In Our Place to Hide and Burn

Note: The reader should ask me to address my experiences with a lack of civility among activists. And with Edna. [Pause.] Please. Those from Georgia and Texas who I reached out to this past week should glance at the posts two and three articles back, not this, not the previous post either. Only where my light resonates. [Pause.] Dwell there.

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light! — Edna

In Our Place to Hide and Burn
Love has no end
by Ox E1#view=detail&mid=08F75D4827BD6C81945A08F75D4827BD6C81945A/

I don’t mean to scare away any activists, giving them the wrong mundane idea. But movement in solidarity is all about love for me. It’s not about being partners in crime against the powers that be, but — RATHER — the expression of love together.

That essential element is not acknowledged ‘cross the board in activist circles. Sure, one hears all sorts of declarations of love here and there for one another and others. Not what you’ve heard, that’s not what I’m talking about. RATHER the general love of humanity is spotlighted in obligatory talk talk… self-important (self-designated so) concerned citizens fighting their good fight in tight corners, convincing themselves they’re making a difference they’re not making in the Big Picture… which must be viewed if the inroads made in those tiny corners are going to be worth the candle. In short, the activists come up short… portioning out their heartbeats to serve, they say, in a way that’s obsolete today.

It’s not that the tourniquets being applied are not necessary, deserving of applause, support. RATHER… only love — very specifically directed at those one is working with shoulder to shoulder — can help a given group to deal with the source of bleeding… which is at the core of what I’m calling the Big Picture.

That “love” must be concerned, among other things, with the rent that one’s comrade must pay, the personal hurts that plague that comrade. That buddy may have to go home alone at night without your touch, without your presence, BUT… the bond of love (made during the day together) must travel with that lonely soul, all of us being such lonely souls. The connection must be much stronger than what I have witnessed nationwide over the last nine years, watching very closely for such healthy silver cords.

We are all brief candles. Ego must be respected… what nurtures the hidden whatever that resides in the sweet soul searching… BUT RATHER than feed it as the primary drive that must be honored.

Oh, no. =VIRE1#view=detail&mid=D75D2ECA703228929AC1D75D2ECA703228929AC1

Ego must go… for all practical purposes. Christopher Hitchens’ criticism of Mother Theresa notwithstanding, we must all become Jesus or something of the sort. [Covering all kinds of variations on that theme from T. Paine to tortured Tolstoy, only compassion counting.] The thrust of all that must be embraced and moved on… together.

And in this Horror midst this increasingly crowded Heavenonearth with its horridmomentum, activists worth their salt will need a place to halt, hide. Not atomized. RATHER… with others.

The “silver cords” reference (taken from Sidney Howard’s work) and the jumbling together of “Heaven on earth” (affecting Cummings) reflect my deep literary roots. That part of me, and all parts of me must be acknowledged by my buddies as we move through the barren landscape that is America, trying to make a difference in solidarity. And all of the counterparts which reside in my brothers and sisters who may pretend that they do not need a place to hide as they serve serve serve…. Well, ALL of those counterparts begging for attention… must not be ignored. None denied.

In our place to hide.

The sacred space we make.

Love has no end. RM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=919AE207DE3E8798500C919AE207DE3E8798500C

Afterthoughts: Everyone should be as fortunate as I am. See my beautiful family spotlighted under the ‘About Us’ banner above. I look forward to blending into a larger family as others see fit… but bonding, creating a sense of community which has disappeared. It may not be possible for one and all to be actually living in close proximity, but some sense of community — even from a distance — is possible certainly. On some healthy terms. The “community” created courtesy of high tech gadgetry is not what I’m talking about. RATHER… it’s a community of close-knit souls I seek. Where love has no end.


“When I think of ‘burn’, Papi, I think of emitting light or becoming dissipated.” — one of the author’s home schooled teenage charges, having read this particle (party pseudo-poetry, part article)

Boy, do I have strange stories to tell you about White Buffalo.

Still, love endures… except on Facebook and its first cousins… where it’s defaced. [Elaboration gladly, upon request.]