I remember the dream I had with a few friends back in the summer of 2008. We were all high on the sun and shoelessness and good vibes and the wisdom poured forth from Old Face the turtles quick decisions when James Cagney’s ghost whispered to us in the night that this was everything we’d ever needed. We had found what it was we were looking for. But our good dreams were blown to smitherines by the cold hard justice of time and we scattered our own ways with our own bits of the dream inside of us.
Mine was an angry bit. After that dream I didn’t want any other and the people looked like aliens, savage and deranged freaks wildly throwing money at each other, angrily exchanging needless goods, hatefully ignoring the violence they were buying. I wandered “Home Free” for three years amongst them. I met a few more people who reminded me of the dream, but they all seemed busy with their own. How heavy my angry bit became.
I fell in love to the tune of an angels voice, a pure soul in the midst of the horror show, but then I lost her and a bunch of other things like the boy I loved for a summer (who killed himself with a shotgun) and my beloved Grandma Phenix (who God killed with Cancer) but worst of all I lost my conviction that there was anything here worth dreaming about any more. My mind was plagued with cancerous shotgun weilding demons with gnashing IPOD teeth who were sent by the debt collection agency to take away my freedom.
It got down to the bitter end with me and my angry little bit of a dream. I almost lost it in the snow. But luckily the others had carried theirs as well and they built it. They really built it. Our dream. The house with many rooms and the cozy kitchen which chatters incessantly, Bad Larry drifting through every conversation, with the Greenhouses to grow food and that perfect room from which I had dreamed I would print it all, the whole story of it. They found it.
Mike and Nate figured it all out. They built the Sanctuary. Matt is already here. Then I came. Hari who was the one with the pen and the paper who wanted to figure out what this house would look like is coming soon. Now that it is built we are all wandering to its beacon. Come home lost ones.
From the second that I set foot in this house I knew that this was home. I could feel it. Some wandering thing inside of me was suddenly silent for the first time in years and in its silence all of the pieces fell into place.
We’re free here. The government pays us money for trying to kill us and we reinvest it into a sustainable circle of life. There are two greenhouses and a few big fields around a pond where they’ve turned the land into a labyrinth of cultivatable land. There is a farm down the road where we can buy our meat from right here. We don’t have to drive anywhere because we don’t have jobs. Our jobs are here preparing ourselves for the future.
We all realized on that island that we were not normal anymore. We were not meant for the work-a-day world. We didn’t want to be surrounded by a society that didn’t understand us and didn’t have the time of day to try to. When we were together it felt right. Home was us. We’ve figured out how to keep a place for “us” supported and productive.
So fuck that world out there. Fuck the city and its noise and pollution and bad spending habits. Fuck compulsory service in markets you don’t really believe in which profit off the enslavement of poorer peoples. Fuck the five dollar cups of coffee, people who interupt face to face conversations to answer cell phones, towns with Wal-Marts and fast food restaurants. Fuck this country, fuck the debt, fuck the banks, fuck the politicians.
Withdraw.
Declare bankrupcy, collect public assistance, go on the dole, move to where your friends are and live happily. Fuck everything else. Its the first step to any real revolutionary behavior because revolutionary words out of the mouths of people who depend on that which they want to destroy are bullshit.
We’re waiting for you here when you’re ready, friends, in the never ending IVAW weekend (the fun half).
The Paper Trail 