than any other to be left alone in peace.
"The Borderlanders":
The quintessential borderlander creates art, works for a living, contributes to his or her local community economically, politically or socially, raises children and/or benefits the offspring of other economically, politically or socially, occasionally indulges in minor vices which are still seen as negative by the elitist power structure, travels, experiments with their art, lifestyle, body, and morality, and spreads of living liberated within the society as ideas via a network of like minds.
They reject the system that restrains them by disobeying the rules that don't apply and communicating a new set of individualized values through art, but it in literature, music, visual art, or other mediums.
The goal, whether known or not, is to impart a value system of equality in members of the species so that as the species reaches the crux wherein it must decide to become bland and homogenous and face perpetual regional warfare, or embrace individual sovereignty.
The mainstreamer takes what is given, buys what they are fed, serves in the system and fights and hates what they are told. The mainstreamer is too complacent, too afraid, or too uninspired to see anything but what the system serves. They work hard but economically, politically or socially deposit their gains into a system that seeks to do the same to their children, in the often vain and intense vague hope that they will work up the ladder to a place of power and authority which seeks to feed on the masses for its power. It is a parasitic mind consuming a living corpse that maintains equilibrium as long as those in power dont get too hungry for more and as long as the body doesnt get too small or weak. Eventually, the system will tip one way or another and result in a totalitarian despot or open rebellion.
Draining troops from the mainstream is a social rebellious element that has been growing in strength for decades and presents a problem for the elite. As long as the masses have their bread and circuses, they are easily controlled.
The Threat of Political Rebellion
However, if the rebellion stirs the pot, shows those in the system that they don't need the system to be comfortable, creative and productive, the elite loses power. As power diminishes, the elite weakens, gets frantic, and uses its power to hold on to it. In time, this will lead to conflict. Either the elite will openly confront the rebellion and force the mainstream to choose, which will essentially cause it to fragment into factions, or the elite will lose its power and dissipate, or the elite will destroy the rebellion and reassert its power.
In other cultures and in other times, the elite has had forces in position to maintain power. At various times in human history, armies, the church, secret police, federal investigative agencies, fear or invasion, and the numbing powers of drugs, entertainment and television to kill or assimilate the outlaw borderlanders or cause the mainstream to turn against them.
Globalism Accelerates the Psychological Frontier
However, with the advent of new information technologies, the freedom of movement nationally and now internationally, the diminishing threat of invasion by enemies or outsiders is creating a structure wherein the concept of "us" is no longer a cultural, national or nation-state concept, but becoming one of a global community. It's hard for members of a nation such as the United State to hate members of another when its legal system openly and legally accepts everyone from anywhere to become one of its citizens. To become an American, equal to each every other American, all an imigrant need do is repeat the Naturalization Oath, and then they have as much right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as the dead white men who first penned those words.
As the enemy outside fades, the elite targets trouble-making nations to instill fear and keep power. Within, the elite targets anything outside the norm that is still not accepted by the predominate culture, such as those with differing social morals, practicing different sexual orientations, speaking different languages, wearing foreign dress, with different religious and cultural heritages, etc.
However, the borderlanders, in their quest for the frontier, the different, embrace and assimilate these outsiders. First as social tourists experiencing something new and different, second as like minds also ostracized for being difference from the mainstream, and third because borderlanders come from these outside groups a readily as from the mainstream.
The Borderlanders are Destined to Congregate
The borderlanders come from urban areas of large cities where the rules of the mainstream are least applicable because of the removed applicability and general obsolescence from the reality of the environment; or from suburbs and medium cities where complacency has created an structure of indifference to all but the most severe crimes and punishments; or from isolated small towns wherein a small minority has had influence to the art of the borderlander network; or art-centered towns where the artistic expression of borderlanders is more common and accepted than the mainstream itself.
Potential borderlanders in small towns where the population is stable and content, economy is healthy, the government is representative and adaptive, and art is conservative, have little complaint and generally no need to rebel against the local elite. However, regional or national issues can easily tip the scales one way or the other.
"Outlaw" Artists Will Create Enclaves
The outlaw artists seeking expression, the borderlanders, will seek out those places where they are accepted to create and to bend and break obsolete rules without consequence.
While the borderlanders have held onto pockets of their genesis the urban areas, suburban enclaves, and pockets art-centered towns are the future, the new frontier, where the borderlanders, social outlaws and art rebels can more free express, experiment and share.
They will congregate, agitate and adapt their unique regionalism into the locally predominate culture.
The Inevitable Conflict
While the timeframe could be years or decades, the elite will continue to fight and hold on to the mainstream and seek to destroy these outposts until the borderlanders either change the mainstream or the elite brings economic, political or social conflict in its final throes before it either collapses in the unrest it has caused but suppressed; or the elite assimilates the image of the borderlanders and feeds it to the mainstream in a package the elite can control; or the borderlanders face extinction and retreat back to pockets of isolation where the process can continue until it again finds a frontier to weaken the elites power hold again.
Wednesday, May 3, 2006
In the corners of this room
In the corners of this room,
the dust is centuries thick
accumulated from the hundreds of thousands
of footfalls that have shaken the hardwood floors
in the corners, the dust narrates stories
of surviving the earthquake that leveled the city of Lisbon
in 1755 but left this building standing
its tiled walls still echoes the voices
of the men from the 16th century
who filled this library
whispering to each other
the truths that they gleaned from illuminated books
this dust heard Napoleon at the gates
held safe the patriots that resisted him
the vaulted arches comforted both factions
in the civil war without choosing sides
to further divide the brothers already at war
the dust in this room withstood the revolution,
the coup d'état, the book-burners,
the two world wars
and the end of an empire
the dusted lasted all these years
but never has it seen anything
as beautiful as her
she, the dancer, glides across this hardwood floor
on bruised and battered toes
her arms ache from repeating the movements
until they are flawless
she takes the train
the bus, the metro
to come here
suffer the abuse of a teacher demanding no less
than perfection
she is intimidated by her own passion
yet will not surrender
she, the dancer, is artistry in motion,
skimming over the hardwood
with every limb, every ounce of her
articulating all the poetry that used to fill this room
books are no longer necessary
define beauty … watch her
what is art? … watch her
is there a god? … watch her
speak to me a radiant poem about a sun rise …
watch her and the poem
will spill from lips like breath
she does not move like us
her muscles are an army
every part, an instrument
combining the chorus of her feet
with the brass of her legs
the strings of her arms
the percussion of her chest
beating her heart drum
in rhythm to the symphony of her presence
if the tiles had eyes
they would not blink
fearing that she would wisp away like a dream
in the sunrise streaming through the windows
fill this space with the memory of your movements
dance across these wood floors that creak underfoot
and ache to hold your steps
for a moment,
like a lover would
as she dances at the center of the world
the dust, in the corners of this room,
forgets all the years
forgets the wars, the blood, the books, the whispers
and she,
at this moment
is why this building stands
the dust is centuries thick
accumulated from the hundreds of thousands
of footfalls that have shaken the hardwood floors
in the corners, the dust narrates stories
of surviving the earthquake that leveled the city of Lisbon
in 1755 but left this building standing
its tiled walls still echoes the voices
of the men from the 16th century
who filled this library
whispering to each other
the truths that they gleaned from illuminated books
this dust heard Napoleon at the gates
held safe the patriots that resisted him
the vaulted arches comforted both factions
in the civil war without choosing sides
to further divide the brothers already at war
the dust in this room withstood the revolution,
the coup d'état, the book-burners,
the two world wars
and the end of an empire
the dusted lasted all these years
but never has it seen anything
as beautiful as her
she, the dancer, glides across this hardwood floor
on bruised and battered toes
her arms ache from repeating the movements
until they are flawless
she takes the train
the bus, the metro
to come here
suffer the abuse of a teacher demanding no less
than perfection
she is intimidated by her own passion
yet will not surrender
she, the dancer, is artistry in motion,
skimming over the hardwood
with every limb, every ounce of her
articulating all the poetry that used to fill this room
books are no longer necessary
define beauty … watch her
what is art? … watch her
is there a god? … watch her
speak to me a radiant poem about a sun rise …
watch her and the poem
will spill from lips like breath
she does not move like us
her muscles are an army
every part, an instrument
combining the chorus of her feet
with the brass of her legs
the strings of her arms
the percussion of her chest
beating her heart drum
in rhythm to the symphony of her presence
if the tiles had eyes
they would not blink
fearing that she would wisp away like a dream
in the sunrise streaming through the windows
fill this space with the memory of your movements
dance across these wood floors that creak underfoot
and ache to hold your steps
for a moment,
like a lover would
as she dances at the center of the world
the dust, in the corners of this room,
forgets all the years
forgets the wars, the blood, the books, the whispers
and she,
at this moment
is why this building stands
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Monday, November 21, 2005
A Blind Man Misses the Sun
Tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions
there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes
and the days, well,
the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door
I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
glowing their convictions for us to see
the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile
three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day
My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time
give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily
you are a Doors concert
in a sea of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs
you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals
king my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my ink-blood blue with your sincerity
and we'll build fiefdom of words
my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
we'll never follow these people
toward their easy separation of heartbeats
in my last days, wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who danced like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy
I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
the barkeep gets 20 bucks on a $12 tab
and I get six pages of poetry
the gods made alcohol so poets could be free
return to me and I am yours over miles and time
and every morning I will ask "how did your sun rise?"
mine will always rise slow and brilliant
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same
the barkeep pours his last drink
and I try to remember things to dream, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions
there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes
and the days, well,
the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door
I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
glowing their convictions for us to see
the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile
three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day
My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time
give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily
you are a Doors concert
in a sea of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs
you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals
king my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my ink-blood blue with your sincerity
and we'll build fiefdom of words
my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
we'll never follow these people
toward their easy separation of heartbeats
in my last days, wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who danced like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy
I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
the barkeep gets 20 bucks on a $12 tab
and I get six pages of poetry
the gods made alcohol so poets could be free
return to me and I am yours over miles and time
and every morning I will ask "how did your sun rise?"
mine will always rise slow and brilliant
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same
the barkeep pours his last drink
and I try to remember things to dream, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you
Pixels, electrons, 26 letters
She is a world away
seeing a country I only know through geography and Renaissance Lit.
and I scribble poetry in dark bars
eight hours behind her
wondering what the future holds
for her, it’s dawn
while I’m on the end of another day
pixels, electrons and 26 characters
are no substitute for sound and skin
but somehow fold together our two points
close enough to embrace warmth
so our absence isn’t so unbearable
I want to talk for hours
and not say a thing
just dance in the music of her language
forget all the syllables I’ve learned since infancy
learn them anew in her dialect
I wish I knew now what dreams she’s adventuring in
the roles or names she’s playing
and whether I have any part in them
I imagine her tousled hair
gracing a pillow heavy in my envy
while visions of her happy days play in reverse
the prayers I’ve spoken to stars
slipping in as time permits
they’ve promised me they would courier them to her
if I stayed faithful to the Word
a bargain sworn on desert moonlight
empty words are all I have to offer
coupled with heartbeats harmonizing with hers
lovers, I’m told, share thoughts
ignorant of distance and time
so I’m sure that as she wakes and greets the dawn
she wishes my arms were wrapped around her
whispering nothing of import
but that we could share the same space somewhere
in the undiscovered country between waking and dreaming
we are its citizens
holding passports in two countries
still living in the glory of their ancient histories
speaking its secret language to each other
when time permits
words are such silly creatures
they way they try to own thoughts with sound and ink
we should exile them to forgettable realms
curse their grammatical arrogance
for trying to encapsulate our passions
I wish that our silence could speak
voice all out desires of touch and language
caravan them across the seas
bear them into foreign ports
and traipse the roads to your doorstep
for you to interpret as you will
seeing a country I only know through geography and Renaissance Lit.
and I scribble poetry in dark bars
eight hours behind her
wondering what the future holds
for her, it’s dawn
while I’m on the end of another day
pixels, electrons and 26 characters
are no substitute for sound and skin
but somehow fold together our two points
close enough to embrace warmth
so our absence isn’t so unbearable
I want to talk for hours
and not say a thing
just dance in the music of her language
forget all the syllables I’ve learned since infancy
learn them anew in her dialect
I wish I knew now what dreams she’s adventuring in
the roles or names she’s playing
and whether I have any part in them
I imagine her tousled hair
gracing a pillow heavy in my envy
while visions of her happy days play in reverse
the prayers I’ve spoken to stars
slipping in as time permits
they’ve promised me they would courier them to her
if I stayed faithful to the Word
a bargain sworn on desert moonlight
empty words are all I have to offer
coupled with heartbeats harmonizing with hers
lovers, I’m told, share thoughts
ignorant of distance and time
so I’m sure that as she wakes and greets the dawn
she wishes my arms were wrapped around her
whispering nothing of import
but that we could share the same space somewhere
in the undiscovered country between waking and dreaming
we are its citizens
holding passports in two countries
still living in the glory of their ancient histories
speaking its secret language to each other
when time permits
words are such silly creatures
they way they try to own thoughts with sound and ink
we should exile them to forgettable realms
curse their grammatical arrogance
for trying to encapsulate our passions
I wish that our silence could speak
voice all out desires of touch and language
caravan them across the seas
bear them into foreign ports
and traipse the roads to your doorstep
for you to interpret as you will
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