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By the Wings of Dreams

11:37 am in Uncategorized by Isaiah 88

Richard Bach . . .

Don’t believe what your eyes are telling you. All they show is limitation. Look with your understanding. Find out what you already know and you will see the way to fly.

What do we already know?

We know there’s no light at the end of this war economy tunnel. We know the Wall Street bankers are the tunnel diggers, we know the two-party-system politicians are the shovels, we know whenever a shovel breaks the bankers just buy a new one.

Look beyond the tunnel, look beyond it with your understanding, look above it and you’ll see what has been taken away from us . . .

Lost.
On a painted sky,
Where the clouds are hung,
For the poet’s eye.

The Truth is an epic poem, everyone who tells it has the soul of a poet and the understanding to see what is not meant to be seen. We see the degradation the tunnel diggers will not speak of, the horrors they will not talk about, the treachery they conceal, the corruption they spread like a plague, the blood on their hands that can never be washed away.

Look with your understanding, and you will see you have wings, you will see the sky above you, you will remember why it is there and who it is for.

You will see there are no limitations.

There.
On a distant shore,
By the wings of dreams,
Through an open door.

Distant shores are not limitations, they are destinations. We are the heirs of seekers of peace and justice and equality who reached distant shores on the wings of dreams, who opened doors to a better world, and now it’s our turn.

Become your understanding. Live your understanding. Live it.

Be it.

Be.
As a page that aches,
For a word which speaks,
On a theme that is timeless

Human dignity is timeless, social justice is timeless, compassion for the poor and the exploited is timeless, the anthems of peace and justice and equality are timeless, they have always been sung and always will be . . .

Sing.
As a song in search of a voice that is silent.

Write your song for the silent voices, they will sing if there’s Truth in your song, and the more Truth there is in it, the more they will sing.

Dance.
To a whispered voice,
Overheard by the soul,
Undertook by the heart.

Listen to that whispered voice and remember the oppressed, the silenced, the fallen. Sanctify them. Dissent is a solemn and sacred dance, protest is a solemn and sacred dance, civil disobedience is a solemn and sacred dance. Solemn and scared dances of ultimate meaning and purpose.

Solidarity . . .

Within us all there lies a broken dream.

Within us all there lies the power to restore it.

Of Protest and Outcasts and Unarmed Truth

12:35 pm in Uncategorized by Isaiah 88

Boris Pasternak . . .

I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats – any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death – then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself. But don’t you see, this is just the point – what has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but an inward music: the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful attraction of its example.

The music of unarmed truth has been heard at Los Alamos, it’s being heard across Canada, Bernie Sanders is composing it in Congress, it’s been sung for a son who’s gone for a soldier, it’s being sung everywhere the truth needs to be heard, by men and women of moral courage who don’t need the meaning and purpose of it all explained to them by me of all people.

They know why the caged bird sings.

The literature and music of our age echo with lyrical truth, our best writers of stories and songs know why the people are many and their hands are all empty, they know why the pellets of poison are flooding our waters, they’ve lived where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison, they’ve warned us the executioner’s face is always well hidden, they’ve seen what this country’s become, a feeding ground for the beasts of greed, a corporate hell where hunger is ugly and souls are forgotten.

Dark images from the pages of the greatest of writers are casting shadows across the pages of our own lives. Conservatives have stitched a scarlet letter on every woman who won’t submit to their misogyny. Boehner isn’t Speaker of the House, he’s Lord of the Flies. Wayne LaPierre isn’t the head of the NRA, he’s Captain Ahab, hunting down the great white whale of gun control across an ocean of blood, while posting reassuring messages like this on Twitter . . .

The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eyeballs ache and ache, my own beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I walk to thee! Arm the teachers. Arm the children. Arm everyone. Let’s roll!

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, or the month after that, and each separate dying ember of democracy wrought its ghost upon the floor.   And as Ahab sailed on and the Raven brought him another drink, through the mists of time I heard Obama’s vow of government transparency, but his words like silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence.

The national security state has built walls, a fortress deep and mighty, that none may penetrate. The tin soldiers of that fortress talk without speaking, they hear without listening, they pay no attention to the serfs beyond the walls, who keep squandering their resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises. Their elections are all lies and jest, the tin soldiers hear what they want to hear and disregard the rest.

Hear your inner music and share it, because too many Americans are wandering lost between sundown’s finish and midnight’s broken toll, too many outcasts are burning constantly at stake, too many searching ones are out on a speechless, seeking trail to nowhere, too many unharmful, gentle souls are misplaced inside a jail, there are too many aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed, too many countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones and worse.

The lyrics and music of Dylan and Simon, the  words and themes of Pasternak and Melville and so many others, affirm that lyrical truth isn’t written in the dead language of power, it speaks in living words straight from the heart of human experience, it’s enlightenment, it’s liberation, it’s the path to healing in this world of pain.

Lyrical truth.  Tell it and speak it and think it and breathe it.   Heal yourself with it, heal others with it, because too many people feel like this . . .

I’ve been down on the bottom of a world full of lies,
I ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ in anyone’s eyes,
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear,
It’s not dark yet, but it’s gettin’ there.

 

Only the truth can heal us, only the truth can set us free . . .

 

The Whisper of Pages Turning

12:18 pm in Uncategorized by Isaiah 88

Stephen King . . .

Be prepared to see it all. If you want to write, don’t you dare commit the immorality of stopping on the surface. Go deep. No matter how much it hurts.

Every day, millions of people stop on the surface at political websites, they don’t want to see it all, it hurts too much. So they only look at some of it, they only talk about some of it, they only write about some of it.

MyFDL is different. We go deep, no matter how much it hurts.

Why?

Because the river of time is flowing and its waters are red, because the rule of law is burning, because its a flaming pyre in the roaring throat of the night, because catastrophic climate change is here and isn’t going away, because the politicians of the two-party system never do anything but stand at their podiums, their vocal chords vibrating with meaningless noise while Obama plays his fucking fiddle with a broken bow, serenading himself for lighting more fires than he put out, serenading the Wall Street gods who own his ass, serenading the legions of the empire as they get ready to march into Persia, so this economy of the war machine, by the war machine, and for the war machine shall not perish from the earth.

That’s why.

I’ve never been a front-pager, I’m not a leader of anyone or anything, I’m just another wanderer on the back roads of this fading world, where reality still endures somehow, where there are no fiscal cliffs, where you can hear the whisper of pages turning in the Book of Resistance, on which the deepest truths are written, truths the tongues of politicians have never uttered, truths it is up to us to proclaim after long centuries of silence, so this won’t all end in the carnage of resource wars raging across a poisoned world, so the last starlight anyone ever sees won’t glint coldly on global wreckage and ruin.

You can pull onto those well-known website highways to nowhere, hit cruise control, and watch the blank billboards go by, or you can walk along the back roads of truth with us, on roads taken by only a few so far, on the only roads that can lead any of us home. There’s a spirit here, the spirit of the lyre and the laurel and the long road, the spirit of protest songs and poetry that will never die, the spirit of resistance and redemption, the spirit of Selma and Birmingham Jail and I Have a Dream, the spirit of everyone in every land in every age who ever spoke truth to power.

They walked the long road.

So can we . . .

Riding Chariots of Fire

1:20 pm in Uncategorized by Isaiah 88

The tens of millions of Americans planning to vote for Romney and Republican candidates or Obama and Democratic candidates still don’t seem to understand how broken the political system is, they still can’t seem to grasp that there isn’t much point in voting when Wall Street owns 90 percent of the politicians. They don’t like to think about politics, they can’t see the relentless corporate agenda behind all of the two-party system posturing, but they’ve seen plenty of movies, so maybe it can all be explained to them this way . . .

The two-party system has torched you like The English Patient, your civil liberties are Gone With the Wind, open your newspaper and all you see is Pulp Fiction. Nixon said he’d bring us together again, but we got Haldeman and Ehrlichman and their Little Shop of Horrors, Reagan promised morning in America, but we got Dog Day Afternoon, Bush promised compassionate conservatism, but we got the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, the bankers and corporations promised jobs and prosperity, but we got Apocalypse Now.

Put your popcorn down and tell me, do you understand what’s been happening here YET?

No?

Well here’s a red-white-and-blue clue for you . . .

capitalism

Obama promised change, he and his heroic administration were going to ride into Washington on Chariots of Fire and win the future for us, but all we got was Peewee’s Big Adventure. You saw their convention, you heard all the Terms of Endearment as they courted the middle class again, but if Peewee is reelected, he’ll think he’s Frodo again, he’ll put the Ring of Power right back on and we’ll all be stuck in Mordor. With all the orcs. From Here To Eternity.

How many times do you have to see Groundhog Day before you figure this out? It doesn’t matter which corporate party is in power, it doesn’t matter how many times Wall Street robs us blind, there won’t be any indictments, there won’t be any prosecutions, it’s always Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at the Justice Department, it’s always Dances With Wolves at the SEC, it’s always Yankee Doodle Dandy day at the Pentagon, where Iran is the next trillion-dollar-target and everyone and their Uncle Buck will be proud of the troops because They Died With Their Boots On.

Do you still believe in corporate capitalism? Is it still The Sound of Music to you? Is it still A Wonderful Life? I have news for you, you’re in The Matrix, surrounded by greed machines, stop trying to vote your way out of this, stop trying to bend the spoon. There is no spoon.

No matter who wins in November, we‘re going to get “entitlement reform” and austerity, but it’s not the answer to our fiscal problems. It’s Rosemary’s Baby, it’s A Nightmare on Elm Street, it’s Halloween and all the sequels, it’s The Big Sleep, it’s The Big Chill, it’s The Last Picture Show for the middle class.

Don’t expect the corporate media to warn you about what’s going on, they dragged the truth out into The Killing Fields long ago and executed it with media consolidation bullets while you were watching Desperate Housewives and Dancing With the Stars. So here we are. It’s Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil and you have some choices to make. Maybe you’ll finally make the right ones, but I have to tell you, it’s probably too late to even matter anymore.

US flag flies at half-staff in Washington, The US flag flies at half-staff above the White House in Washington. From the left and the right, politicians and commentators seized on the attemptedassassination of Representative Gabrielle Giffords Saturday as either a reflection of the passions stirred up by rabble-rousing conservatives or the isolated act of an unhinged psychopath.    © Photo copyright Yahoo News

I used to hear protests, I used to hear dissent, the voices of Occupy Wall Street rang out across New York City last fall, but only a handful of people spoke out in Tampa and Charlotte, forlorn shadows on a street corner, surrounded by police. The image of their solitary defiance is already fading, like a whisper of what might have been, like a Requiem For a Dream.

Fascism is being mainstreamed, Americans are being conditioned to it, and as it spreads through our institutions and our political culture, there’s nothing in its way. Nothing. There’s no meaningful resistance from the Left, no concern in the vacant eyes of the tens of millions who keep voting for illusions. I hear no stirring of awareness as that beast closes in, not a sound as the last gates are closed and the last way out is taken away, all I hear is The Silence of the Lambs.