An Alternative 4th of July Celebration
This is the written component from the multimedia performance we did at Albuquerque Mennonite church. I wrote much of the poetic narration (Dylan wrote the middle act) and there was a lot of collaboration on the pantomime aspect. This was the brainchild of a conversation Dimitri and I had in the hot tub about 2 months ago. The paintings are by Dylan and Dimitri. Anne added beautiful flourishes of dancing to the performance. Katy, Dylan, Mark and Dimitri also performed parts in the pantomime. Daniel accentuated the experience with intuitive viola accompaniment. Mark, Dylan, and Katy performed songs (with some help from the AMC ensemble). Special thanks to Glen for being that critical but kind outsider's perspective.
Prologue: “Jesus Was Homeless” song by Mark Monk
Narration: The setting is a remote desert along the border between the United States and Mexico. Two migrants, fleeing oppression, find a seed of hope.
Act I: Migration (poetry by Samuel Sullivan)
I am the leather of feet,
the dusty tears,
the flint-faced stare
that sun and thirst have eroded there
(what once projected
care and joy and fear).
The smokestack cloud
my guide by day,
the lights they feed my guide by night,
I thread the meager strand of my life
through the dark pearl gates
of Babylon's bride.
Escaping the tyranny of hunger pangs,
the sweatshop's sting,
the bloody power-lover's killing thing.
I carry a seed and a seedling
all I have left of a land that is fertile and bleeding;
it is my grain of hope for days of celebration,
my antidote to over-nourished malnutrition,
the bread that satisfies without sedation.
Act II: Oppression (poetry by Dylan Books)
A city of hope.
A closer look—the pope smokin’ dope.
once wild dear hurtled down from mountain to river
now hypocrisy gallops down main street
on a belching coughing steed,
one that drinks the earth’s black blood with greed.
Once limber timbered waters navigated from sea to sea—
a dance, a trance,
mesmerizing all things that be.
Now these veins have boiled,
black scars, mars of tar,
Punctuated with the honk of cars.
An intrusion, an illusion,
a pandemic of pollution,
where do dreams land in this land
of glorified rubble?
Pristine plagues—a toxic bubble,
a city tries to rise, but the uranium has burnt our eyes
a mutant mutiny is before us
Migrants on the roam for a new home
confused and confined
only to find the new Rome,
—and it's burning . . .
A nation yearning to yearn,
a step behind or a step ahead,
one more step and we'll all be. . . extinct.
Now bombs are implanted in the earth’s breast
Intrusions, contusions send us to bed
in a city that mocks rest.
The infant humanity nuzzles a parched chest.
Perhaps a prophet could pierce through this parade
harness this lunacy before it’s too late,
perhaps holding true, perhaps changing fate,
perhaps . . . far too late.
In the midst of this quiet chaos a dreamer dreams
a seed sprouts, a lark builds a nest.
The city exhales not sure that it can inhale
with an elephant on its chest.
hope mixed with fear in the cauldron of culture
Will it be seasoned by doves or vultures?
Song: “Oppression” by Ben Harper
The oppressed and the oppressors are being transformed into community.
Act III: Community (poetry by Samuel Sullivan)
Tears of exile flow
in the rivers of Babylon
The waters of the Tigris know
how the homeless carry on.
we bathe in sorrow,
we cleanse our wounds,
you satisfy our longings
in your salty saloons
We can no more lift a finger
to tickle your ear
our shriveled tongues will linger
on the sounds you cease to hear.
—
We, the migratory herds of humanity,
sit on the sandy bank
musing longingly
of that past or future time,
that near or distant place,
that seems present in the distortions
of a reflected face.
These troubled waters,
muddied with the bloody earth,
sullied by our selfish schemes
to improve our plot's net worth;
this suffering stream
will not refuse our supplication,
will absorb without saturation
the sorrows we exude.
We, like galilean fishermen,
study the water's edge,
angling for alms
to feed a starving empire.
What untold histories could we unravel
if we could read the record of each molecule's travel,
unroll this body of water like a Talmud scroll.
One stream bathed the mysterious progeny
of some Jewish refugees
fleeing Bethlehem's wailing agony.
This same liquid cools the feet
of a weary midnight crosser
of the muddy Rio Grande,
it laps at the feet of a passenger
on a desperate Cuban raft,
its powder blankets a frigid Afghani shelter
the tent camp mimicking the mountain landscape.
This river is an expansive mother,
freely giving succor
to a million thirsty infants
modest vegetation and consumer civilization.
Though we love the lines of her banks,
her swift, deep channels,
the gentle swirl of her backwater eddies,
her native bosque children—
we dam up her yearly menstrual flood,
our ingenious industry bleeds dry her hidden depths,
our careless contamination sours her nectar.
Even then she does not wean her feckless children,
she will sustain us with the last of her liquid life.
Each jubilant day that we find a way
To set free our self-interest,
carefully packing it in pitch,
like Moses’ mother launching her cradle craft
we may see the status blur between first and last.
Song: “Waters of Babylon”
