Requiem

Today is a momentous day. It marks the anniversary of the birth of millions of people, possibly billions throughout history, however there are two standouts among them, William Melvin Hicks was born December 16, 1961 in Valdosta, Georgia. He grew up to be one of the last of the philosopher kings. Not a king of country, or of men, but of himself, his life, and his choices. An intellectual armed to the vitriolic teeth with rage and love. Hatred for the blind being led by the blind that he kept balanced with a love for them that drove him to preach and scream at them to pay attention, and it worked. In just my life alone I am surrounded by people, amazing people, artists, musicians, writers, etc, that have been irrevocably changed by Bill Hicks. Would they still be the same 'evolved', intelligent, hilarious people if Bill Hicks had never entered their lives, (typically through the last song on Aenima by Tool whose influence on us has also been huge, possibly equally so)? Would I be? I'd like to think so. I'd like to think that all of that comes from within us, that it is inherent to every one of us and that me and mine were just lucky enough to see through the veil, as it were. Yet, at the same time I think back to all the authors, musicians, artists etc that have influenced me my whole life and I wonder....would my wanderlust be as strong if it wasn't for Jack Kerouac? Would my urge to find the strange in life be the same if it wasn't fo Hunter S. Thompson? Would the sword of anger and disgust I have for the world around me ever have been honed and edged, and the hilt I use to swing that sword be made out of love for the world around me if it wasn't for William Melvin Hicks? I really don't think so. Would I know the exact reasons I despise a system based on whether or not I am economically valid, that tells me that destruction is more cost-effective than creation or would I be stumbling through life, mad at an elusive....something, never knowing exactly what causes the nauseous feeling I get in the face of "life" because an angry Texan by way of my current backyard never screamed at me to "squeegee my third eye". He was a roaming preacher, a stand up comediosopher that used dick and fart jokes to keep the window lickers at attention until he could spin their minds on his fingers with his diatribes about government, God, the benefits of drugs, the awful art of marketing, pop music, and the loss of feeling that every one of us gets as the lull of society causes us to slowly go numb. A man the world needs right now, a man whose every word, even though they were put onto record 20 years ago, is as relevant, if not more relevant, today as they were then. A man who's untimely and tragic death from cancer at the age of 32 left a vacuum that will possibly never be filled. A man whose hilarious rants brought more to our lives, at least my life, philosophically, spiritually, and culturally than all of the scholars of the ages combined.



Bill is not the only visionary that needs to be celebrated today. Throughout history there have been men and women who come into this world with the silver string connecting their spirit to something greater than that which can be found here. They don't need to become enlightened for they can touch pure light with whatever it is they do, whatever act they commit that pushes through any cultural zeitgeist, that trancends the flesh and brain that controls them to become part of, and give the rest of us a glimpse of, the aether, the great beyond. Vision of Paradise.




Ludwig Von Beethoven was born December 16th, 1770 in Bonn, in what is now Germany. I am not going to write about his life, as this is not a book report. I can't name all of his pieces of work, I can recognize when it's Beethoven when I hear him. I recognize the power of Fate knocking when he strikes the keys at the beginning of the 5th, and I know that 'ol Ludwig answered back with all of the defiance he could muster, "YOU BASTARDS WILL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!!". Sonatas that inspire boys to ask Queen Mab herself for the next waltz, that personified love in spring for even the most bitter cuckold. The Moonlight Sonata makes a feeling grow within that trancends the frustration of first year piano students and grows into the knowledge of night embracing you and passing you from star to star in a marriage dance that only ends when the dawn breaks, but not before taking you on a tour of all the sadness and despair that roosts like a murder in the rookeries of the dead of night. He understood that Magick was very much real, but no amount of sacred ritual, or chanted words could conjure a devil or an angel in the way that he alone with his quill and the notes that embraced him could. His mystic symbols were strewn on the bars and measures in front of him, even once he paid the cost for his conjuring with the sense that put him most into contact with the Magick he created, his hearing. One of the great Illuminated, no Heaven or Hall of the Dead is good enough for his spirit, for he already resided amongst them when he was still alive, a man that made the gods quiver, and forced Fate itself to knock on his door, he who was the muse of the muses, he now resides amidst the spheres themselves, outside looking in.



So take time today to honor these Kings amongst the insects, These giants whose mere presence changed and warped the world around them. Know that amidst all the fear that you are instructed to live in by the television people, and the economy you are being buried under by all the marketing people, that there is a pure shining silver spirit of creation that is the true touch of life, that for ever night of despair your murder roosts in, there will be a dawn, and a Queen of Dreams there to take your hand and teach you how to waltz.