Revolution. Nearly as abused a word as love. As the Occupy Wall Street movement migrates to Vancouver, I am skeptical, though can’t abide the status quo either, and do believe change is possible. I am hopeful democracy will continue to spread, encouraged by the Arab Spring, how technology facilitates virtual brainstorming, the overthrow of despots. I am impressed with the integrity of this oh so grass roots movement. Still, I maintain, look within. I realize it sounds Buddhist or hippie-ish, but it’s vital to self-reflect, inhabit your Self, no matter where you reside, be it Wonderland or Wall Street.

I revolted long ago. Fleeing tortured relationships and a harrowing home life, as an angry young woman, I vainly sought justice, or more accurately, vengeance. A radicalized feminist, I became disillusioned and frustrated, began to understand that being an artist is a political statement. Being me. There is no other reality, or viable accomplishment, such a hard journey it is, once penning in a lyric, “I will not become what I mean to you.” I am far more effective expressing my views through words. And deeds, (see below), changing the only thing I can; me. My transformation, dare I say, transcendence is my greatest contribution, for talk is cheap, as is life, sadly.

Clean up your own back yard. Mess. That would be a good start. Do the work. Strengthen your foundation. Fill in the cracks, make the repairs. Corrections. Engineer community. Eliminate the pain and suffering within your reach. Stamp out tragedy, reign in disaster, strife, and or, express grief. Assimilate grief. Strip away the armor. Learn humility. Share. It feels good. Respect yourself. Others. Life. Be as kind as you can be. Expect less. Reserve judgement, not affection. Love. Unconditionally.

Whether I agree or disagree with the protesters doesn’t matter. We are complicit. Reform begins at home. All the rest is politics.