The Whisper of Pages Turning
Stephen King . . .
Be prepared to see it all. If you want to write, don’t you dare commit the immorality of stopping on the surface. Go deep. No matter how much it hurts.
Every day, millions of people stop on the surface at political websites, they don’t want to see it all, it hurts too much. So they only look at some of it, they only talk about some of it, they only write about some of it.
MyFDL is different. We go deep, no matter how much it hurts.
Because the river of time is flowing and its waters are red, because the rule of law is burning, because its a flaming pyre in the roaring throat of the night, because catastrophic climate change is here and isn’t going away, because the politicians of the two-party system never do anything but stand at their podiums, their vocal chords vibrating with meaningless noise while Obama plays his fucking fiddle with a broken bow, serenading himself for lighting more fires than he put out, serenading the Wall Street gods who own his ass, serenading the legions of the empire as they get ready to march into Persia, so this economy of the war machine, by the war machine, and for the war machine shall not perish from the earth.
I’ve never been a front-pager, I’m not a leader of anyone or anything, I’m just another wanderer on the back roads of this fading world, where reality still endures somehow, where there are no fiscal cliffs, where you can hear the whisper of pages turning in the Book of Resistance, on which the deepest truths are written, truths the tongues of politicians have never uttered, truths it is up to us to proclaim after long centuries of silence, so this won’t all end in the carnage of resource wars raging across a poisoned world, so the last starlight anyone ever sees won’t glint coldly on global wreckage and ruin.
You can pull onto those well-known website highways to nowhere, hit cruise control, and watch the blank billboards go by, or you can walk along the back roads of truth with us, on roads taken by only a few so far, on the only roads that can lead any of us home. There’s a spirit here, the spirit of the lyre and the laurel and the long road, the spirit of protest songs and poetry that will never die, the spirit of resistance and redemption, the spirit of Selma and Birmingham Jail and I Have a Dream, the spirit of everyone in every land in every age who ever spoke truth to power.
They walked the long road.
So can we . . .