Surrealist gesture

    Dark times my friend, confusion reigns at home and abroad (a sad truth no matter where you live). Everything is a bit old and rotten, even perfect innocence one day oozes out a thick black oil of vitriol straight from its very heart. Then you have to put it down like a rabid dog. Shotgun to the brains and then the silence of release.  A slow, painful trickle of complete loss. You have to be able to look this death in the eye without flinching, you have to stand tall and vibrant against this increasingly dull and soggy world. We are comrades. We must write about love. We must lead by example. proselytize our agitprop of apropos absolutes. The love of everything all at once, screaming, bleeding, fucking, passionate love of love. Life is worth love. We must stalk this elusive lion and pull the thorn from its distorted paw which has been piercing it for far too long. Substance and purity have been leaking out around the wound, causing a dilution. Love is the true liberation, without it there is no Surrealism. Without Surrealism there is no one to fight on the front lines for love. Take bullets and punches, have our guts removed by bayonets soaked in paint sold to us for far too high a price. The days are meaner and more vicious to the human verb by the minute, the skies more poisoned, our food more vulgar and plastic. We continue to slink away, afraid of recognizing our increasing dehumanization, our increasingly devalued minds, emotions and desires. We’ve been manipulated like poor, dirty puppets, all gnat infested potato sacks and old, rusted buttons. We must soak these trappings in our genocide-supporting petroleum and set the match of love to ourselves in order to purify our lost selves. Only when we truly let go of the meaningless fodder; the world they’ve invented, interpreted to us and addicted us to, will we start to use our eyes for the first time (all three of them). A flower, a woman, a man, a child, a mind, an anything, EVERYTHING even the worst of ourselves can be enriched, supported, created, fulfilled and convinced by, and with, love. Please throw away all trite, grandiose pre-conceived notions about the futility of “love” and its complete lack of conviction and/or power. Love is not a limp, static word which sits, impatiently upon the lips of teenagers who stand precariously on the brink of their awkward hormones. It is real, it is a power of unbelievable force and it is not fragile or banal. When known, it is more destructive than the atom bomb. It is the force of a million explosions, sitting ready, buzzing and coursing through every cell in your body. It is the bomb shelter of the soul and the ultimate weapon of freedom simultaneously. It is that moment, while reading a book, when you have a moment of understanding, of great learning – and suddenly a whole other part of your brain lights up and functions in a new way that you never imagined it would. It is a drug of potent addictive qualities. You taste it and it only increasing your hunger, driving you to the point of insatiable dependence upon those brilliant, bright colored flashes of peace and understanding. A silence after a hum…

(Think about this, and contribute your own paragraph in this space)

So we must stand up and shout, yes. Not only shout, but we must believe our convictions. We can only harness the limitless potential if we truly carry the faith and remain honest in our brilliant insanity. A hundred different choirs singing a thousand different songs. Dissonant, perhaps, yet deeply, richly textured with beauty, with creation, with art. Love. We have no choice but to understand, to bend and be loyal servants to the tip of our swords.

You have my support and I appreciate yours, please send people my way if you desire, I will never turn them away, I have an open door and bread under my roof which they can chew and get stuck to the roofs of their mouths.