It seems as if Syria and Washington are mirror images of one another: impossible partisanship, corruption, lack of fear of war in fact acceptance of bloodshed and acceptance of slaughtered children at the hands of long-distance missiles and drones...
Life passages like birth, good fortune, love, a friend's death - invite us to step back and take that panoramic view of our lives. Something from the terrible summer of murderous cops and beheadings and the Earth's ongoing disasters has run straight into the good things, like receiving such gifts from you our electronic congregation (as well as physical neighbors on Sherman Street in Brooklyn) so that now we can go to Ferguson and sing and go to Monsanto's headquarters and have an organic and very public Thanksgiving meal. So, despair and radical change, the past and the future are dueting, like our emotions during a life event.
Things are going so badly now in the world and in our country that our activism feels like we are laying down a marker for a future that we can barely see. But life beyond the corporate state will be made unimaginable by the corporation. Of course. That is marketing’s job. So now our imagination needs your imagination. We'll have to keep each other going for awhile, and it might feel like our feet are off the ground.
People say "I'll be dead anyway" to my face. We pretend our grandchildren will wear flotation devices and burn suits to pre-K? The migration of millions from the coasts we treat like a TV show in re-runs. We have adopted the purposed forgetting of the Hiroshima and Holocaust survivors, but now we do it in advance.
Just enough for the next activist transgression. Or as we say - "transformative trespass." I'm back in San Francisco this morning. about midway between the end of the last Joe's Pub show in New York's Public Theater and the return to that radical cabaret for the holiday run in November.
Savitri kneels before a flower in the Queen Bee gown with swirling hive as the crown, while Lena watches from deeper in the grass. Near the Giant's Causeway west of Belfast (the Irish Sea is just beyond the horizon of this picture) are the haunting sea-cliff meadows. the home of last of the Colette's Bee. These are not hive bees, but "solitary bees" that burrow down in the turf of this windy grass and flowers. This year a right wing rich Irish-American is buying the land and converting it to hotels and golf courses.
There is something the Information Age cannot say. The crisis of the Earth is reported to us as numbers. A hurricane has a category number, a minimum and maximum wind speed, and a cost in number of dead and number of billions. This is classic for the dot com era, where public talk is abbreviated, snarky, and a wet cat doing chin-ups can go viral like the 9th Symphony used to.