“Thousands upon thousands of martyrs have heroically laid down their lives for the people; Let us hold their banner high and march ahead along the path crimson with their blood!”
Chairman Mao Tsetung
4.24.1945
That morning the power was out all over town.
No power. No Television. No Order.
By Noon, an angry crowd of haters had gathered on the hillside demanding justice. Where was their hero, and where had their power gone?
He giveth as he taketh away and now, it seemed, he would have to pay.
The angry crowd quickly became a violent mob as the sowing circles began to unify realizing their sheer strength in numbers.
The thirsty masses anxiously awaited the word or the wound.
As the day grew long, the end became clear.
Robbed of their freedom, they planned on an entertaining afternoon featuring the demise of their once heroic golden cow.
ENTER THE HERO.
Slowly sauntering up the hill, finally, coyly smiling.
Grinning into the eyes of death he begins to laugh.
Upon seeing the stones clinched in their hands, the hero naively looked to the sky in hopes of salvation.
Or better yet, a Cross.
Their hero’s powerless dramatic gaze lacked a means to an end.
A great uproar arose within the pit of angry haters.
This God-less sky will not wet their murderous fury with the tonic in which they crave.
No pomp and circumstance for this doomed hero son, or his so called fan base.
Then the first stone was cast, followed by another and yet another.
At this rate the mob just might get their “show” after all.
“KILL HIM!!” They would scream, foaming at their mouths like wild animals.
A heavenly gaze or two later and all was right with the world.
Clinging to life the hero stood up and bore his wounds to the spoiled, rageful dogs he once led.
“Choke on your greed! All of you!” He curdled.
Just then a giant wave of heroic blood rose high, high above the mob and crash down on their little congregation of hatred.
Call it a bath; call it a baptism, who really cares.
The blood will always find its way into their fiery mouths quenching their thirst for justice.
This hero shared himself, others did not.
Warm beginnings require a freezing cold end in today’s hero business.
One can never be to sure about ones public, as the lord is just too busy now days to see to it that the masses fall in line.
ENTER THE MARTYR, who is reborn only in death and inherits life eternal.
Contrary to public opinion a Martyr’s last living thoughts are composed of fear. The repeated pelting of stones cast like bullets by loyal viewers made of glass, dull the fear though.
Exercising their need to feed on the carcass of the one they had once loved, they victoriously cheer and cry.
Shitting his pants, the Martyr’s life flashes before his eyes as he transcends.
Now it’s time to get down to business… A Revolution!
ENTER THE MARTHA, sitting alone weaving and plotting the revolution with her pins and needles.
No cushion or thimble for her just yet.
She was the first and the last lady that night. The most important night of her life, and by far the most rewarding night of all nights known to what would become the so called “Americans”.
She surely knew a thing or two about style, much like the Nazarene carpenter who wielded the crucifix.
Movements need symbols far more than they need leaders.
No Mao. No Pasaran. No platforms to dive from, or stand on.
Cold and alone she worked into the unsure night to birth that musty quilt crafted in the hope of providing freedoms future with an identity, a face. Each little stitch sown will become a thousand ideas in time, and to her in that moment each stitch is a singular statement equally as meaningful as the latter. This work of hers would come to mean more those who do not take it for granted and even more to those who do.
ENER THE FLAG, born from a new idea and the basis of all good ideas... Freedom! Sadly, a freedom that seems to exist only to those angry mobs that have nothing left to cast their stones at. The masses have no “one” thing left to love, just as they have no “one thing left to hate. No more golden cow, no more raping the willing. .. There was a new hero in town.
“Could this flag become the “new” Crucifix?” some British Imperialist thought having no real bearing on how pissed off educated revolutionaries could be.
When set a flame they smell the same and provide the same comfort and same pain.
“God Save The Queen!” He would later scream as his head fell from his body.
As Martha’s thimble-less thumb bled blue onto her red dress, her pale white face was strained in pain. Giving birth to the next Raggedy Ann hero, and another, and another; also born was this flags revolutionary mother.
After that night, it would seem that King James no longer cornered the “hero” market.
ENTER DEMOCRACY
Submit Your Review for 021 Enter
Required fields are marked with (*). Your e-mail address will not be displayed.