"I feel like
I've been here before,
and you know,
it makes me wonder,
what's goin' on,
under the ground."*
Déjà vu.
But this time, those that rose to protest and civil disobedience in the 1960's are silent or a whisper. Instead, the soma of a privileged class is complacent like walking zombies hooked into a global information stream that has made them numb and elite.
How is it that many of those same protesters of the 60's are silent now? Many that I know personally are talking heads that spew drivel and blindly continue on their indignant paths of privilege.
Some are so full of anger that their mouths and fingers waggle at everyone but themselves as they claim that anarchy is the only way to righteousness. Without admitting that those they voted into office are responsible, or denying they support the tyrants and bullies. Compassion is no longer an option, they cry. "It's all your own fault!", they sigh. And go back to their handwringing while mouthing on and on.
Too many hide behind religion as their flag to change the rules. The old power that whispers behind hands and shouted with self-righteous justification for their own ends to control and bully. Power is their deity that hides their quest for control in the name of a God that vindicates all their words and deeds. While the ghosts of the Spanish Inquisition urge them on and laugh at our ignorance and division.
Do they not realize they are the same as those they label as terrorists, 'unholy', and destroyers? Is spreading their own version of terror their personal salvation?
Some have struggled through darkness and wrestled with their conscience, dropping out of the Rat Empire to advocate awareness, truth and change. A few even campaign for radical change, while feeling mostly alone in a sea of hypocrisy and hopelessness.
And there are those of us that see the ghosts of people in the streets wearing arm bands, waving banners. Some put fingers to keyboards to call attention to the hell that is breaking loose around us. Some thrust mirrors in our faces and point to the public horrors and plights. Others try to pull heads out of the sand and hands away from deaf ears.
But where are the songs? Where are the Pete Seeger's, and Dylan's, and Joan Baez's? Where are the marchers, chanters, and changers?
We drown in words that flash across the TVs and smart phone screens until we are desensitized, dazed and confused. They mean nothing anymore. And we drown in all the noise.
We need the songs and feet on the ground.
'Bang the drum slowly' while we drag our feet.
Take up the voices while moving the beat.
Because we are at war here.
And it may implode.
But the only ones that we can blame,
Are ourselves
In hidden shame.
*Crosby, Stills and Nash, Déjà Vu. 1970.
