Occupy Radio - Music, News and Call-in for Occupiers

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Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market-place, and cried incessantly: “I am looking for God! I am looking for God!”
As many of those who did not believe in God were standing together there, he excited considerable laughter. Have you lost him, then? said one. Did he lose his way like a child? said another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? or emigrated? Thus they shouted and laughed. The madman sprang into their midst and pierced them with his glances.

“Where has God gone?” he cried. “I shall tell you. We have killed him – you and I. We are his murderers. But how have we done this? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving now? Away from all suns? Are we not perpetually falling? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there any up or down left? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is it not more and more night coming on all the time? Must not lanterns be lit in the morning? Do we not hear anything yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we not smell anything yet of God’s decomposition? Gods too decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, murderers of all murderers, console ourselves? That which was the holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet possessed has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? With what water could we purify ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we need to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we not ourselves become gods simply to be worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whosoever shall be born after us – for the sake of this deed he shall be part of a higher history than all history hitherto.”

Here the madman fell silent and again regarded his listeners; and they too were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern to the ground, and it broke and went out. “I have come too early,” he said then; “my time has not come yet. The tremendous event is still on its way, still travelling – it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time, the light of the stars requires time, deeds require time even after they are done, before they can be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the distant stars – and yet they have done it themselves.”

It has been further related that on that same day the madman entered divers churches and there sang a requiem. Led out and quietened, he is said to have retorted each time: “what are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchres of God?”

We hope you are all well.

Here is a video we’d like to share.

Endorsed by Julie J.J. K  of the Tibetan Children’s Village our song “Policy” is aimed at bringing democracy to China and sovereignty for Tibetans.

Thanks for listening!

- The Julian Day

Policy (Free Tibet) Video

We also believe that sugar-coating everything is counterproductive as well. Even John Lennon admitted that Flower Power failed. It’s time to engage, not disengage and retreat into a world that exists only in the minds of a few. Being positive is good. Just make sure to be realistic at the same time.

chapter sixteen

The goings-on of this strange circle in Goshen had, at once, become a nuisance, then he became used to it. He could see the pattern of what they did and better the pattern of who they were. They were seemigly a bunch of spoiled kids and degenerates with nothing better to do than to torment others. They were, it seemed to him, like the types that assumed their supremacy above all back in high school. Those too good for anyone but themselves, not unlike the Socs in the novel The Outsiders. People rotted by a life of priviledge and degeneracy; no moral fiber, no love for anyone or anything, except for this disgusting effluence that might issue forth from the mouths of the loudest among them.

The whole thing was an insult to his intelligence and to his wholesome upbringing; his education, his care for nature, and his compassion for mankind. How things could become the brunt of a very low sense of humor confounded him. Their leader seemed to be a young woman who called herself Music, along with another with the all the decadence of the mystic decay of Ancient Greece, Medea. Medea had a child and prided herself on the fact that she’d managed to keep the party going right through her pregnancy; acid, cocaine, and assorted pharmaceuticals washed down with ample servings of scotch and beer. She rejected God openly and claimed the ancient Snake Goddess as her guide. Both women prided themselves on their ability to manage minor acts of magic, (which Dylan termed Bitchcraft, petty hocus pocus) achieved through the manipulation of the natural forces otherwise reserved for God. They secretly hated men and engaged with them only to procure what they needed to further selfish aims which amounted to little more than an extreme feminist agenda that viewed men as little more than providers of sperm. And as he looked into the disappearance of his painting, Dylan found that Heather was part of their clan; neither as influential or charming as the other two, but not without her abilty to extract and embezzle what she needed for her survival.

The police and State Troopers kept coming back to him with the same message time and again and that too was tiring. They repeated the same message again and again as if he was a two-year-old that didn’t understand that fire was hot. Thanks guys, he’d think. Tell me something I don’t know. “Avoid this, avoid that, this girl’s dangerous.” Mmm hmm, she stole my painting, I think I’ve got ya. I haven’t been near her or any other woman in over a year and haven’t interest in doing so, thank you.

Without knowing it, he’d slipped into paranoid schizophrenia. It was first evidenced with his predilection with license plates and his desperate search for meaning. He’d stopped seeing the importance of his life. On the one hand he felt the world was frustrating his ability to give back. He’d always wanted to be a big giver. The world was holding him back, he thought. And this frustration of his ability to give frustrated him into questioning his existence. Painting, writing, working, none of it afforded him to be the millionaire altruist he dreamed of being as a child. All he’d wanted as a child was to have money to help people with. He was sure, on the surface of it, most people would think his desire to be in a position to give was ridiculous. He was sure they felt that way. He knew it was the way they felt. Money would never be anything but a vehicle with which he could give. It was meaningless as anything else.

He’d seen signs, that this power to give would be forthcoming. But it had already been years since he’d seen these “signs.” Maybe they’d just been mind gamees he’d played with himself, making “signs” out of a yearning to be more and do more for others. Maybe he would always be just as he was; a common person with the opportunity to perform common acts of goodness. Maybe that should be enough, but it felt like settling, settling for being common. Common can be quite righteous, he thought, even noble. Do childhood dreams and aspirations have any place in the lives of full-grown adults?

As he neared the top the hill, he turned around to survey the town of Goshen…

… this, he thought, is heaven on earth and looked to the great stone church in the center of town, then over to the racetrack, and on to the Library and the little carnival at the elementary school. Except for the contaminated public pool, God had spread his Grace on this town for over two hundred years. Population five thousand and holding, all that one needed could be found here if one wished a simple life. Black dirt, Sugar Loaf, the Pines and consistent rain that greened the scene like some enchanted valley transplanted from Ireland. It’s Ireland without the accent, he thought, beauty and love are here, and our accent’s pretty cool too. I love all, he thought, even those who wish me harm. For them my love is a pity for their souls. Their pain must be great.

Just click on the book cover and away you go!

http://newsblaze.com/story/20110308181014demp.nb/topstory.html

by philip scott wikel

chapter fifteen

He awoke the next morning to find his painting had been stolen. Just below where it had hung was a charm from Heather’s bracelet.

Later he went into town to look around for people who knew Heather. He thought he saw her everywhere. He’d come up behind  someone and call,

“Heather?”

“No, my name’s Kelly.”

“Heather?”

“My name’s Amara.”

“Heather?”

“My name’s Robin, can I help you with you something?”

“Heather?”

“My name’s Loren.”

“Heather?”

“My name’s Linda.”

“Heather?”

“My name’s Diane.”

“Heather?”

“No. I’m Mary.”

“Heather?”

“No I’m Jeanette.”

“Heather?”

“I’m Vicky, is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just that you look like someone I used to know.”

“A good memory I hope.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“s’allright, sorry to bother you.”

“Heather?”

“I’m Kim.”

“No, I’m Kendra.”

“No, I’m Megan.”

“No, I’m Thea.”

“No, I’m Jen.”

“No, I’m Julia, but I know Heather.”

It went on like this for hours. It was if she was everywhere and nowhere at all. He thought of a book he’d read called Native American Testimony. In one chapter they explained their frustration at dealing with Cholera and proclaimed, “If only I could see this thing,” or maybe it was all in his head.”

The sense of loss began to creep in but he quickly shook it off. He’d always believed in God and never more than now. It’ll all work out, he said to himself, and felt, at the same time, that God had put those words into his head.

He thought he might speak with the local district attorney though he’d been warned that the DA was a bit of a pin head. The story he’d heard went something like this: In the case of a custody battle the DA looked the other way and favored a woman who was an obvious drug addict and prostitute. He was heralded as the champion against deadbeat dads and didn’t seem to be able to change his tach. That was what he’d gained his notoriety for and apparently being entirely one-sided was the way he would continue. A lot of money changes hands in these types of offices and one never knows who’s paying the bills. And given that custody case there was a good chance the DA would side with Heather and possibly even go so far as to fabricate charges against him.

He walked the short distance to his parents house and explained what had happened.

“Let’s take it the police,” his dad said.

“I don’t know dad. I don’t think this is the sort of thing the police can deal with.”

“How ‘bout the State Troopers?”

“Maybe. But I think I have a better idea…”

And he explained.

“You know I showed a photo of your painting to a gallery friend of mine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and he’s guessing there’s probably someone in New York who’d pay an awful lot for it.”

“But it’s my first painting?”

“It doesn’t matter kid, you’re a natural, you have a gift.”

“I don’t know that I’d want to sell it.”

“Well that’s up to you kid but it’d set you up to paint for a very long time. Sometimes, well, sometimes, as an artist, or a writer, just ask your mom, you’ve got to make the choice that gives you the most opportunity for freedom.”

“I guess there’s a history of paying for your freedom.”

“Mmm hmm. Think about it and let’s put your plan into action. And just lay low on the women thing for a while. Do your own thing.”

“I just figured I’d wait for Katie to get back from school dad.”

“Good… Katie’s a good kid and if she doesn’t come back when you expect her to, don’t worry, your life is more important right now than any relationship. You’re pretty young kid. Take your time.”

“You’re right dad, my life is real simple and clear right now… but you know… if I had that kind of money I’d want to help other people with it. The kind of people that suffer from the fall out of war and people who might not otherwise have an opportunity to do the kinds of things I’ve done… travel, paint… you know… the things that the middle class takes for granted… I’ve joined the Big Brothers thing and maybe I could do more with that. There’s this one kid and…”

“Sounds honorable kid, sounds good.”

“It’s just that it’s the right thing. It’d take a lot of money to do the kinds of things I’d like to do for people and I’d rather not jump through hoops and red tape to do it.”

Dig it!

http://www.myspace.com/562567954

Here We Are Now, a novel of the grunge generation

chapter fourteen

by philip scott wikel

The moment he completed his first painting the strangest thing happened. Everyone around him seemed to act strange and after a while he noticed a pattern. They were trying to create “triangular desire,” as defined by Foucault. They would find out what he liked; foods, drinks, cars, places, etc. and then they would wave them around him in one way or another expecting they would serve as carrots he might chase. The intent being that he would have to sublimate all of his desires into painting more since none of these carrots could be grasped unless he found success as a painter and began selling.

But he wouldn’t and couldn’t paint more unless it came from within him; from a pure source. There was no tangible motivator for him, it just happened every once in a while; no pattern, no specific origin. He’d long ago thought that if he could figure out what drove him, he would tap into that and he would always be inspired. But he hadn’t discovered it so he waited patiently for the next space in time when he would be driven.

In the meantime he began to become sick with many around him and began to reclude from those who seemed to wish to manipulate him. He could see that their original intent may have been innocent enough but he really just wanted to live a normal life. He’d accomplished quite a lot before he found himself in a sort of warped version of Alice in Wonderland. A solid base of wholesome living had always been his best foundation; a natural world where people acted natural. He’d rather consciously abstain from sex and channel that energy into exercise than let someone think they could pierce his inner sexual power and make it manifest itself as art. Art created from sexual desire or for the love of money was what had made the larger society as decadent as it had become, he thought. He wanted to reach for something higher and he couldn’t paint for people because he felt if people needed saving through art then they should go to church instead. He might just paint because it was what he needed to do, for better or for worse, whether it brought money or comfort. A regular paying job would afford him what he needed to survive. Painting could never be tainted and twisted into work-for-hire.

He wasn’t upset with God, but it did seem that He was sitting on the sidelines. Dylan couldn’t see any action, just talk. The game seemed to have no players, only passive-aggressive spectators. Perhaps making history had ended with Jesus Jones back in the nineties. He remembered then that all things are possible through God, and he rested on this.

Katie would be coming home from college in a few months and he would again have his soul-mate for strength. Grace, he thought, Grace, I’m a stranger in a strange land.

… stranger,

stranger in a strange land,

he looked at me like I

was the one who should run…

- U2, 1980