Stolen from The Sky

“If you aren’t for us, you are with the terrorists.” – GW Bush
But Jesus said, “Don’t stop him! Anyone who is not against you is for you.”

There is nothing new under the sun. In the 21st century, that is more true, than new. There is nothing that doesn’t race across the internet at BLAZING speeds. Nobody can keep up. Original thought is aboriginal thought. We are just reworking sentences. It has become almost impossible to patent anything these days. In order to be an original, you have to rework your schtick, your schpeel, your mantra.

It’s not yours. It never was.

In speaking about musical improvisation, my friend Antek once said: “We are thieves, really. We steal it. (music) We steal it from the sky.”

Okay, this may be slightly backwards. We steal it, then project it INTO the sky. But the quibbling isn’t the quantifier. The ground moves beneath our feet. We are here to hear and share, and the sound is over there till it’s in our ear. But it isn’t ours. We steal it.

So it is with thoughts themselves. These are the great predecessors to our fingers, which produce the movement on the instruments, which flows into the air, pushing those molecules around until it – literally – resonates in our ears.

The 21st century supplies a watered down version of humanity. Everything – and everyone – is amorphous. There are no sharp edges. Our only passion is nebulousness. Conformity is the normity, and normalcy has progressed to its infancy. We are indifferent to our differences. Undefinable has become the apogee of definitions.

Subdued, subjected, sublime, sublimated, we cast our stones into the world. We are crushed into sand, and walk upon the shore, looking out at the water, because ‘ocean’ is too strong, too violent, too descriptive, too insensitive.

We ferry about in our pond of insecurities, while instructed to be convicted – – about conviction, passion, love, anger, hatred, music, and art.

The only art worth displaying, is art that doesn’t say anything. This is the message we are told we need to convey. So dull your pencils, and write weak thoughts. Dismiss anything that might ruffle feathers, including using them to fly.

Where would we go, anyway? To be Thieves Of The Sky?

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