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Winter Blues won’t slow me down and the novel continues to be written, but let’s take a break from that to post about something I’m really excited about.
This coming week, Police In The Wilderness will be released. Police In The Wilderness is a collection of plays by Cameron Christopher Stuart that I worked closely with the author over several late fall and early winter months to publish. The book features two versions of the same play written and revisited along with various dramatic stagings by Saints of an Unnamed Country over a ten year period, creating an experience to fully absorb the psychedelic audacity of this wild expose on the human wilderness. With themes of climate change, life in a dystopian police state, and mind-altering philosophical dialectics on the birth and death of poetic meaning, this collection could’ve chosen no better time to make its grand entrance into our collective consciousness.
Cameron and I worked together to make this release something special, complete with photos from previous performances, endnotes to give the reader some extended reading to explore, and illustrations by the virtuoso Stephanie Beattie.
Copies will be included with tickets to the live staging of Police In The Wilderness at Patch Works in Brooklyn, NY during its 5 show run from January 22-25, 2020 as part of The Exponential Festival.
Read an interview about the play here: http://bit.ly/2sn31mn
Link to get your tickets is here: https://policeinthewilderness.brownpapertickets.com/
Dream Poet For Hire was on 6ABC Philly last weekend. Watch the full segment here: https://6abc.com/community-events/localish-presents-some-of-the-best-philly-has-to-offer/5799596/
Dream Poet For Hire was on Fox 29 Philly last night. Watch the full segment here: https://www.fox29.com/news/philadelphia-street-poet-has-a-way-with-words
Dream Poet For Hire was in the Philadelphia Inquirer last week. Read the full article here: https://www.inquirer.com/news/philadelphia/dream-poet-for-hire-marshall-james-kavanaugh-philadelphia-street-poet-20190828.html
a noise/poetry showcase presented by crass lips records. Let’s open some minds and conjure some higher frequencies.
LET US CALL OURSELVES ARTEMISIA VULGARIS
The difference between us and them is we spend too much time mourning our losses and not enough time celebrating what we still have.
Do the bankers or the developers or the fossil fuel execs worry about losing everything? No. They’ll work themselves bankrupt and this whole world into lack if there is a chance there is some sort of profit to be had. Shit, even when they are bankrupt they’ll work the system to bail them out. I mean, look at it this way, a man who lost $10 billion and has bankrupted more institutions than should even be possible in a single lifetime, is now our president. That is “them”.
We need to have that kind of fearlessness to protect what we still have. We need to develop that kind of fluidity to let go of what is already lost in order to save enough so that we have ground from which we can rebuild it. The radical left needs to become more agile. More able to take a blow and regroup with a new defense. We need to carry multiple flags, multiple hats, and at the same time refuse becoming too structured, too able to be cornered and had. Bought and sold. Our tears only more room for their profit.
We still have the Earth. We have her to lead us. Does the Earth mourn the loss of a single flower at the end of every summer? No. She puts all her intentions into the roots and accepts the cycle of winter, knowing the shadow is necessary before next year’s growth.
We must be more like the Earth. The Earth is the only true radical, and we are hers to hold. Our roots are still yet to be cut. Until they are, we must hold strong and be like the garden weed. Be like the mycelium. A network of roots springing up through out the ground, never to be dug up or struck down as long as the Earth still holds us.
We call them the Black Snake, but what is our antidote?
We must be less like gardeners and more like the actual roots of our garden. Let us call ourselves Bindweed. Or Morning Glory. Or Artemisia Vulgaris. Turn this whole land back into a swampy meadow.
THOSE KENSINGTON BLUES STILL RATTLING THROUGH
Something about the Kensington Blues. The way the L train yo-yo’s through everyone’s backyard. Toxic grit and refuse spattered across abandoned lot lawns. Contrast between condo and dilapidated dive bar. Brooklyn style gastro pub and abandoned warehouse. City of shells quickly being filled with new hermit crabs.
The setting for what once was a community of strong guitar savants. Those who stuck around seemingly rising to nostalgic fame. And yet, in their songs you can picture them sitting by themselves in their living rooms twiddling away on some chord progression that has the harmonics and melody of this desolation of peak capital.
Over and over again the same chord like a drone. Causing the body to whirl like in a dervish. An opiate nod between K & A. Soundtrack to post-apocalypse. Wild westerns just across the border in East Kensington.
It’s three or four songs in when the Solar Motel Band really starts creating some electric friction, and Chris Forsyth is shredding his guitar cable against the fret board amassing a wash of noise that shocks the inner core, when I realize all this while how the musicians of this corridor have developed not just their own style, but a pseudo-language in which they respond to one another. The former music scene that used to reside here now dispersed, replaced, growing up with new parts, but still these guitar heroes offering up their twin stacks full of feedback. I wonder if this song now being spun is a nod to Purling Hiss or Birds of Maya or going back even further in the lexicon to acknowledge the art warehouse foundations scoured by Bardo Pond.
The language in its current evolution a pop rock that speaks to a wider audience, and yet sets it on repeat in order to break it down, piece by piece, until the whole shit has gone up in flames, and then they rebuild it. Bass rumbling through a fine walk around town, while guitar flutters between verse and solo and static and wall of frequencies both angelic and alarming. The audience stuffed into a dark, low-lit room, with an open window to the L train and Front Street as the backdrop to the stage. A “Renaissance painting” of viewers looking in from the outside.
Almost five years gone by since I left this neighborhood to the vulture capitalists, only to come back and find the artists have dug into their trenches and become even more prolific.
There are dream tones in the Kenzo Haze that impregnate even the most obstinate transplant. Perhaps the language between these guitarists is not theirs, but the land’s. Open terrain that was consumed by a wave of development, and yet still there are still these white elephants of warehouses glowing brightly under the moonlight full of such brilliance waiting to be repossessed. The great art factories of the River Wards.
It’s almost midnight and the song, at least now an hour and half long continues to hum out into the open air. It seems to say, “This ain’t the Grateful Dead. This is the Grateful Living!”
I wonder what the passengers on the L train rattling through these Kensington Blues are dreaming of tonight.