Excerpt from...

Psychedelic Sweat: Archetypes of Freedom

By Landon Sealey

Born Free

Well medicated gods

Found it all good

But I didn't find

Until I understood

That he who is stoned

Casts the first sin

That the race ran high

Is the only race I can win

Take a deep breath

They said right before

I woke up upon this psychedelic shore

Like a newborn babe

I cried and I wailed

But to Death do I thank

God I never exhaled

(from poem entitled, "Born Stoned" 1996)

Rock n' Roll is all life and the value of all life. It cannot be a polity because it is the value of polity. The essence of Rock n' Roll is "take it or leave it".

Rock n' Roll is the essence of form, sound, and attention, a performance of the literature of soul, of God - it is the very movement of light and sound, of the sensual Creatrix of the cosmos. Rock n' Roll is all life and the value of all life. Rock n' Roll is the theatre of the soul, a performance of the act of culture, of the freedom of walking, talking, eating, sleeping, living, loving and dying. Rock n' Roll is the Sabbath of human invention and intention - the sound of "it is done". Rock n' Roll can be just about anything we assign value to - it is the art of memory, of civilization itself. Rock n' Roll is holy, a performance of our collective ancestry with the divine and the profane, the heavens and the earth, the cosmic dance.

We are a Gnostic Synthesizer of knowledge, Body and sound. We are, in all our actions and thoughts, shadows walking on the scales of a sleeping Dragon, our hopes and dreams forging the crystal that sits at the cave door, waiting for the sun to rise.

And when the Serpent finally opens its wings, when our shadow rises like the sun, our technological and cultural structures will be cathedrals of light, when we open our wings, we will move from light to light, we will know ourselves as the night. We will know ourselves as the sun to the earth, the sound of soul, we will listen to and drink in the great cosmic irony, the irony that we are one body and that Body is the original polity, the original tyrant that lurks in us even as it repulses us to blind rebellion, rebellion against the soul of vitality and imagination. That every war upon our planet is a war against the invagination and body - it is a sex war more sentient and profane than any that has ever occurred - a war against no entity but its eternal lover, its Immorata - war and social movement, like the earth itself, has a "climatology" that can be regulated by the sheer force of human imagination and the technologies by which that imagination is stored and shared, its mythology. And when we are one, we will know what irony is again in the dramatic illusion of event, the psychedelic phenomenology that is modern communication media, that humanity is at once the greatest force upon this planet yet can know itself only as the planet upon which it lives, and that its communication technology rivals the biotechnology of the soul itself, a body of light and water in which we may view our sacred image upon the silver screen of time and call it "us". The irony that the only body on this planet that speaks for everybody on this planet is our creations - Jesus is Ford....history is the plot of every story, whether we like it or not - the history we expand every day with our bodies, self-sacrifice, and the history we finish and create everyday with our hearts and our imaginations. The history that begins when the body rises and ends when the body goes to sleep, day and night are the original polity - the polity and the body that is born free every morning and sets in the dark ocean of the imagination every night, the historically arrogant and archetypally prideful ocean from which the systems of culture might be created to make you born free before you were born - and every human creation was born from the sound of a sleeping or "sacrificed" body. To be good citizens/artists we must be good listeners - and aren't we? If the purpose of history is the evolution of communication (in all its myriad forms), then we, as in the beginning, must be good listeners to be good repeaters. My name is Landon Sealey, and I only repeat what I hear. If this makes any sense at all, or if it doesn't, it is because and thanks to the sacrifice of body that each individual performs in and out of time, on and off - line. Thanks to TV, the advanced radio, which takes the reasoning faculties "off-line", more people are performing the sacred act of listening than ever before in human history, inviting a literacy of consciousness, of the role of the individual ego and body in the 21st century.

Ritual Grounding/Listening

(smoking, watching tv - supplication to the collective soul of ego, the spirit of culture, the sun.)

I look into the Mirror

I watch the Sun go down

Consumed by the dark Water

Come in

Out of

The Ground

* * *

...And...

I know not how to say

In words that do compel

The mind to listen

With something of a dead man's ear

What magic phrase was I

Given to chant in time

In language that listens and speaks

With thoughts immortal?

Wind to leaf to ground to life

My strife bowing to the earth

My death I know

My life I write upon it

I cannot make a tree

To bend at will

That Wind blew lang ago and still

What Wind bends Me?

I have howled

Not one will stir

I have whispered like the night

I heard no one listen

The Sun can be the car fading

The radio noise

The clouds parting for thoughts

Like grass what purpose moving

Yet in darkest space

What Solar Wind have we

To blow our Souls about

Still, fixed as the Stars

How we fill time with time

Though moment were our measure

And not the Eye

That by the Light

Is traveled for its Pleasure

Go, then

Stop not with Me

And wonder not what fixes Me in space

And makes Me shine

For I see not what worlds I touch

What silent noise I free

When my Eyes and Ears 'til Death do part

The clouds of infinite, if one, Eternity

***

When we are One

The Clouds won't hide the Sun

-Hawaiian folk song

Know you the way?

Know you the way?

Into the season

Know you the lost?

Worlds of reason

You are a Boat

Water in the Man

Real as afloat

Empty as you can

Know you the way?

Sense is unmade

Hold that thought

I see your point

Eat the fire

And light the

Say,

You know the way

The seasons move

Around the Earth

Life will Talk

About a Birth

In my Eye

And my Ear I hear

The drowning Metaphors of fear

Here

The Boat is in the Sky

A wonder of the Why

The dying

The living

The way floats on a lie...

[email protected] responses welcomed.