I often receive emails from readers who ask, in essence:

And what of those of us -- those who remember and grieve our republic's passing. Is there some place of sanctuary where we could rally our spirits; a place where we might gather our strength -- where we might have a rapprochement with our own hopeful hearts, where we might rise in the cool air of morning in some location no longer haunted by the malicious and manipulative spirits who have usurped our names and stolen our country. Is there any place on earth where we might dodge the mind-grinding, soul-killing, death-worshipping legacy of the militarist/corporatist/consumerist state?

Don't you see, Phil, these readers implore and admonish me: We're besieged and outnumbered by the mindless worshippers of Death around us -- and, by the way, fella, your incantatory prose will not move, nor even interest them.  

I'll answer these entreaties by quoting from a documentary, "Punk: Attitude," I viewed, recently, in which independent filmmaker Jim Jarmusch posited that art movements (and political ones as well) don't need the masses, they just need a committed 5 percent ... the masses will follow. There is no need to inform the mob; a mob, by its very nature, is uninformed -- and unteachable. The belief in the existence of an informed mob is like believing in the existence of that chimera called compassionate conservatism -- and we've seen where credulity to that sort of crazy talk leads.

As was the case with Punk, which Jarmusch termed, "do it yourself art" -- one needs passion, commitment, conviction -- tempered by an ability to apprehend and uniquely interpret changing realities and circumstances -- plus an inner reservoir of courage and follow through. These things can't be bought retail: And that is exactly the advantage we hold.

Hence, it might be instructive to look at the mode of being evinced by the pioneers of Punk Rock ... Tired of endless guitar solos and of Arena Rock and Roll's egomaniacal inanities, they learned to play three cords -- real fast -- and would play for little or no money in shot-out downtown clubs -- thereby reintroducing the danger and allure of the subversive intimacy of early Rock and Roll to a new generation -- and forever establishing the enduring principle that being an imbecilic Rock and Roll egoist should be a democratic process -- not limited to only corporate, guitar technocrats (or even those individuals possessed of the tyranny of talent).

Point of clarification: I'm not speaking here of literally becoming a punk rocker. (Although, a convincing argument can be made that: independent websites and blogs are the new Punk Rock.) I'm talking about the initial passion of the progenitors -- not the conformist banalities displayed by their mindless followers ... I'm speaking of the mode of being of the folks who created the art form -- not the hollow mimicry of those who mummify it into dogma.

The do-it-your-self-art idea being the key that unlocks the barred door of the commodified prison of a corporatist state of mind and allows one's life to be created -- not by narrow careerist agendas -- but by the surrender to all it takes to be free.

To do this, sometimes, you must follow your inspiration so far off the path -- you have to blaze your own path to make your way back.

It's not the outcome of your endeavors, but the life lived. If you live with such ardor -- who knows who and what you'll effect. We must be like the monks of The Dark Ages, copying books for generations yet unborn, preserving what we can of our humanity and passing it on.

I believe hope arises in organic ways before it makes its way into political platforms, is implemented into policy, and, finally, imprisons us in dogma -- thus allowing a new generation to engage in the soul-making of sedition against its ossified order.

Let's get to it.

Or else, pack your firearm of choice and line-up for a PlayStation 3. Although, it's all good: Because, someday, an era may arrive when sanity prevails and future generations will have a nice laugh at your expense -- a generation of clowns who would kill (even destroy the world) for an appliance.

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