New Music From Gill Scott-Heron

The revolution will not be televised

a poem by Gill Scott-Heron 1970

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back
after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

Stereomood

Stereomood is a website that plays tracks according to the emotion or activity you select on its home page.  The choices range from “bicycle” to “meditation” to “sexy” to “I feel like crying.”

Stereomood is always going to assume you want to hear a piano version of “No Cars Go” and a song or 2 by its favorite band Rosie and Me no matter what mood you’re in.  Once it rolls through a couple of go-to tracks, stereromood is eclectic and fresh, sure to match your vibe any day.

www.stereomood.com

The Bottom

Today is Wednesday, tunafish pasta day.  I’ve been 90% alone for 8 days and counting.  Keenan will be back from Mexico one week from now.

About one month ago I started eating animals again and stopped painting.  I lived on sugar, meat and anxiety with an affinity for clinging and Family Guy.  With all this quiet, I am beginning to find my path again, a path I lost sight of one year ago upon my jarring arrival to this great city.

When I first came to San Francisco I wanted to be at least as productive, financially stable and socially involved as I was in New York or Kentucky even.  I settled into a home, banged out 10 paintings in 3 months, found two jobs, a boyfriend, a new boyfriend, my dearest girlfriend Mary and hot damn! I was all set.  Another new apartment, a gallery show, a new art collective, whew.  I’ve had a fantastic year on the surface but why does my journal read so sad?  A few excerpts, unposted blog entries, diary:

December 16, 2009

“Today I feel like my life is wasting away.  No freaked out emails please.  I’m not going to cut my neck with a rusty saw.  God that’s nasty, probably the last thing I’d want to do.  Gross.  No, I’m just bored.  I finished my first Main Line.  I’ve started a new painting ( my other 13 are mounted in black frames around the house.)  It’s foggy out, and drizzly and cold.  I feel undernourished in every way.  I’m pissed off.  I’m just really really pissed off and bored with myself.  I want an adventure and I don’t know where to start.”

February 20, 2010

“Today Brandon said, it’s so funny you realize your anxious about nothing, but you just can’t stop doing it.  Yeah, and when you say things like that, it makes me want to hide from you.  I know that I should not be anxious.  I know I can drink a lot of booze to make it not happen.  I am not anxiety.  It’s just something that happens.  It doesn’t matter if I’m bored or busy, in love or not.  It’s something that goes on in my body.  At least it doesn’t give me the shits anymore.  I don’t really consider myself quiet or shy or nervous but when Brandon says it…”

February 25, 2010

“Sometimes I’m ungodly sad for the most irrational reasons.  I exist in this pool of  self-loathing and any small success or love I’ve known vanishes.  Apart from feeling a bit isolated in my new absolutely gorgeous downtown apartment, my life is good.  I have a job.  I have a wonderful boyfriend who constantly surprises me with his kindness and sincerity.  I have friends who will stand beside me forever, excellent health,  yet somehow, every morning I have to fight this demon.  I have this urge to sleep all day that drags me into headaches, vertigo, more lethargy.  I wake up every day with this notion that I have nothing to live for, nothing to do and it’s frightening because it seems like it will never end.  It began after my first couple of nights of staying here alone.  I would cry, go to the video store, bring the video home, complete it, and cry again until I finally fell asleep.

April 1, 2010

Today I awoke to a scent that did not exist.  It smelled like a dead fish and it was STRONG.  I thought maybe I might be clairscentiaent.  Maybe.”

June 19, 2010

Today is about becoming loud again and if that means downing an entire bottle of white wine today only to throw it up tomorrow, so be it!  Where is my singing Adele?  The one who laughs, listens to Beyonce?  This sober career version cannot find her.  It might mean paint, it might mean vortex, it might mean running and cigarettes.  She’s in there somewhere.  One thing is certain.  This studio does not feel like her home to me.

June 25, 2010

I’m alone, even if it is just for the weekend. I’m unconnected.  Where is my goddamn connection!  My paintings are trite and irrelevant.  I don’t know how to BE anything else.

…to be continued.