In the diamond at the heart of the moon: An item and sixty-nine notes on the US elections, part 2
by Sam Truitt
An Item: The Only Way to Freedom is Song
As afore (in Part 1), the only way to freedom is song.
I enacted this recently:Song is whatever you make of it, which is its power (you), even the star-spangled one of the doomed empire, as in one of my cocurator Michael Ruby’s interruptions:
O magic property say the stunning can people perform you break and see the svelte
Each of us should have our own anthems.
Past the above I really don’t have anything to say. I’m glad Joe and Kamala won — as noted, it buys a little time — though there is still much to do to flatten the curve of extinctions. What follows below really are notes, fragments, written before the vote and the not-so-clownish, coocoo coup that’s brought teeth to the red scare I experienced in August on the eastern shore of Lake Ontario.
When you’re up to your neck in mud start singing.
Sixty-nine notes before the US elections, Part 2
35. The call “the only way to freedom is song” of course foredooms human governance as the telemetries of “what is” take over and we surrender to another force (as all or most long), the near-term construction of which is song.
36. Aren’t what sings the only forms all of us carry around to carry us on?
37. I’m not sure this is going to work.
38. Nothing works.
39. Nothing works.
40. I work.
41. And so the way ahead is our each individuation actuation of the slogan the only way to freedom is song.
42. The only way to freedom is song.
43. Yet it is there in that each individuated actualization of “what is” is from that displace, what arises, organic, which all of this is about enjoining.
44. Or a form of it is everywhere in the endemic family social construct, and however one measures their incarnations generally — and however dented — god bless them — as I have known them — there is an incandescence of togetherness permeable in that model that might translate as all of us incarnated on this surface unsurprisingly hospitable to us having evolved with it may relate.
45. In the dark summer night to the sound of crickets, all in different parts fragmentary and yet equidistant, constituting a congress and electing no representatives I can name except myself craning above a page in the orange glow of a barndoor light exchanging glances with the night.
46. How close we are to cracking up, to falling apart.
47. Uniquely at this moment King COVID arisen out of our biota is the real ruler of our planet — or if not quite rules us pulls us sideways off the road to slow our careen toward the cliff.
48. Song it’s attested proves a tool in withstanding-torture practice.
49. It’s in the height of otherworldly experience that the poetic takes nourishment to grow this one, as Dante knew and might lock among our primary drives with food, shelter, sex, and altered consciousness, and in the hierarchy of which the desire to make falls right in line as it’s a real pleasure like de/voting to make things — build by whatever means come to hand praise fetishes in the form of a garden of sound planted out which come everybody participating in breaking apart and taking back our energy, and find a slower way to be together apart — hibernate — until we sort this thing out.
Maybe a hundred years (to flatten the curve of extinctions).
51. But first to get the fascists out.
52. An election run on psychedelic principles framing electorates (whatever that means) would be great as its experience shapes in a group what interconnects in speech and action, as the Huichol (the “only real Americans,” as they liken themselves, isolated these past some ten-thousand years in the Sierra Madre Occidental in what is today west-central Mexico) know, song.
53. Maybe this could be part of a voting party or at least its expeditionary force.
54. A parallel to the poetic electorate is the evangelical one.
55. The American dream of the dead we have an opportunity to replace with a reality of equanimity and fellowship among us via revolution of human consciousness or song or cataclysm, whichever comes first, and I’ve always bet on the former though now I feel the last baked into the climate model. Or maybe they will come together and kiss to sing goodbye.
56. Planting in one bios one earth one love one that, plus taking back our energy, may engender via a sincere desire to love ourselves and one another not as any individual experience as much as perineum to fontanel incomprehensible miracle of being at all, and to sing of it as I have said ad nauseum in terms of desire beyond self surrender sustaining the rhyme sung the only way to freedom may lie in “the only way to freedom is song.”
57. (Consult Melville’s The Confidence Man).
58. The Trump Virus was sent by the emissaries of the reality that underlies our existence to wake us up?
Or is it more simply that we placed ourselves in nature in order to keep us from cracking up?
59. One spin once upon a time — one spin — about to lose my mind, or find it in a song — tragic word stood in place of nothing we can live within breathing the only way to freedom is Montgomery.
60. It finds displace in that to which we are akin, that more than reproductive “rights” relates to what we are “like,” or what we like, or what we are attracted to, what a society based on art would open as a basis of all arts like Duchamp pointed is desire. It’s not replicatable, and so while it may be “manufacture” it may only happen once, manually, just like us, out of what reaches, broadly speaking.
Can you leap now further than this?
61. Experience Experiment:
I want to invite everybody to where I am in woodship environs to camp out on the knoll above our house and in the woods and we can grow what we need and work for what we feed back to earth our gratitude and have great exchanges and evening gatherings of readings and plays and music parties for as long as we can extend it in time and multiply it in space (max cubed) tuned to the good we may do to heal the last 150 years since Titusville and the balance of our collective nausea in the Bernaysian nightmare used to scam our planet before we wake — and I really mean it as geese trail above me southeast toward the land for the night to invite all here to feast on smashing the machine as jaunt and laughingly as possible — and we just have to crash the electrical systems in our own brains to get there — and yet I really just want to be with my friends both those I know and known I will know when I meet them on the crossroads — the electorate — which is where we are without a flicker of doubt and all dreams end or began on November 3rd like some massive ballast of history of the human psyche balances here and some approximation of life on Earth as we have known it according to our current, diluted definition of which is a sad tangent, spur, withered branch waving the last flag the last of us will brandish.
62. And yet we are one bios one earth one love broken into trillions of parts.
63. America should dominate the manufacturing sector as we are a nation of poets — that poetry is at the root of being human, much of which has been stripped away from us when we were forced to serve a consumer economic model. That might be the basis for a lot of our contemporary neurosis — alienated from our nature as an advanced animal based on making structures to while away the knowledge we will die, with some made of words beside stories of our cooperation in which people may exercise their nativity making, and close to the ground sources of energy or at least as locally as possible with the pith of societies based on equilibriums of the distribution of poesis as the root of the nature we share with creation — because we actually don’t need much except a few simple things and what abides the space to care for them and each other — like this street I live on could become, if the right force hit it, and we were made to band and survive ourselves isolate and securing energy somewhere make food heat and bam! enough surplus to throw a party and become occult.
64. For a little time, try if you can. We just need the money, though I’m not sure for what.
65. All the Confederate statues razed in cities across the country should be replaced by monuments to victims of police murder.
66. The arts collectives of cities across the country should be directed to works that might celebrate the lives of local people killed by police violence.
67. “Say Stop. // Keep your lips pressed together / after you say the p: // (soon they’ll try / and pry // your breath out —)” from “Instructions for Stopping” (Dana Levin)
68. And I think all these schemes of autonomous artistic mind mapping communities focused around some common interest is not that farfetched within a broader dimension of electoral politics that as people begin to groove with each other along vectors of interest, natal limitations will fall away like so much scaffold.
69. I hope poets will spearword this shift.
Poetry and the 2020 election