Here we are: a Greek theater. A tragic chorus, a comedic chorus. A tribe in the midst of the dance where everybody dances.
Uncle John is working the show, as an electrician. We are in the show, as electricity, conducted under the soft blue dome of sky.
One becomes an expert at listening, working through one’s psyche, spelunking in the caves of the Id, in a three-night stand like this. As Bergson knew, duration is the key to understanding time. Seeing multiple shows offers the wisdom of marriage.
Hi my name is: ___Andy_________. (There is the contribution of my neighbor. My journal is his name tag).
The drugs work! I can work! Here’s some work:
Learn how to funk it up in the face of death. The lesson of this song “Possum”, a meditation on driving down the road and being confronted with death. But this meditation grooves. It takes metaphysical talent to groove this hard with death. But Trey Anastasio is reading his guitar cues somewhere above our heads, gaping, eyes intent on some kind of telos prompter.
Another neighbor writes in my journal: Laugh and the world laughs too.
My response: get high and the world gets high too.
The jam is always relevant. Because it fits everywhere. You cannot have an irrelevant night here unless you are lazy.
Most of my life has been spent making sure a woman won’t leave me.
“This time will be different, this time will be different…until I do it again” he sings. But the third time he leaves off the ‘until I do it again’ and just jams. Of course this time will be different—every jam is. In every jam there is the hope that we are not just repeating ourselves. That, contrary to Cesare Pavese’s intuition, it is not the case that “what has been, will be.” In any case this blues has become supersonic blues, elevating it into the realms of pop.
Time really only offers up its fruits when you lose track of it. Hard, because you love it so much and you have so little of it. There lies the rub.
1 pill of aderol and 4 shots of supersonic blues. We want to believe anything is possible. To do this, start with techniques of defamiliarization and deterritorialization, using light, duration, chemical alteration, unfamiliar language. Then, we need a direction. Find a city, the band says, via David Byrne. Not enough. There needs to be a sense that anything is possible politically, which is to say that the political is now social and material.
To imagine crazy things such as flying horses and women as large as the temple is good training for this kind of belief. Good training for, say, the belief that we could do without the really poor or really rich. For the belief that property rights are not what make us human or happy. For the belief that it’s possible to all together disrupt the machine merely by quitting out little cog-parts.
There is plenty of faith—look at the churches.
There is plenty of will—look at the philosophers.
There is plenty of energy—look at this show.
But now we need a direction. The band provides fist in the air power. Now write the fight into this power. “Got a blank space where my fight should be”, to revise Trey’s lyrics. That’s my challenge to you.
So loving and casually eternal with my Linz tonight.
Things to remember:
- type with the kind of ruthless forward movement of “Weekapaug Groove”
- the show of life is being played right now. You’re on. Play.
- You can always be at the show at least with Vanessa and Lindsey.
The Sacred Dice - A Revolutionary Salon
The Sacred Dice is a salon of musicians, scholars, poets, sound sculptors, activists and artists of all kinds committed to art that is committed. That could get us committed (to an asylum). That disdain's art for art's sake and artists who have no idea why they do what they do. We know why we do what we do--to create and celebrate community in a country still stuck in capitalist fantasies of individualism. If you want in, you're in. If you want out, don't worry--you already are.