Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.
Your comfort zone is a place where you keep yourself in a self-illusion and nothing can grow there but your potentiality can grow only when you can think and grow out of that zone.
Cordial or commercial, that may be the question. How pleasant is it not, to experience the instantaneity and the radiance of a sunny smile or to scent unsuspectingly an air of friendly willingness. In contrast, however, how smashingly disheartening is it not when everything appears to be merely contrived or profit driven and anything but cordial or empathic. The magic of genuine feelings is a precious value and has to be cherished and remain uncorrupted. We mustn’t consent to feelings being faked or deteriorated. ("A Thousand times touched." )
I had no songs in my repertoire for commercial radio anyway. Songs about debauched bootleggers, mothers that drowned their own children, Cadillacs that only got five miles to the gallon, floods, union hall fires, darkness and cadavers at the bottom of rivers weren't for radiophiles. There was nothing easygoing about the folk songs I sang. They weren't friendly or ripe with mellowness. They didn't come gently to the shore. I guess you could say they weren't commercial.
Not only that, my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio, and songs, to me, were more important that just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality, some different republic, some liberated republic. Greil Marcus, the music historian, would some thirty years later call it "the invisible republic."
Whatever the case, it wasn't that I was anti-popular culture or anything and I had no ambitions to stir things up. i just thought of popular culture as lame as hell and a big trick. It was like the unbroken sea of frost that lay outside the window and you had to have awkward footgear to walk on it.
I didn't know what age of history we were in nor what the truth of it was. Nobody bothered with that. If you told the truth, that was all well and good and if you told the un-truth, well, that's still well and good. Folk songs taught me that.
I spent my time drinking and staring at a television in the airport bar. More death and destruction. Crime. Pollution. All the news stories were telling me to be frightened. All the commercials were telling me to buy things I didn´t need. The message was that people could only be passive victims or consumers.
A little work with an ordinary household screwdriver can provide a handy and non-confrontational way of limiting the beer consumption of your partner. Simply remount the door on the other side after his 10th can of lager and he won't be able to figure out how to open it before the commercial break finishes.
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Forgiven of my sins so it's a discharge of my crimes. Commercially speaking, intervals between these programmed shows, keep your eyes glued to the set watching this literacy flow. Intentional means, I intend my influence to outlive me like Martin Luther the King, Martin Luther and his dream.
Capitalizing a capital on our heads through the sweat of our brow. It's debt for nature exchange, read in between the nature of words and see what I'm trynna explain.
GUCCI. Label me down with these codes that are commercialed in uniform. Military stripes, commander in chief, veteran in the word play, call it a beast. In plain sight hidden from the mass, where's Waldo? This arsenal I call 'Mind' is highly explosive cargo, a word flow, it's one in a million like solo.
On the television, a woman was scrubbing her kitchen tile with her magical new mop. It had not only cleaned the tough-to-reach space behind the fridge, it had saved her marriage, listened to her deepest secrets and given her orgasms too.
