Angel Negre's Gospel of Mythoklasm

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Tuesday
May 1st (May Day) 2007
ANGEL NEGRE'S GOSPEL OF MYTHOKLASM

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TODAY'S QUOTES:

"A foolish faith in authority is the worst enemy of truth."

-- Albert Einstein, 1901

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"No justice, no peace. No truth, no justice. No mythoklasm, no truth. No peace, no happiness. No mythoklasm, no happiness."

-- Angel Negre, 2007

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Dear Jaromir & Magda,

AND SO IT CAME TO PASS that I, Angel Negre, Mythdiver and Servant to the Zeitgeist, began to gather together as many as could be rescued and preserved of the twinkling insights of my anagrammatic other, Galen Green (1949-2049).

Let us now gather in these remnants of his insights, twinkling as they are, 'midst the murky muddy muddle. Twinkle, twinkle, tiny specks of mythoklasm, sparkling in the darkling! Let us now gather them like the scattered pieces of some puzzle spiraling outward.

Where, then, is the center of this spiral of scattered puzzle pieces? Shall we locate it just outside the dining hall at Saint Paul School of Theology in Kansas City, Missouri, at around high noon of an otherwise lovely April day in 1984? Why not? Watch now, as these remnants spiral outward from that midpoint, that still point of his turning life story, outward toward both the past and future simultaneously, until they bring us to that moment which is "now" and which, therefore, keeps changing in rhythm with the flux of its own inner imperative.

Or shall we locate that spiral's center in that same Midwestern city, but on a time-space coordinate involving September 11, 2001, a day which, I believe we can all agree, will live, not only in "infamy," but, like several assassinations I could mention, indelibly in the imaginations of everyone of a certain age.

How is it that the life of one human creature somehow becomes the life of their time and place in history or -- stranger still -- the life of their people? If you figure that one out, please let me know right away. The poets and storytellers seem to be able to make it happen at will, and yet as if by magic. Jesus becomes Everyman and every man becomes Jesus -- and every woman, too -- suffering, dying and sometimes rising, that others might live (to suffer, die, and sometimes rise, etc. etc.)

Well, that's one way of putting it. And gazing, thus, through such a framework, we're afforded some inkling of how the seemingly trivial, insignificant life story even of one so tedious, puny, lame and limited as my anagrammatic other might provide grist for (dare I say) universal tragicomic relief from the darkness that surrounds us.

Let us now gather in what's worth gathering in and leave the rest to the flames of oblivion. Angel Negre, who am Galen Green's anagrammatic other, stand here before you now, not so much as an Angel Negre, a "Black Angel" or Dark Angel, as merely another way of saying the same thing, only differently.

For it's not so much that this world is a lie as it is that so many of the statements that have heretofore been employed to define it have been lies and systems of lies -- which is to say "myths." As delicious as dear old Joseph Campbell gave us to misunderstand myths to be, he gave us only half of the story. For History teaches that myths cause people to do bad things to other people. The Good News is . . . the Gospel of Mythoklasm is . . . that we who have slept through the past ten millennia are now beginning slowly to awaken to the realization of this inconvenient truth.

(But in this world's darkness, IS NOT ALL TRUTH INCONVENIENT?)

Faithfully Faithlessly Yours,

Angel Negre


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MYTHOKLASM IN THE BIG CITY

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THE WORLD IS UGLY(AND THE PEOPLE ARE SAD)

Oh, the world is ugly and the people are sad,
And you know that ain’t no fun.
But, Baby, don’t you start feelin’ bad.
Don’t you run out and buy you a gun.
Don’t you start shootin’ smack or poppin’ speed
Or smokin’ too much weed.

Refrain:
One thing you never learned from your mom and dad --
Now, don’t take it too hard or it’ll drive you mad --
But the world is ugly and the people are sad --
Yes, the world is ugly and the people are sad.

The news is spreadin’ like a weed
That the world is ugly and the people are sad.
I wonder where it all will lead,
Before our story is done.
I think of my unborn daughter and son
And all that I never had.
(...repeat refrain...)

If all the rocks began to bleed,
Would it make the people glad?
Or if we all outlived the sun,
Would we ever know what we need?
No. No. No. The world is ugly and the people are sad
And the fun has just begun.
(...repeat refrain...)

What if our lives had never begun?
Then, who would plant the seed
Of a world so ugly and a people so sad,
From the Bronx to Leningrad?
Who would there be to start to breed
These sufferers under the sun?
(...repeat refrain...)

So here we stand beneath the sun,
Trying to buy some fun --
As the dirty hooves of Life’s stampede
Pound in us to succeed.
And we each live our Odyssey and our Iliad,
In a world that’s ugly with people that are sad.
(...repeat refrain...)


Words and Music by Galen Green c 1978


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AFTER-IMAGE


1.
This year’s been one in which I’ve thought of you and other friends, and wondered
How we do these passive panic dances, these old and new modes of alienation from
The light of who we are and...how we become the tree of our knowledge of what we
Want each other to see, when I think about you and you about me.

Watching a candle, I think again tonight of you and me and us and where we’d be,
If not for our brief sharing of those bright moments long ago on our way to these
True and separate moments here and now. I agree that sentimentality is hardly
Ever the right emotion. Yet, when I think of how we outgrew the past and each
Other, I close my eyes on the white after-image of memory, distant, tight.

2.
The clock on the wall tells me where to go, into the future in the only machine
I know. This jar of cider is all I have to show for the thousands of minutes I’ve
Dragged my fleshy freight from my mother’s feet where I used to play to my mother’s
Feet, which have followed me all the way to here and now. My breath just wants to
Say that it has enjoyed hosting my wonderful weight.

Watching this candle tonight, I cannot delay a moment longer in swallowing the bait
Of your face in my memory which from below consciousness swallows me. And here
I’ll stay from now until it all becomes too late to think anymore and it’s time to
Stop and grow into next year and tomorrow and time to wait and...time to sit and
Contemplate the gray.

3.
This year’s been one in which I’ve sat on the lawn and thought of you and other
Friends who’ve gone into the touchless past. Tonight, I yawn with joy and think
Of you...and prop my feet on an empty crate and rub my weary eyes and sip this
Jar of cider and the lies I tell myself as this once-bright candle dies.

The clock in my memory tells me not to treat these thoughts of you too rough,
Lest they rise and body forth into this air like the sweet reality of the you
I knew at the dawn of my days on earth: your shoulders, breasts and thighs
Composed by the gods of love, perfect, neat. This year’s been one in which I’ve
Played the pawn to the white queen of your memory, sketched on a sheet of blank
After-image, this empty street.


Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986

IT’S ALL JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER


The tender goddess of milk
Huddles among her children in the square.
The morning air is hung with a mist like silk.
(It’s all just one damned thing after another.)
The terrible goddess of thirst
Gnaws the throats of the children huddled there;
But her breast is bare; and, one by one, the children all are nursed.
(It’s all just energy, time space, and matter.)

Chorus:
Today is such a beautiful day.
I wish that I could fly.
Someday I’ll die.
Today is such a beautiful day.
I wish that I could fly.
Someday I’ll die.

The crazy goddess of words lies down upon the paper to be read,
While around her head flutters a flock of mockingbirds.
(It’s all just one damned thing after another.)
The invisible goddess of melody hovers over the printed page.
In her crystal cage she carries an entire symphony.
(It’s all just energy, time, space, and matter.)

(repeat chorus)

The playful goddess of touching
Washes her tiniest child in a tub of water.
From their teeter-totter, two of her older children sit, watching.
(It’s all just one damned thing after another.)
The goddess of together
Embraces her children huddled in the square.
Each one will share with the others according to the weather.
(It’s all just energy, time, space, and matter.)

(repeat chorus)


Words and Music by Galen Green c 1972