Somewhere to Somewhere

Faded marble, faux labyrinthine cathedral architecture — a fitting mausoleum  for a bygone age.  Three quarters of the  structure roped off, closed, abandoned for years.  The trains look so rusted and tired.  The baggage handlers, clerks, conductors, all old, cold efficient, move with beleaguered weariness as well.

Denver for a moment, though where I am does not matter.  Limbo is my true abode.  Boston is my destination.  Falling through the cracks, getting lost in the gearworks of America, torn to pulverized gristle, is my true direction.

Something seems so colossal and terrifying about this monolithic, technological world.  Can a person be an alien to a place, a time, a society, they have been enveloped within for twenty years?  I’m an enormous man, yet I am so small in the metropolitan anthill of anonymity.

I take in the persons surrounding me with an alien’s perplexity.

A woman with a son perhaps four years old latches to whomever will listen to her talk about riding these trains to find herself, her desire to start over someplace new.

An older man in a raincoat talks to the woman about his ministry.  His tone too happy glibness, stinking of snake oil and used car salesmen.

A travelling performer, part of a troupe of five, entertains the woman’s son by juggling scarves.

At some point the PA crackles on.

“We regret to inform you, the 11 PM train coming in from from Santa Fe will not be arriving.  There has been a break in the tracks.  The train will now leave 11 PM tomorrow night.”

I throw my backpack behind my head as a cushion.  I guess this beaten down wooden bench is my bed tonight.  After awhile, I relocate to a dilapidated carpet down a closed hallway.  The carpet is quieter, red glow of an exit sign almost soothing.

I lay, half-sleeping.  Two security guards emerge from a door and look at me.  They do not tell me to move.  They say nothing.  Yet their glance tells all.  I will not be allowed to linger.

So I walk out of the station, rose hued dusk creeping the downtown skyscraper facades.  A melange of lights, melted candy colored, twinkle, strobe, pulse, and dance.

It is near Christmas.  Totally alone, you forget these things.  Holidays cease to have meaning when you are outside of everything.

Women and men in business casual wander storefronts, looking for the latest techno bauble to buy their children.  Yet look, and it is obvious two worlds overlap on the street.  The business casual world doing their best to pretend the other world does not exist, even when it is walking alongside them.

The other world, the less polished human detritus, my world, looks for a heating vent to warm their backs against.  Suburbanites, mostly 9-to-5, middle income, middle class, make haste between buildings.  We the dregs, the driftwood, castaway, world wanderers, addicts, all who never fit anywhere in this machine, shuffle leisurely.  When you are going nowhere there is no reason to arrive quickly.

We will still be here in the cold when the rest huddle from the bonechill winds in their houses.  We will press our face against the plexiglass watching lights of yet another town fade behind us, no roots to lay, as they enjoy their family and friends.

Walking the streets of an unknown place where you know no one is cloaked with strange invisibility.  People are aware of the dimensions of your physical being, moving so as not to collide into you.  But no one notices you.  You could lay on the ground, curl in a fetal position and die.  No one would notice.  They would just step around you.

A man with a placard around his neck declaring that the end times are near in bold red letters meanders downtown hollering.  Most shoot him an annoyed, amused glance and move on.  One perhaps college aged woman yells “right on dude”.

Always amazing what the unknown streets bring and take away in an instant.  A woman, short, maybe not even five feet tall, captivates my attention as I stand waiting for a stoplight to change.

I don’t wish to stare.  Yet dying sunlight catches her hair on fire and it is absolutely resplendent.  She is talking to a homeless man on a bench.  Something about her poise impresses me.  I catch a snippet of their conversation:

“I saw you, and wanted to see if you were alright…”

And I want to meet this short woman who talks to the homeless in the downtown.  I’m curious about her story.  Yet I move past, saying nothing, to never see her again.  It is for the best that I remain unattached.  It is for the best I move like a ghost through the world.  Barely seen, barely heard, just passing through everything.

And really, what did I think could possibly happen doing otherwise?  Would I make a friend?  But what good would that be, when in a day the trains would take me away forever?  Was I attracted to the woman?  Should I have asked her on a date?  But where could that possibly go?

“Hey, I’m riding the edge of oblivion, with next to no money, jumping trains to avoid the emptiness of life, hoping what’s over the horizon is better than what I left behind, filled with questions that have no answer, and journeying without destination.  I like you.  Care to attach yourself to this rolling stone?”

Sounds romantic, but there is nothing safe about the journey I’m undertaking.  And involving anyone else on this road is probably irresponsible.  I have no idea where this all leads.  The road sometimes spins such beauty before me, persons that intrigue me so much.  But I leave them behind.  I rarely try to delve too deep into knowing anyone.  Because the deeper I know them, the deeper it will gouge when I have to leave them.  When they are just relics of the lights of a town fading further down the highway.

The sun is gone now.  Several persons huddle against the exhaust grates for warmth.  Some settle in alleyways, wrapped in large coats or blankets.  I return to the train station.  I sprawl out on one of the giant wooden benches.  They have turned some of the flourescent lights off.  The glow is not so harsh.  I tie my bags to my hand, so they cannot be easily pilfered should I fall asleep.  I try to get as comfortable as possible with a backpack for a pillow, an ancient wood bench as my bed.

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Perpetual Outside: 30 Years A Stranger

I am an outsider.  A feeling of being an alien crash landed in a strange dimension pervades nearly all facets of my trying to be part of the human social organism.  I can relate to some human individuals.  Yet being part of a group is endlessly perplexing.  Being a part of a collective is never seamless.  Entering any herd is fraught with frustration, anxiety and difficulty.  Belonging to anything is not something that seems natural to me.

“What world is this? What kingdom?  What shores of what worlds?”

(Seneca, Hercules Furens, Act 5)

Like those lines in Seneca’s play, I am so confused much of the time with the absurdity of waking up alive in this time and place.  Alienation can be big as finding little resonance in anything about society, not belonging anywhere on planet Earth.  Though alienation persists through every small level too.  Out of place among any group of 3, 4, 5 people like some important part of myself has to be chopped off just to fit in.

“Well, find the right group” tends to be the easy answer.  Not like I have not tried.  I’ve been all across America.  Ran with everyone from homeless punks, to artists, to technology business people, to theologians & philosophers, to bohemian writers, to 9-to-5 blue collar workers, to school teachers, people of various cultures, aims and values.  Some individuals of all those categories meant something in my life.  Groups that would form around those occupations and artistic inclinations were at times mutually useful, worthy of some participation.

Yet in every instance I didn’t belong.  I didn’t fit.  I could never merge my identity or find a consistent place in any group.  More than finding a particular right group, the issue is probably with my orientation toward groups in general. I’m ever the outsider.  I’m ever the stranger.

“When Plato said that if I’d gone to the Sicilian court as I was invited, I wouldn’t have to wash lettuce for a living, I replied that if he washed lettuce for a living, he wouldn’t have had to go to the Sicilian court.”
(Diogenes of Sinope)

That quote from Diogenes captures the essence of why I tend to be a loner in my endeavors.  Why I tend to remain independent and D-I-Y sometimes to the bafflement of others.  Its not that I don’t want to belong.  Its not that I don’t want to play my music in big important places or publish my writing on more than a wordpress site or haven’t occasionally found a happy compromise.  But usually, I have to take the scissors to much of myself in exchange for access to big important things.  And even if I wanted to I can’t.  I’m unequipped to lie in Procrustean beds.  I am either utterly silent, ghost like and void.  Or I am full and raw and pouring everything I have into my words even if it reaches a pitch some find too intense.

Almost always, someone vying for some kind of power within a group hierarchy sees me as a threat.  Every microkingdom, no matter how small or insignificant, has a weird hierarchy I seem to offend.  Even if no one is threatened I just don’t know how to be part of a group.  I seem to have no place so I end up undertaking everything alone.  For a long time I thought people saw no value in anything I could possibly bring to their collective.  Now I think it has more to do with being idiosyncratic in many of my methodologies.  Even if a group or person(s) wants to work with me, it is often quite perplexing to us both how I might possibly fit some group or project.

Typically I’m not looking to upset any kind of status quo.  Despite becoming something of a leader the last several years I am severely introverted.  I get no energy or thrill from people.  Being involved is utterly draining so I have to choose my battles carefully.  Socializing takes up so much energy for me.  Being present in a way that is engaged burns so much mental and emotional fuel.  Many times socializing or being part of something is not worth the cost.  I’d rather be a ghost passing through, silent, untouching.

I also have no attachment to any image of myself as some rugged individualist.  I would rather community, being part of groups, came more naturally to me.  I have no attachment to myself as some kind of contrarian.  Though I’ll stand steadfast on what I think is rational, ethical, or just, even if my conceptions seem different from many people.  Too many people I meet merely take the fact a thing has existed the way it has for a long time as justification for it continuing to exist that way.  Too many people I meet gain some benefit from the way a system has been set up so argue for that system out of inertia.  I end up being the contrarian because none of this seems self-evident or inevitable or particularly good to me.  I have no love for this image of myself as someone who challenges people and ideas.  Honestly, I wish society were such I never felt a need to challenge anything.   I wish everything was working and I didn’t have to point out all the minds, bodies and souls getting mangled in the gearworks.  I wish no one were falling through the cracks of society — cracks that are a succession of Marianas Trench sized abysses if you are looking closely.  I wish I knew people who were dedicated to the same things as me, felt like the same things were important.

I always seem to find trouble.  Wherever I am people never fail to project strange illusions of their own misunderstanding onto me.  Because I am quiet some assume I am dumb and think they can verbally and intellectually dominate me.  Some think because I have no interest in climbing hierarchies that I don’t see all their obsessive machinations to ascend the ladders.  Some assume I am passive because I find many things not worthy of caring, then find I am absolute and nearly unmovable when it comes to anything I think matters.

Many find me unsettling for the sole reason I utterly evade their efforts to figure me out.  And I evade those efforts not by trying to be evasive, but by just…existing as who I am.  People get so attached to their theories about others.  Its unsettling when those theories collapse.  Even when those theories were built on not much more than a handful of prejudices, surface deep assessment, and over reliance on archetypes and stereotypes.  Nothing I’m about or who I am was ever hidden to anyone with deeper vision to see.

As someone who has rarely belonged anywhere in the nearly thirty years I’ve spent on planet Earth I relate to this fragment of poetry.

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

(Mark Strand, Keeping Things Whole)

We live in an age where so much value is placed on being unique.  Everyone trying to be their own special flavor.  Oftentimes the ideology is old, the mentalities canned and boring  — but wait, the ideology is now dressed in anchovies so its new.  The stuffy mentality of yesteryear is coated with cinnamon and sugar, or now donning a colorful tie — please find it unique and interesting.

I’m not sure most people desire true uniqueness, much as many venerate this ideal of the unique individual.  It is often painful to be unable to fit into a group.  It is often frustrating to be alien to everything that seems so self-evident and natural to others, and have to find some way of entering that norm because you can’t do everything alone.  When you are the outsider, you are often the first to be sacrificed to circumstance.  Many people find you fascinating for a moment, but eventually too far outside their experience.  Most people live their lives by inertia, and have small space for the stranger, a small space that is ever vanishing.

I never had much of a choice in being an alien on this Earth.  I was born to a strangely mixed couple, different races and cultures.  Those differences led to my parents divorcing but stay forever entwined in my veins, two disparate worlds I had to find some way within.  I was never someone in whom image and essence found much congruence.  Physically I’ve always looked like a behemoth.  Mentally I’ve always been more poet, artist, reclusive hermit among the library archives.  Its truly amazing how much that physical and intellectual incongruence throws off so many people.  I also just seem to be idiosyncratic and have my own way of doing things.  If I had the ability to go back to being 6 years old, I might insist on being tested for some psychologically misaligned reason for all this. At the age of 30 a diagnosis wouldn’t matter either way.  I’ve navigated my own path, odd, twisted and unorthodox as it may look through education, career, life.

This feeling of being the ever stranger, the chameleon who can somewhat mimic many surfaces, but has no place to call home when the masks come off — it is something I’ve known all my life, nearly 30 years, yet kept a secret.  I write about it now because from an existential perspective I think its a fascinating phenomena.  And perhaps there are other aliens adrift somewhere amid the outer boundaries of human experience who need to relate to these words.

We Are Nature: An Attack On The Environment Is An Attack On Human Communities

Speaking on protests in North Dakota staged at Standing Rock reservation over the construction of the Dakota Access Oil Pipeline, American Indian Movement leader Dennis Banks had this to say:

When they threaten the environment, they’re threatening you. We are part mountain. We are part ocean. We are part river. We are part flower and grass and tree. All of this, we are part of all of it, so that when they threaten the environment anyplace, they’re threatening you.

In one sense, nothing could be more unalienable and self-explanatory.  Human beings exist within a great chain of multisplendent flora & fauna, within a wonderful array of seismic, hydrological, chemical, meteorological, climatological processes.  As a species, we are inside everything in nature and outside nothing.  Dial any of nature’s processes up or down even slightly and human existence, human society, human civilization faces massive change and disruption.

We need the sun.  Our planet’s distance from the sun provides a temperature range where life can flourish.  The sun provides energy for plants to metabolize through photosynthesis.  No ecosystem exists without plants, and without plants every other being tumbles into non-existence, there being no sources of food for anything living.  We need the land in a state of arability so we can grow or farm.  Without rich topsoil to grow things, famine rules the land.  We need water, clean and drinkable, non-toxic to the biology of everything from a plant to a person.  Any person goes without water about three days, they will die.  We need every step of the ecosystem, the various creatures and plants, in so many ways.  Ways often unforeseen but crucial — just look what the extinction of bees may do to the entire earthly system of life.

I cannot make this point enough: we are nature.  We are inside of it all.  We are a part of it all.  Our existence as human beings depends on and is affected by every process and living entity that collected together we call nature.

Again in one sense, nothing could be more unalienable and self-explanatory.  Yet in another sense,  in a sense that may be the default view of technological, industrial society, no concept is more alien and hard to understand than our own human connectedness to nature.

Many of us live in a world abstracted from nature.  Intellectually, we could assent to the fact that we would die without water, that we need a cornucopia of sustenance from the soil to be healthy, that breathing air burdened by a thousand toxins will kill us if not immediately then probably of some kind of cancer as our years in the poisoned air accumulate.

Yet many of us, especially in the modernized industrial world, are removed several layers from the necessity and vitality of nature that under girds our everything as human beings.  These basic facts of human existence remain merely an intellectual thing.  As if we are several stories up a massive tower, where it is hard to even see miles below to the foundation our whole structure depends upon.  We can logically assent to there being a foundation, but often don’t connect with it in a way that registers as being of high importance.

The cause and effect is not so easy to see when we live in glass and concrete megaliths, surrounded by so many miracles of the progression of knowledge and science.  Our electrical girds, modern medicine, blocks of asphalt, the domicile cellworks of apartments and suburbs, the water that appears from the tap almost as if magic, seemingly infinite and summoned with ease, the grocery store housing every variety of food, it all has an obscuring effect on much of society.  It is hard to see our human roots in the water, earth and air through so many abstractions of convenience.

This fog of abstractions is so thick that many people simply cannot see through it and ask questions like: why would you fight an oil pipeline?  And the answer is simple, yet perhaps needs reiteration: because it could poison the water, and water is life.  What would any of us be without clean water?  Water is a foundation and every single other thing we may stand for topples without clean water to drink.  Our human communities are not separate from their most foundational needs for water, air and soil.  The roots might be hard to see, as far advanced into the rarefied clouds propelled by technology and progress that we have risen.  Yet sever those roots of water, earth and air, and all of this comes crashing down quickly.  We eventually find we are part of the chain we are so determined to poison and dominate.

In a sense, this should not need to be explained.  Yet the fog of abstractions has removed many of us so far from the viscerality of the natural world human communities are inextricably dependent on.  So I think maybe some benefit exists in going back to step one: we are nature.  Our communities are nature.  Our well being will forever be tied with the health of the rivers, the oceans, the mountains, the forests, the soil.

Until the day comes where we can drink toxic potpourri instead of water, where we can subsist on desertification rather than fruits of the earth, where we can breathe the contents of poison smog instead of air, then we need to care about what happens to all these things.  For the sake of ourselves, for the sake of our families and communities, and for the sake of the generations that will follow us.

And for all the technological marvels and wonderment this society has bestowed on its inhabitants there is one place I think it has often significantly erred.  That error is viewing humankind as separate from all the naturalistic processes we are always and have always been encompassed within.  It is foolish to think we can destroy or pollute with impunity and think it will not eventually come back around to hurt us most of all.  For how backward and primitive industrial society thought Native Americans were throughout history, many Natives understood this basic human connectedness to the natural world, like this quote from Chief Seattle illustrates:

All things are bound together. All things connect. Whatever happens to the Earth happens to the children of the Earth. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. (Chief Seattle)

To come full circle to what is occurring right now at Standing Rock, and many frontlines for indigenous struggles around the world, I think many of us retain some understanding of this basic truth of connectedness.  Even if we walk in two worlds, and adopt some of the technological world to fit our current situations, we still understand our communities will suffer and die if the natural world is poisoned, if the clean air, water and soil is allowed to be desecrated with toxins.

Though it may be hard to see beyond the fog of all the abstractions of convenience, I wish more people would try to connect with those basic necessities of water, soil and air.  Realize how important they are to protect.  How much more infinitely precious they are than the temporary monetary gains of a handful of persons at the top of an oil corporation.

It is not just an indigenous issue or struggle, though it tends to affect us lopsidedly as we are toward the bottom of society and seen as an acceptable place to offload the risks of these oil ventures.  It is something that affects everyone, as soon as they see past the fog, and realize the foundation every human thing rests upon, that the air, water and soil is everything.

Resistance Is Love: On What I Love

Contrary to the opinion of some I don’t get high on fire.  I take no joy in pushing collapsing things toward their doom.  Destruction, even of what deserves to be destroyed, is no cause for elation.  I do not spit acid for the sake of burning scatter shots in the fabric of everything good.

Sometimes I am asked: why do I not talk about the things I love?  Why am I taking aim at something all the time?  Why am I destroying rather than building?

Yet the question “what do you love?” is an indicator someone has not been reading or listening closely.  Even at my most acerbic there is love.  My discontent has its roots in love.

I’ll quote a song by Remember Me Feral that resonates with me:

“People often mistake the spirit of resistance.  They see it as anger and hatred, and imagine its taste to be bitter.  But resistance is founded in love.  We find some things so beautiful, and love them so deeply, so urgently, that when we identify systemic oppression that endangers them, we must resist. People often misjudge this motivation, and feel it is a personal attack on them as individuals. But resistance is not something to be feared or to hold disdain for.  Resistance is a passionate movement for the preservation of beauty.”

Though not in the least mysterious, leavened through absolutely everything as I think it is, I have no problem answering that question “what do you love?” directly.

I love the land.  I love the soil underneath me.  I love the air surrounding me.  I love the water and the nourishment it gives.  I love the sun.  I love all the iterations and tonalities of light.  I love the darkness, the dusken autumnal winds.  I love the sunrise, the sunset, and starry night sky.  I love the heat of summer, even as it incites wildfires that clog the sky with acrid smoke.  I love the winter, even as its  blizzards swarm the roads I must travel with ice.  The land is so beautiful.  Even as it is lethal, towering above and beyond me, liable to snuff out my existence with with even its gentle roiling.

I love the seasons.  I love the cycles of the land coursing through history without botherment.  I love the creatures.  Their struggle, their formation, how they fit their environments, how they make what they can of their brevity.  I love their beautiful ephemerality.  I love the million skulls and skeletons cradled by dust where they fell.  I love the plants.  I love the grass, sunbleached, or green and pregnant with rain.  I love the trees, tall and venerable, casting shadows.  I love that the earth is not a dead place.  Nearly everywhere you step there is life.

Loving this land, why should I not oppose the pipelines that will cut across the purity of water with their oil poison?  Why should I not oppose the efforts to extract the uranium poison that is the most lethal substance humankind has ever known?  Why should I not lament all the old things that used to grow, but have gone nearly extinct in the last hundred years or so?  Why should I have any respect for the systematic exploitation and destruction of this beauty for the profiteering of a miniscule few on top of the capitalist pyramid?

I’m on the side of the pine forests, the porcupines, the prairie flowers, the aquifers, the rivers, the springs.  And I think this is a foolish world that does not realize destroying flora, fauna, and multitudes of biomes, we will ultimately destroy ourselves.

If it is unclear where I stand, or where my opposition comes from, let it no longer be a mystery.  Let it be said here without obfuscation.

I love where I am from, the Pine Ridge Indian reservation, the Oglala Lakota.  I love our history.  I love our resilience.  i love our values and philosophy.  I love how many persons make it through a stacked deck of adversity.  I love how many are not broken, despite having so many institutions of bureaucratic red tape, forces of systematic enfeeblement, working against them.  I love it when my people smile and joke.  If they smile through teeth broken through the inadequate care of the Indian Health Services system, that is all the more beautiful, emblematic of a deep resilience.

Contending with alcoholism, with dysfunctional family environments, with a lack of opportunity, with a whole community fallen through the cracks of America,  with historical trauma — I love how many triumph.  I love how many Lakota I meet ripe with genius.  Whether gifted artistically, musically, in the industrial arts, or in the sciences, in the legal professions, or being stellar human beings who care and uplift everyone around them.  I love that we are still here despite two hundred years of quarantine, placed in political structures never built for our success but instead built for our failure and ignominy.  I drive down highway 18, and I see Lakota youth, runners getting ready for the track season.  It fills me with such pride.  I am so glad to see anyone doing anything positive for themselves and for their community.  I am glad to see elders recording their stories, see how much love they have for the art of storytelling.  I am glad to see youth enroll in education to seek a better world and solutions to all the problems we face.  I love how easy it is to connect with persons from indigenous communities all over the world, how similar and intersected our struggles tend to be.  How I wish I had more power, to put it all right.

Loving these communities, these people, my family, my friends, how could I not stand against the caricatures, the straw Indians, the ignorance, the blind hatred, the oblvious invisibility, the prejudice, the whitewashed lying rosiness of American history?  How can I not stand against the continued erasure, exploitation and subjugation?  I’m going to let the voiceless inhabit my marrow and have their say.  I’ll remember in a world of forgetting because who else will?  When police use the shotgun for execution against an unarmed Native, and next week find the beanbags to subdue an armed white guy I’ll stand against it.  When uncaring far off bureaucracies try to defund everything that helps, try to terminate us through attrition I’ll be there opposing it.  When oil and uranium companies view Natives as an acceptable sacrifice for the profiteering of their greed, I’ll be there, ready to cut off the head of any poisonous snakes that try to pass.  When the bordertown cowboys, prairie ignorant, want someone to look down on, want to mock Natives, merely so someone will be at the bottom of American society other than them I will speak up against it wherever I encounter it.  When shady preachers and non-profits see they can quench their lust for dollars by exploiting our poverty and need, I’ll call it out where I see it.  If that makes someone uncomfortable they can go ahead and be uncomfortable.

I love every pocket of life, of compassion, of creativity, of escape from the status quo that I find in the anxious, ever creeping, all consuming, prosaic, apathy loving, inhumane uniformity of American society.  I love the human connection of two vastly different persons that should be isolated in separate cells by their socio-economic status, finding some commonality, breaking invisible barriers.  Even friendship is revolutionary sometimes.  I love the woman who can take a moment out of her busy day, the rat race of money gathering and needing to pass exams, to appreciate a song, a piece of writing.  I love the street art that blankets alleys of business districts.  I love the anarchy symbol on a light post in front of the bank.  I love the underworld, the echoes of its vibrancy, its whispers that all is not dead and drab.  I love when persons begin to see each other, not as objects in the metropolitan monolith,  but as tangible persons, teeming with real breath.  I love when communities begin to question the myths that nothing can ever change and that they are powerless.  I love when persons start to see each other as non-disposable, not easily discarded, not merely means to some greedy end.  I love passion.  I love when someone is not too cool to care.  I love when someone comes out of the cocoon of their sneering to be vulnerable enough to have their heart eviscerated by the insanity of these ways of life.  I love when someone is unashamed of carrying the scars of everything.

Loving all not afflicted with the disease of prosaic, consumerist, authoritarian dictated systematic uniformity, how could I not declare the emptiness of all we find ourselves ensconced within?  From Atlantic to Pacific, I have not found hardly anyone happy.  It is the same worries, the same worker drone imprisonment, lavish yet desolate, the same sad stories of existential lament and unfulfillment howled over and over again.  Everyone wants this harmony and contentment in their lives but most seem to have forgotten how to treat one another, have forgotten anything other than ways of disharmony.  I stand against it and am glad to find anyone doing the same.  Even if it is something so monolithic and huge it is hard to name or label with a description you know resistance when you see it.

Even at my most critical when I seem venomous and high on fire to some, I may be spitting acid, yet it will be in service of love to things I value, things I find beautiful.  I don’t think any of this was ever hidden, or mysterious.  Pay attention and what I love was shouted loudly in every polemic I ever wrote, every criticism I ever lobbed, every ideological fight I ever entered.  Yet here it is said as straightforward as possible, if somehow someone missed it.

To end, let’s look at that line from the Remember Me Feral song again:

“Resistance is a passionate movement for the preservation of beauty.”