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The slightly shorter day after Summer Solstice
6/22/2023 Not that we don't have our own challenges
After the trial of Dorothy Gale “And all that you love” -- Pink Floyd Con/Jur/d, 6/22/2023 Dear Dorothy, You don’t know me or the other thousands, ney millions affected by your crimes, but it’s time you saw our scars we know you’ve lost your avatar, Judy, with her attempts to self-medicate away the Jealous Gods, and her enslavement to the monetary illusion, and while we understand you still mourn her half-life lost -- the recent revival of capital’s enshrinement of ‘Dark Side,’ reminds us of the violence you committed, albeit unintentionally to us and all the future generations WE STILL QUESTION Our right to dance in the streets, to be happy in the Anthropocene to have fun in a culture that has not only proscribed it but seeks to prescribe it, how your ‘just a dream’ dog whistle has betrayed the refuges from our sociopath culture with its hyperreal simulations of suffering, day residue used as an excuse to justify colonization of our personal sovereignty -- We love how you capitulated and curtained off KNOW YOUR WORTH by a yardstick used in someone else's economy Although, as Bernie Glassman, the mensch, made abundant in his book on the Heart Sutra, you did get the Yellow Brick Road right, by exposing just how wrong it was, which a few Zen teachers and the denizens of The Village and The Castro and other temporary zones of liberation seem to understand better than most -- Is it a war crime if the war hadn’t been declared and sanctified? A jury of your peers seemed to think so, although as the cultural rags of note (Their front pages now devoid of life and featuring ads for the industrial murder complex) have endlessly opined, your peers came from THE WRONG SIDE OF THE RAINBOW Which is to say we forgive you, even if They didn’t you were just being a human, after all with our pesky needs for community, acceptance, and being understood for the short period of time we borrow language, and we’ve all done it, betrayed Heaven, for someone else’s constrained paradise, and next time, here’s a little spell or prayer or mantra or math (depending on which time and place you’re released into) to protect you when you finally walk between the heavy iron doors (clutching those unfashionable ruby shoes and whatever other tat from all that you love the guardians of correct thought decide to leave you -- hopefully, this time, they won’t steal your technicolor) and you find yourself standing in front of the gates, with no one to pick you up and no public transport since PT was defunded to pay for your incarceration and extend the walls (everywhere)-- Repeat after us: I am the tornado, I am the witch, I am both Glenda and Gulch obviously, I’m the Lion, the Tinman, and the Scarecrow, less obviously the Rainbow, the Wizard, The Flying Monkeys, not Toto since, obviously, Toto is the bearded Western Barbarian, whose dharma eye being fully opened, wouldn’t lead to your betrayal the damned yellow road and its consequences, and of course Auntie Em -- also Uncle Henry, who we would like to blame but we learned from the red slippers, it’s all you, all the time And even black and white cornfields from horizon to horizon ARE THE SUN MOON AND STARS We’ll pick you up take you to wherever you want to go when with honesty, you say I AM YOU YOU ARE ME Just promise to not sell us out, again for someone else’s dreams and label them ‘reality.’
It’s not you it’s me
50 years on — HA!