Stop dreaming, start doing.
I'm drinking Kombucha with Vinny,
We're talking about Marx and about veganism.
I like this sylvan lifestyle,
This escape from a corporate-churned, pop culture.
And hey, last night I fell in love with Crisp,
With hope renewed as he breaks the mold: this man with the beer gut and receding hairline who I find to be so handsome and charming.
Last night someone asked me about Woodstock and the greater hippie movement, what it meant, what it was ... I thought about faithful youth flocking to San Francisco all those years ago, rejecting American commercialism, beginning the journey starry-eyed, but ending it as disillusioned deadbeats, homeless. So, maybe we can't all flock to the woods, livin' off love.
Still, there is Aristotle's Golden Mean, a way to navigate the waters. Having that conversation with Vinny; laying in that tent (that was like "a glass palace"), being held by Crisp; dancing around the fire to the sound of not top 40 hits, but drums being played by our friends, that was all very fulfilling. And for just a moment, I am tempted to reject the corporate world altogether, to reject ever eating meat again, to erase all beloved Mariah Carey and TLC songs from my mp3 player so as to allow for only legitimately purchased independent music by My Summer as a Salvation Soldier and Sigur Ros. But if 'anarchists are hopeless romantics,' as Þórir Georg Jónsson has remarked, or if fighting the proverbial 'machine' seems so daunting and impossible, it is only because we need not reject all of the corporate-churn, need not make it our professional, God-given duty to ensure that every Wal*Mart in the U.S. is annihilated.
It is about harmonizing with what is, not fighting against it.
I'd much rather drink Green Tea or Kombucha over a
CoCa Cola: they're not the global leader of my beverage.
Doing yoga on the back porch with Jason ....
Fancy cars won't make me happy, so I'm not gonna sing about 'em. I'd really rather ride in your dinged up, old pickup truck, parked off the side of route 20, have a bottle of cold Sierra Nevada, sitting on the tailgate, looking at the cornfield, talking about how if our kid was a faggot, we'd love him.
We're talking about Marx and about veganism.
I like this sylvan lifestyle,
This escape from a corporate-churned, pop culture.
And hey, last night I fell in love with Crisp,
With hope renewed as he breaks the mold: this man with the beer gut and receding hairline who I find to be so handsome and charming.
Last night someone asked me about Woodstock and the greater hippie movement, what it meant, what it was ... I thought about faithful youth flocking to San Francisco all those years ago, rejecting American commercialism, beginning the journey starry-eyed, but ending it as disillusioned deadbeats, homeless. So, maybe we can't all flock to the woods, livin' off love.
Still, there is Aristotle's Golden Mean, a way to navigate the waters. Having that conversation with Vinny; laying in that tent (that was like "a glass palace"), being held by Crisp; dancing around the fire to the sound of not top 40 hits, but drums being played by our friends, that was all very fulfilling. And for just a moment, I am tempted to reject the corporate world altogether, to reject ever eating meat again, to erase all beloved Mariah Carey and TLC songs from my mp3 player so as to allow for only legitimately purchased independent music by My Summer as a Salvation Soldier and Sigur Ros. But if 'anarchists are hopeless romantics,' as Þórir Georg Jónsson has remarked, or if fighting the proverbial 'machine' seems so daunting and impossible, it is only because we need not reject all of the corporate-churn, need not make it our professional, God-given duty to ensure that every Wal*Mart in the U.S. is annihilated.
It is about harmonizing with what is, not fighting against it.
I'd much rather drink Green Tea or Kombucha over a
CoCa Cola: they're not the global leader of my beverage.
Doing yoga on the back porch with Jason ....
Fancy cars won't make me happy, so I'm not gonna sing about 'em. I'd really rather ride in your dinged up, old pickup truck, parked off the side of route 20, have a bottle of cold Sierra Nevada, sitting on the tailgate, looking at the cornfield, talking about how if our kid was a faggot, we'd love him.