Activism

I’m reading tompaine.com and searching for common sense. I have said before that if you’re in a band, and you don’t think you’re at least as good as the Rolling Stones (or whoever your particular idol is), then you might as well hang up the guitars and become accountants. The point is that while every garage band does not have what it takes to become a legend, if it does not THINK it has what it takes, it doesn’t have a chance — even if it has whatever other ingredients are required. Ringo Starr once said, “For a while, we thought the Beatles were the greatest band in the world. And it turns out, we were.”

The same thing applies to everything we do — but particularly to political activism, I think. We look at figures like Gandhi, Tutu, King (and maybe even Abbie Hoffman) and say, “Man, we’ll never have that kind of impact. We’ll never be that.” And so we never have the chance.

The bottom line is this: either you think you can change the world, or you can’t. Changing the world is not a small undertaking. In fact, no one in their right mind even expects that changing the world is necessarily a good thing, or possible. Even fewer really believe that they know how it should be changed.

But it can be done. It must be done, on occasion. But in order for it to occur, there have got to be people out there not who believe that they are on a par with Gandhi, or Tutu or Mandela, but who are their own equivalents. It’s a dangerous path. Gandhi didn’t believe that he was changing the world. He just did what he knew was right.

The trick is to avoid those comparisons altogether. To stop ranking revolutionaries by their press. And to believe that you can make a difference, simply by doing what is right. If you don’t believe you can do it, it will never happen.

A recent article I read
bewailed the current clime:
where democrats are losers,
and the left wing in decline.

It said, observing Tutu dancing,
we will not be him;
our causes never quite that grand,
our aspirations, whims.

Most activists I know, in fact,
regard themselves as small,
and rate their struggles miniscule
despite grand names and all.

That seems so self-defeating;
to restrict yourself to trite
rehashing of some petty cause
and never see the fight.

It’s like a band in a garage
when someone dares suggest
that they could be the Rolling Stones…
and awestruck, only jest.

While it is true, the fighter’s forged
in a specific flame,
one can be just as meaningful
without being the same.

Too many think the battle’s
in the streets or on TV;
the truth is, wars are won or lost
inside of you and me.

21 JAN 2005

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New Year’s Eve 2004

I may resolve to change my ways this year,
exchange old habits for ones I’ve not tried.
But there’s no point in much of that, I fear,
for one’s true nature cannot be denied.

Perhaps I’ll vow to focus more on things
that increment the positive aspects,
but who knows what the future’s bound to bring?
The lessons never come like you expect.

The truth is, all the seeds for next year’s fruit
would not be useful now unless the ground
for planting them had been already tilled.

My only hope is that the land will suit,
and that the right conditions will abound.
Should that occur, my barn’s already filled.

31 JAN 2004

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What It Isn’t

It’s not about learning to draw a clearer picture of the ruins
It’s not about taking a sledge hammer to the ivied hallowed halls
It’s not about the trash you can talk about those who disagree
It’s not about undercovering where lies are passed as truth
It’s not about reporting the faux paus and misdirections
It’s not about informing others where they’ve gone astray
It’s not about conversion by a sword called something else
It’s not about the polls that show your side is in the lead
It’s not about great solidarity and getting numbers
It’s not about the old news that the corporations run it
It’s not about watching the old order wither and die
It’s not about spelling out in clever words the problem
It’s not about discovering some esoteric They
It’s not about dropping the bombshell in the new Enquirer
It’s not about retaking Washington without a battle
It’s not about some new magic pill, prescription or placebo
It’s not about returning to some halycon of light
It’s not about appealing to the undecided middle
It’s not about pretending to undo decades of hatred
It’s not about protecting and preserving ways of life
It’s not about convincing yourself that your cause is justified
It’s not about selecting from the lesser of two evils

It’s not about the problem.
It’s about the solution.

Everyone can talk for days about how fucked the world is.
Who is willing to admit that changing that world
Means changing yourself,

Not your employer,
Not your neighbor,
Not your family,
Not your Congressman,
Not your President,
Not your religion.

Not just that. But at least that.

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A Different Revolution

Despite what you may read in books, no revolution brews
in noisy bars or quiet cafes among agreeing friends
who decide the status quo is flawed, and pay their dues
producing pamphlets that describe the means to reach some end.

It is not action by committee, out to change the face
of the illusions that surround the minds of men and states;
these mere revolts exist in unreal time and space
and merely shift the larger portion to a different plate.

To truly change the world requires that in a single mind
the thought of reaching past the known burns with undying fire,
and in that place where none imagine who or what they’ll find
to dare to step, with one’s one feet, into a quagmire

that wretches the security from culture’s safety net,
believing that the best has never happened yet.

It is not revolution to in any way believe
that those who are your enemies exist to bar your path;
and only would-be rebels are by this pretense deceived,
led to some senseless slaughter, while seeming opponents laugh.

15 JUN 2004

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While Reading of Ginsberg’s Life

To wake
while reading William Blake
to taste of life in dreamlike doses
flexing the sinews of the mind
in the fight against some status quo
that lumbers, like a Clydesdale pair
to drag a dying culture’s broken-wheeled cart
along the muddy ruts
of road built to achieve a purpose
travel to the same crowded cities
filled with lives teeming with uncertainty
holding fast to corroded dreams
that emphasize our lack of clarity

the underlying pinions of capitalism
wasted on the ill-at-ease, the wayward pilgrims
seeking truth despite the cost
their families shamed and raked with muck
in vain attempts to build illusions
that all’s right with the world

there is a need for change, for growth.

26 APR 2004

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Changing the World

If I say I want to change the world

without asking first its permission
without asking the right questions
without first accepting my limitations
without wondering about my own role
without looking beyond my own hard science
without recognizing the status quo
without battling my own personal demons
without watching first, and listening
without staking my reputation
without risking seeming foolish
without figuring out what I am willing to die for
without doubting my own abilities
without seeing the possibility of loss
without shaking the roots of my faith
without wanting to be amused
without having second thoughts
without giving up what this world gives me
without reaching beyond my grasp
without rejecting some kind of immortality
without changing myself

what kind of revolutionary am I?

Only in a world that needs changing so desperately,
it clings to any prop, regardless of whether or not that prop may float
where those who populate that world
do not ask those questions of themselves,
without my prompting,
would such a revolutionary be followed.
I would not follow them, myself.

In that kind of world, there is no revolution,
only the illusion of rebellion,
a paper tiger tossed by an apathetic hand
into the glowing embers
of the same old song and dance.

How many revolutionaries does it take to change a light bulb?
One, if the light bulb wants to be changed.

22 AUG 2003

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In Boston

In Boston, where I cut my teeth
on the raw meat of delusion,
and watched myself in disbelief
live penniless out on the street,
my college days found conclusion.

There on the green line, Brookline bound,
I took a job dispensing meat,
catching the train just above-ground
where the fare was free, and found
my way back home on snowy streets.

I lived on brown rice and boiled beans
(having not the funds to acquire
the steaks I hawked) and sorted greens;
and turned my hard earned meager means
over to an ex-friend and liar.

There were many ex-friends those days,
all concerned that I might impose,
asking a spot to store my clothes
watching the clock during my stays;
there were better guests, I suppose.

Not like the early summer time,
when I first moved into Beantown
and thought to turn my life around —
in Berklee’s halls to find sublime
music, and perhaps write it down.

But who you are will seek you out
despite your best efforts to change,
and every granule of self-doubt
you own it will bring out, and flaut,
making your thoughts crazy and strange.

And then all you can do is leave
behind those tattered dreams, that place,
knowing yourself no more deceived.
Then, in memories later retrieved
there is no point in saving face.

15 AUG 2003

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