These are a few early reflections on where I found hope in Washington, DC, while participating in today’s landmark arts and culture summit, co-hosted by National Endowment for the Arts and The White House. This gathering was more than a meeting; it was the spark of a collective journey toward a profound integration of the arts into our societal fabric.
I have seen the flashing of a light
beating and shining
at the hardcore
of human existence.
I have been instructed
by strange coincidence.
I am a poem
in a machine
breaking down.
Revived again by harvest wine…
distilled by
truth-tellers
bridge builders
and change seekers
in a quest to construct
an exquisite corpse.
In our quest to heal
we come to it.
The realization that only a poem
is sturdy enough to remain intact and humble
when thrust into tunnels
shaped by bluster and fury.
To discover transformation,
our science must unlearn and rekindle
within a larger language
(of stardust captured within us.)
Within us, value judgments are the enemy.
Within us, resides atomic curiosity.
Art does not tell people what to do,
it brings beautiful confusion.
Questions of inquisition and starlight
are ingredients of revelation
for moving us beyond the frontier.
A creation story of beauty.
America floats, unbound by time.
Earned fluid boundaries.
Tilled soil.
Memories of Anna’s pages.
The question of “why?”
Waves of deep lack.
Particles of invisible wounds.
The unkillable poem.
No guarantees.
Objective reality held hostage
by unprocessed grief.
Inside gray matter
we messily navigate
in search of that thingness called blue.
(Magic is the job of everyone.)
We know the unreal.
Our certain gaze has been our distraction.
(we are a hundred miles
and an hour, from them both now).
Looking back,
We see the mappiness
of political agreements that give a name
to the places we’ve been.
Places where -
no-fi, hi-fi, and semper fi
are tucked away together
in the bedrooms
of the secretive South.
Places where -
go-go dancers
and wild life
evangelize on dance floors
in Chicago and Miami.
Places where pop freaks
and self-involved redemptions
(Things Nina would call funkier than
a mosquito’s tweeter)
alley-oop the street beat
of new jack swing
into dubious triumphs
out in LaLa Land.
Places where -
voodoo tambourines still shake
in the Louisiana swamps.
A washtub city
with piano-stabbing climaxes
still parading down streets.
(Streets that weren’t
laid out for neon disco.
But, to survive,
pretend for the customers
like disco is here to stay).
To where -
stories of trash-talking mountains
and soulful hollers got tucked away
into the media channels
of rich men’s pockets.
Everywhere,
I hear our pavement songs.
America has 3,809,525 miles plus an hour
of pavement songs in every direction.
Songs of scruffy mentalist
who could never get clean
no matter how hard they got washed,
beat upon
or taken to the cleaners.
Songs that ping pong
between Dolly Parton and Kendrick Lamar,
between Lizzo and Lynard Skynard,
between Nina Simone and Ariana Grande,
between Snoop Dogg and Dean Martin,
between orchestral feasts and Jon Batiste
between Tupac and Elton
between Grateful Dead and Radiohead
Between Lil Nas X and infinity
between gospel greats and acid jazz
between hustlers and healers
between our ears, heartbeats, bellies and toes
between drunken stage brawls
and dark, sophisticated moments of communal detox…
which never seem to last for long.
Songs of higher than the stars bold glamor faces
who fake Insta memories of harvest festivals
as they dive headlong into time-traveling through allegory caves
…TikTok… TikTok… TikTok…
Where’s the filter for enticing memory
from a forgotten analog sound
locked within a memory palace?
That place where we first heard reverberate
the intrigue of a little night music.
Little acoustic waves where it sounded like…
“Is you is or is you ain’t my baby.
You… is still my baby, baby”
(Tomorrow, baby gonna find somebody new.)
Songs laid down…
for survival jobs
in Web3 digital crypto marketing
with libertarian leanings.
Songs of up-tempo funk
laid out in the sandy circles
of ugly duckling mandala digital architecture
and scratchy calypso Twitter scorn.
Songs of
… Red Bulls
… Blue Walls
… and, Bingo Halls.
We are 3,809,525 miles plus an hour
breaking through pavement songs of nostalgia
in the wrenching of imminent revelation.
In every direction, we feel the secret,
painful,
lonely
wisdom that comes
from being a cool, wet seed in hot, scorched earth.
Caught between mud brick and flame
Caught between moonlight and Tesla cars,
Caught between running and clutching
A cool, wet seed turning in hot, scorched earth.
Revealing flexible truths of politicos and merchant kings
to be seen for what they are.
Rattled bones standing in moody shoes.
A dream of fire.
Through this crucible flame,
Our children look at us from puzzled souls.
They take notice of the emperor’s new clothes.
They are brave enough to ask the only question
which truly frightens us in the mirror.
Why DO some… feel the need to be rulers, everywhere?
(Inescapably, we know that we are all mirrors and windows.)
Through all this Noise. Bluster. Fury.
The distractions of our tender voice
continues to sneak up on us still.
A voice conjuring memories
from before the time we followed others
who wanted us to believe…
…that there is only ONE set of words
to name our experience as stardust.
…that there is only ONE set of words
to name the journey of a flower.
We still remember imagination.
This memory of awe mingles with curiosity
to stir our future.
The memory of being… joy.
Cool joy in a wet seed beginning to turn
through hot scorched earth.
Another name for joy is courage.
Reaching through wonder
it stretches beyond
the limitations of light
in this shining city on a hill.
By Theo Edmonds, Culture Futurist™
©2024 Theo Edmonds | All Rights Reserved.