Atheist Tomb of a Truth-Seeking American: A Plea for Disarmament

Tomb of D.M. Bennett in Brooklyn by Cory Doctorow

"I have learned to modify my prejudices. I am ready to believe Hamlet was right when he assured his friend Horatio that there was in Heaven and Earth many things not dreamed of in his philosophy." D.M. Bennett, as orated in The Truth Seeker 

It is at times like these that we Americans look to our history. Who are we? Where do we come from? How did we get here? What could have led to this? What is happening? 

Those among us strong enough to ask such questions are motivated to seek truth. As the president weeps for the children of the nation, so we must all begin to weep with minds full of emotion, burning with an intelligent self-awareness towards post-political change. We don't need rhetoric. We need new laws on guns. We need free thought to embellish the minds of such substance as founded free press in America. Disarmament is the new abolition, and as long as guns are indiscriminately accessible to immature minds and wounded hearts, we are all slaves to this mortal era.  

__________

The last thing I remembered was the initial feeling of impalement. Careening off a flight of concrete steps, I flew from my bike onto a metal pole. My back cracked in shards. When I came to, the city was dark. A Rastafarian man burned down a hand-rolled cigarette in the shadows. I knew from his countenance, to walk outside would be a bad move. I did anyways.

The Customs Cabin by Ferdinand du Puigaudeau

The street lamps glowed over empty streets. The absence was chilling, yet I could feel a human presence both alarming and alluring. As I made my way down to the riverbanks, the icy shoreline stared at me with two riveting eyes. The male stance was formidable and intimidating. Fear struck. The air breathed of danger. I needed to know why.

Night on the Southern Shore by Nikolay Dubovsky

As I hurried further on down the shoreline, a group of men whispered in the dark. I quickly smelled the entrenched anger, the mortal struggle at hand. I fled. On my way back, I met a friend from before the accident. He recounted his story, how he had broken his back in an accident that mirrored my own. I didn't question the curious coincidence as he went on to explain the unthinkable, we were now living in a world so hostile to mankind that people were literally killing each other for the last crusts of bread, the last drops of water, the last feet to walk, the last fresh air to breathe, the last day to live.

__________

"towed current
            pulled slow,
            drifted away

hand,
            fingers following new lines
...

virgin thorn brush
            frame lilting strong above the careless face
of artistic madness
in the jokester’s foam and rust
...

the pulse breaking off the tops of widow’s peak waves,
            blushing high over the coastal horizon,

a piercing thought
that boiled in the mind’s own brain,
an intuitive question
            with an answer as certain as death in the next step"

excerpts from "empty Blown mind"

The Inalienable Presence of Bill Hicks and Fidel Castro

Bill Hicks, martyr of the new word order, spellbound to the final laugh, which he is still having. Can you just imagine what he'd be saying now?! 

________

Visiting the home of my friend, a Persian man with whom I collaborate on various literary projects, I greet his entire family, half of whom are European. There is an air of social discord, as the meeting is secretly called in agreement to work towards peaceable resistance to the current status quo. 

A grandmother asks if I am to work on my first film as I walk along a series of picnic tables to have my outdoor meal. “The hummus is down there!” she calls, with respect to my vegetarianism. I sit with my friend’s son, a young and thoughtful individual, who reflects many characteristics of mine. Sitting by the edge of a flowing river, we begin talking about our ideas for social justice action through creative arts. The presence of Fidel Castro hangs over us like a wide-screen TV, as we endeavour to tackle the airwaves of radio with our alternative worldview for a new society. 

Fidel Castro speaking in Havana, 1978

Kicking a soccer ball back and forth, we converse after dinner in the yard, with a wealth of youthful insight and ideation. He kicks the ball in the water and I fly in, swimming in the filthy mud. “How clean is this water?” I ask. “Not very,” he responds, apologetically. 

At that my Persian friend warmly greets us and asks that we join him outside of the house. As we walk, we notice various individuals staging a full-scale rebellion. Although shabby and poorly dressed, they are the weary front of the struggle. Our filmmaking commences through their eyes. 

_________

coursing through the married rings of male-female becoming
like an ageless fight
against the cruel daze
with monotony and clever denial
bequeathed to the jealous children of war
boiling over the holy boom pot of re-created American cookery,
to flash discolored eyes
suddenly into the empty well-cast light
and sense a bravura of internal awakening without respite,
that judgment, cleansed from humanity, will see its day reborn

...

and the rusty match,
raised to presidential beginnings
at the final tuning
beyond a slow curve of national despair,
and the answerless dread, washing over the religiously tired
whose mouths sink into the sea
and blame the faithful for their troubling sense of diversity,
whose risen heart failed to beat upon hearing
her single step

- excerpt from "To There...a single step"

Shelley and the Old Man: A Poetics of Wisdom

The Bard by John Martin (1817)

"...Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noon-day thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
...
By solemn vision, and bright silver dream
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air,
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.
...
Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe
To speak her love:—and watched his nightly sleep,
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent dreams arose; then, when red morn
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.
...
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet
Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones.
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul
Heard in the calm of thought; its music long,
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held
His inmost sense suspended in its web
Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues.
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme,
And lofty hopes of divine liberty,
Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy,
Herself a poet.
...
The spirit of sweet human love has sent
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues
Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade;
He overleaps the bounds.
...
At night the passion came,
Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream,
And shook him from his rest, and led him forth
Into the darkness.
...
the infant would conceal
His troubled visage in his mother's robe
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes,
To remember their strange light in many a dream
Of after-times
...
"Vision and Love!"
The Poet cried aloud, "I have beheld
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death
Shall not divide us long."
...
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank,
Her cradle, and his sepulchre.
...
His eyes beheld
Their own wan light through the reflected lines
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that still fountain; as the human heart,
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,
Sees its own treacherous likeness there.
...
a dream
Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever,
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now..."

- excerpts from "Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

_________

Family festivity! What a roomful of browning noses and brooding eyescapes bleary and peering into the torn pages of emotive remorse, a frequented gasp into the play of genetic strays. Weary, from this we’re born. There is a host of catastrophic laughter, a smiling malaise, distant, nonplussed and concealed with grief all too human. Yet, I am a cheerful sprite. I skip with light movement in between ready-corpsed waylays, the stench of old age drowns the mind in nude happenstance, a picture-perfect stream of inglorious rage, quieted in the mass of group idiocy, stuffing faces with swine and blush. There are those ready to die, they leave through the front door, on crutches, helped by their offspring followers. My grandfather sits, patient as an ancient boulder beneath an old-growth tree, situated in the midst of a construction site. The virgin forest turns to city, as the violent youth pleads with flashy spirituality around the bloody host of tempting boobs and the freewheeling ghosts of enraged awe in the music of the muse. All know me now. A writer! Proud with inherent jealousy, they retch in the folly of pure floosy. Ear to ear my lips point to the insanity ensued, on the asylum Earth with starlight kin, ever distant, asking, “Who flew?”

________

Old Man
"Carl Jung said that the wise old man is the 'archetype of the spirit' and the 'speaking fountainhead of the soul.' Dreaming about him may attempt to bring the dreamer into awareness of the larger meaning of one's life. Old people in dreams represent wisdom and maturity. They may appear in our dream at times of confusion and lack of direction, or when we need consultation and help in decision-making."

________

Land of the Children

“Where are we?”

“Land of the children...
though we so want to see god in this lawless factory of memory stored overnight
flickering wildly on the cinematic map of a deep sleep dream,
forgotten with ease and well-fed stupidity,

grinning with slick hair and smoking against the fact of a quickly approaching change
to inspire the muse of the Forgotten.”

“Was it a dream?”

“Not all of it…”

706pm. Feb 22.

On a plane to Seattle. Sitting in between two middle-aged men. A delay northward.

Rock Marooned on the Margins of Plains and Desert

Pastures in the Otztal by Albin Egger-Lienz

On a high plateau, a full-on butte in the open prairies meeting with the seemingly infinite sands of the painted desert. Upon the head of the butte I am rock marooned with a close friend, an older lady, maybe my stepmother. There are three children with us, two are dark-skinned, the other a whole lot paler. The pale-skinned child has two horns. She runs like a heated ram from within the center of the butte which is quaintly fitted with a bustling steam of desert dust kicked up into the frighteningly high altitude air by a pen of bison and bull. My stepmother takes one of the more complacent, darker skinned children up into her arms and edges against the end of the butte. The vertigo takes hold of the wide midwestern tip of the desert land on this near-impossible butte formation's unlikely vertical stretch towards the Earth's atmosphere. Suddenly, she finds a humongous cylindrical metal pole bending slightly from just under the butte edge to the floor of the desert in the rest of the butte-filled horizon. There is some leftover rope nearby on the ground of the butte, remnants of the misplaced material culture of ranching. I follow my stepmother who steps off the edge of the butte, sliding downwards, she with two of the children. I have tamed the half bull, half child enough to wrap her in my arms for the descent, my stomach in my chest.

Dream of Phra Khru Bah Neua Chai Kositto

Buddhist art in Cambodia by Pwordissony

"I only remember the times I lost...I lost only four times. Most of the time I won with a knock out. I must have had many hundreds of opponents. But I became tired of fighting...for many different reasons. Tired of the whole scene.

And then one of my closest friends was killed in a car accident...and I started to wonder when it is my time to die...would I have achieved peace of mind?

The last time I boxed...was on December 20th, 1990. A month later...after having a vivid dream...I became a monk.

The moment I became a monk, my heart and mind changed...I felt a great calm that I just couldn't explain...I ended up sitting on a rock for 15 days and 15 nights.

I felt such a peace...and then a swarm of bees...built a nest around me and I couldn't move.

It was like a dream in which...the forest was filled with wise men...who taught me their Buddhist ways...When I finally awoke after the 15 days...the sun was bright and the bees were gone.

So I walked further into the hills and saw the villages there. I saw how poor the hill tribe people were.. and I saw their drug addiction. And I asked myself why were their lives so difficult?...why did they have such sorrow?"

from the documentary film "Buddha's Lost Children"