For the deaf and twisted radicals out there in the convenient silence:
It’s time we pay attention to the ringing in our ears.
There’s a pulse in the echo of resistance that resides within the narrative of our soul. In our minds’ is a shadow of excellence that compels to remain ethical in our looseness - woven by the needle of our efforts, upheld in the web of our compulsions. We are capable of the grandest creations insofar as we obey what’s eternal - light, darkness, and abundance. All the components that make us whole. In a spiritual sense we are catalysts for the rearrangement of something into mystery. Absence into beyond what is known. Projection as our etching on the cosmos. Art. In the image and likeness of God, outside what remains or is destroyed.
I propose now the bitter inquiry that has been subtly eroding these beliefs: “How are we all born into magnificence only to be squandered by the fall from grace? The attitudes and callous systems enacted by those that forget who and what we are - flesh and feeling with a knowing?”
For our kind is now lost in the distance between what’s necessary and acceptably evil, the middle-ground of lauded nothingness that is sanctified by a world without questions.
We are driven by a vocation to create, to express without vanity or parameters…only to be shattered by the mundane, a swift and dull bashing of the skull - a mugging so intrinsically inevitable that it robs us from within the confines of our perceptions. What we call “normalcy” is in actuality the rape of the muse. A murder of the artist at work. A testimony to the resounding thunders that prepare our untimely end.
In all my experiences as human being, never have I witnessed a more veritable threat than the one that we permit to perpetuate in the hearts of our very selves. From the instant we are born into chaos it is expected that we swallow injustice. That we carry the torch of madness in schooling, churches, and societies. We savor the rage of ridicule as if bullying is a rite of passage, as if education is an infallible deity. We tout the rich man as successful and the poor man as a lazy fool, deserving of his death in the street while the architects of his suffering prosper. And through it all we acknowledge that creativity is a romanticized, adolescent ideal. Left for those on communes with beards or academics that think to the point of insanity.
And somehow it will all “fall into place.” Like it does for the good boys and girls.
Be sure not to fuck before marriage, and you’re is on the way to a “realized” destiny.
Solace? Kindness? Inspiration?
“Honey, there’s no such thing.”
I’m here to tell you mom and dad are liars.
Our art is living proof of the con. Our muse is the celebrity they hate.
Let’s make music to rattle their ears, let them hear the tinnitus of our lifelong unrest - the panicked white noise of bohemians, renegades, punks, and sinners.
Afflict them with the damage they instilled, reverse it so can’t be undone.
Let them keep their jobs and their money, their promises of 401Ks and retirement. Politics, health care, and insurance. Red tape, bureaucracy, and bondage. Bullshit compounded upon bullshit. Concessions magnified by dead ends.
A limit to the beauty of our unity? People…there is no such thing.