I make no guarantee this will make sense to anyone but me. But I’ll share it anyways.
Rapid movements in the hands, searching for that certain cohesion of thought, the glue that would grip all sides of the swarm of colliding stars in my mind. I find myself imbuing myself with the flavor of the beat poets tossing frenetically the will for words not yet painted upon the page in electronic, LCD constellations.
Like Ginsberg stumbling through buddhist chants in Lincoln Park, fighting for the cause of peace between two warring factions of society. Attempting deescalation with the resonance of voice against the front of the skull, you know, the sinus cavities and the wall of the sternum to sort of tie the two together. There was once great power in the “om” chant for it was believed that it brought unity between the two great warring parts of the body, the heart and the mind. Let that rattle while your eyes are closed, relaxing muscles from the top down and feel the fine vibration in the cells of your being.
Ginsberg sought his peace, fighting in the realm of the war gods. Like Paul at the Areopagus, the temple of the war god, pointing out that there are some things you can’t contain, some things that break through the very bonds that men consider walls, containment, by their very nature. For Paul it was the eternal God who was unknown to the Athenians who built idols and structures for gods, with the lower-case g, that even they didn’t know the name of. Paul gave them THE truth to their faces in a temple built for idolized war. Ginsberg was seeking love and in a country up to their very neck in war where students were not safe from the brutality of police squadrons hefting billy clubs rocketing, in great arcs, cans of tear gas into the scrambling masses of people. All the while these sheep to the slaughter held up a sign once meant for victory in a prior time of war but now had been mobilized as a sign of peace.
A small band of men who lived, loved and believed to the very core of their beings that there was an external to the things we internalize. An eternal to the finite, however, let us not restrict ourselves to timelines for we while our time may someday come, life must be lived so that we can say we regret nothing. That our souls were painted on our faces and our hearts beat together as one giant caucophany, a symphonic battery. Let us not mourne for those that have died but celebrate in those that are alive and that includes the one that came back and will wrap us all in white cloths one day with great rays of joy. We know there can be peace in places and times of war. So, like Ginsberg, let’s connect wires from head to heart and fear not. Like Peter, should we speak the truth and urge others to seek it, not in the confines of closed-in woodwork we call walls but everywhere holy, which is everywhere we breathe… If we look.