Friday Night at Eight: Fill In

NPK is out prowling tonight and asked me to fill in. To me Friday Night at Eight is NPK giving a sort of beat poet take on the events of the week. It is impressionism, so to speak, of life on teh blogs and the Big Apple. Holding my nose and crossing my legs, I jump in the deep end. Since that is how I role. I also add my proleptic apologies to Robyn, for reasons that shall become clear. I am a thief and a liar, though that too is a lie. Hold on to your hats if you choose to jump in too!

Conservatives, who once stood athwart the stream of history yelling stop, now swim against the tide. The tide of the self-flushed bowl swirling them down into that same history as the world and the Weavemothers shuttle the loom forward always forward at the dawn of a new happentrack. The train no longer running on ‘time,’ but now on change, is a small price to pay. Where were you going in such a hurry anyway, as we already plunge through space on a little blue ball?

You can’t be late until you show up. But showing up is ninety percent of the battle.

As the fear of both being late and showing up fades and new realer fears are appear in the weft we must both sober up and become drunk on joy. Fear never saved anyone, but joy can save the world….or at least our Friday night.



Turtle Creek Chorale, a men’s chorus.

Saved more everyday from false fears that divide us, let us revel in the real fears that just might be our salvation. Equal parts of joy and real fear are a cocktail of exuberance that prevents us from sloth and satisfaction as we oh so temporary firework rockets celebrate burning our joyful sparkling way across the sky that is all that holds us from the dark vacuum of the nothingness from which we emerged and shall return to to rest, for a while, before being lit up again with the fire of life.

A troublesome metaphor, as we look to only where we are going, so quickly. Appreciating neither the art of burning nor often looking back to see the glorious colorful trail we leave behind us in the sky that itself flashes day night day night in a veritable orgy of sunburned (rise set rise set fire of sun and water of cloud glory glory colored uncapturable glory) beauty.

Beauty is joy. Joy is beauty.

Ugliness and hate! Call out the swirling conservatroids in their strange codes of false and dividing fears. Not realizing until to late that you become that which you dream for others. Separation! Separation! they call out as they huddle together…..I NEED my pain. I need YOUR pain. Sorry, the only pain you will get from me is a bitter fuck you as you are washed into the sewers of history. A parting shot as the happentrack leaves you behind in it’s Rush to a future without Rush. The happentrack births a new death and dies a new birth everyday and the joy of the lifeforce has never been able to be contained, only denied. Even the important we, even the essential I are but tiny tiny shards and sparks of it as it presses ever onward down the track and fills all space and every vacuum. All we ever get to choose is whether to keep up, or to fall behind it into the darkness of its wake.

Where is YOUR attention? What Goddess and Gods will YOU worship today? This week marks just another minute in the twilight between the future light of hope and the past darkness of fear. The only thing that matters and all it takes for it to work is more of us choosing to walk forward towards the light than to stand still in the thrall of false fears and let the darkness swirl US into the night.

And every moment and with every instant ….we get to choose again.

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  1. I immediately went to look for the words of a woman who never fails to inspire my rising…Maya Angelou.

    And then there’s this.

    from A Brave and Startling Truth

    By Maya Angelou

    When we come to it

    We, this people, on this wayward, floating body

    Created on this earth, of this earth

    Have the power to fashion for this earth

    A climate where every man and every woman

    Can live freely without sanctimonious piety

    Without crippling fear

    When we come to it

    We must confess that we are the possible

    We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world

    That is when, and only when

    We come to it.

  2. Very nicely said and thought!

    • Robyn on March 7, 2009 at 5:19 am

    …and the Locomotive switched tracks.

    The Storyteller intoned, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog.” The Listener and the Passenger murmured, “Joy to the world.”

    The WeaveMothers noticed, but did not look up from their work.  One and several, however, they smiled.

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