For those of us whose apparent mission on this beautiful but fading blue sphere is to save mankind from the vile creatures who now, and have throughout history controlled its spiral into ruination and damnation, our likelihood of any degree of success sometimes appears pretty dismal. On this beautiful Sonoran Desert evening, with Spring and rebirth just a few days away, one of those books responsible for opening my eyes to an extremely uncomfortable level jumped off the shelf, begging to be readdressed. “JFK And The Unspeakable Why He Died And Why It Matters” by James W. Douglass now haunts me, goading me into singing yet another hopefully harmonious song to the choir. Although John Kennedy’s early actions in office left something to be desired, at some point in time he had an epiphany and a vision of peace which led directly to his final rendezvous with death.
According to Douglass, Kennedy’s favorite poem was “Rendezvous”, written by Alan Seeger who, apparently sensing his own impending demise, was killed in World War I. A few weeks before his assassination, while deep in enemy territory (a meeting with the National Security Council in the White House Rose Garden), JFK was interrupted by five year old daughter Caroline. The meeting was then halted while the little girl gazed at her daddy and recited from memory his favorite poem.
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air-
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath-
It may be I shall pass him still.
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
The Matrix they’ve now created is only vaguely understood by a chosen few of us lunatic outlaws, living out here on society’s fringe among the cactus and sagebrush. What chance do we have of awakening the masses of Peasants? How do we distract them from nibbling on their life-sustaining table crumbs? What chance do we have of convincing them that the enemy, from whom they seek protection, is that person in the mirror? It is impossible to awaken those who only pretend to sleep, goes an old (apparently) Navajo saying. Prisoners, over time, grow to love their shackles and the protective bars on their windows. Kennedy, who managed to attain a position of power, never had a real chance. And nobody with similar aspirations will ever again be allowed into those hallowed halls in Washington, D.C. Unless, of course, some unexpected cataclysmic event awakens the unwakeable masses.
I take my frequent desert hikes much the way I write, with only a vague objective, unprepared for weather, often without water, and off-trail. So now, like most articles I blunder into without a clear plan, this one has great potential to end on a sour note of doom and gloom. And why not? Hopelessness is the best of excuses to give up and throw in the towel. My concentration rudely interrupted by a twin pair of F-Whatever-the-fucks out of nearby Davis Monthan Air Force Base, blasting boisterously, brazenly through the heavens. Chilling me to the bone with an obscene imitation of giant roaring lions or wounded walruses, and piloted by pimple-faced, barely more than adolescents, flight suit crotches stained with wet dreams of real action. A reverberation felt from the pit of my stomach to my fingertips. I try to imagine how terrifying they would be when accompanied by all the firepower they were designed to deliver to unappreciative foreigners. The aftermath. Body parts dangling from broken branches of scorched trees. Wails of the living. Groans of the dying. Crumbling buildings. Must just sound WMDelicious. Ah, what the Crown must do to dispatch freedom and democracy to “the others”. And the way the whole idea of warfare is sold to an appreciative public is just amazingly creative. What the Crown does, it does well.
Instead of looking at the half empty glass, maybe we should start filling the one that’s half full. Personally, I’ve spent entirely too many of my seventy years holding my tongue, for fear of insulting others. I have not always spoken the truth, as I see it, for fear of rejection, of the whispers behind my back, of labels; un-American, un-patriotic, weirdo, wacko, and so forth. Although in my defense, I do usually have an unusually large and vocal mouth. But sometimes is not enough. If ya wanna fly free as a bird, you have to go out on a limb, and only the truth shall set you free. Take a chance. Occasionally you’ll turn on a light in an otherwise dim mind, witness a few moments of despair, followed by dull eyes turning bright with newly found truth. Another soul who realizes that love is the answer. A compadre, a comrade, a brother, or sister. Another thorn in the side of the Crown…hay, how about a crown of thorns and a crucifixion? A figurative crucifixion of course. My dream of true justice for those at the top of the Feudal Pyramid would be to round them all up and deliver them to the Island of Lanai in the Hawaiian chain. Larry Ellison owns it anyway. We could leave them with some (organic) seeds, shovels, rakes, and hoes, a year’s supply of food, confiscate all boats, and put a 24/7 fleet of patrol boats on duty to make certain that none of the bastards, nor their progeny ever set foot off the island again. If only dreams came true!
We have a rendezvous with life, or one with death. Simple choice, and ours to make. We’re all stronger and mightier than we know. We’re all potential superheroes with powers and abilities far beyond what we’ve been told since childhood. Here in the belly of the beast, here in the U. S. of A. we’re at ground zero in the battle between good and evil. You and I have stopped buying what they’re selling, stopped listening to their lies, and are now creating our own narrative…our own hopes, dreams, and plans for a bright tomorrow will achieve fruition if we are relentless. A storm is rolling in from over the Santa Catalina Range. An electrical storm. Gotta see if this works. I read about it in Tom Wolfe’s first person account of the adventures of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters back in the mid-60’s. Kesey was on the run because of a number of (legal) problems in the U.S.A. and, well here’s his account of the incident from Tom Wolfe’s “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test”:
“One night in Mexico, in Manzanillo I took some acid and I threw the I Ching. And the I-Ching, the great thing about the I-Ching is, it never sends you Valentines, it slaps you in the face when you need it-and it said we had reached the end of something, we weren’t going anywhere any longer, and it was time for a new direction-and I went outside and there was an electrical storm, and there was lightning everywhere and I pointed to the sky and lightning flashed and all of a sudden I had a second skin, of lightning, electricity, like a suit of electricity, and I knew it was in us to be superheroes and that we could become superheroes or nothing. “
I’ll be damned if I’m going to be nothing, so superhero it is! And here comes that storm. Just look at those lightning flashes. One of them has my name on it. How do you suppose he did it? Did Kesey just point at the sky like this? Oh, that’s getting close. Oh my. Oh.