AT­TIL­LAH SPRINGER

We can­not promise a new world or­der

But if you feel like a refugee, ba­by

Say we gonna open up every bor­der

Seize and de­stroy all mis­ery, ba­by

Feel the rhythm flow­ing out of your con­trol

Like a thou­sand desert fires in your hun­gry soul.

-Knock Them Down

Davi d Rud­der

I was in bed un­der the pro­tec­tion of an in­dus­tri­al strength du­vet, lis­ten­ing to the wind howl­ing out­side, rat­tling the win­dow with a sense of ur­gency like the wind it­self is try­ing to es­cape its own cold­ness. I was in bed in Baby­lon­don and swore that I could hear a pan side some­where, prac­tic­ing the same phrase over and over un­til you can see the notes and the hands that play them in your mind's eye. Bass pans rum­bling like Shango thun­der self in the night. Warn­ing peo­ple that this is no joke. Car­ni­val is no kicks. No pap­pyshow with a pric­etag. Car­ni­val is truth and Car­ni­val is a rea­son to get out of a un­der a du­vet and dou­ble check your book­ing home. There are snow flur­ries out­side the win­dow and in­side I am blast­ing that slow ver­sion of All Stars play­ing Woman on the Bass. Psych­ing my­self up to leave the house with warm thoughts. Play­ing notes that I don't know on my imag­i­nary pans. They are say­ing one thing and that is come home. Come home quick. You can't miss the Sa­van­nah on Sun­day for Panora­ma.

If Car­ni­val is the dis­trac­tion, Car­ni­val is al­so the sal­va­tion. The cathar­sis you need. If you choose to make it so. Car­ni­val is the Esu. Giv­ing you a choice of de­struc­tion or re­con­struc­tion. Show­ing you an open way, if your mind is open to it. Show­ing you an­oth­er pos­si­bil­i­ty if an­oth­er pos­si­bil­i­ty is what you're look­ing for. $96.5 mil­lion worth of chaos. As if you can put a price tag on mad­ness. Or reg­u­late the spir­it of a thing that you don't un­der­stand. The faces of Lon­don­ers are grim in the shad­ow of St Paul's Cathe­dral from which the Oc­cu­py Lon­don Stock Ex­change camp will be soon evict­ed. There is some­thing chaot­ic and bac­cha­nal­ish and beau­ti­ful about the whole thing. The trusta­far­i­ans pos­ing in long hair and hip­ster grunge un­til such time as their rich par­ents sum­mon them back to their coun­try homes. The desta­bilis­ers and the spies.

I am think­ing on­ly of Car­ni­val as I stand here in the midst of masks and shout­ing an­gry peo­ple who are black, white, gay, tooth­less, hi­jab wear­ing, Bible thump­ing. An end­less stream of pos­si­bil­i­ties all jostling for a right to be seen and heard. It is like the whole world re­al­ly turn­ing ole mas and it is so fa­mil­iar a scene that I won­der if these peo­ple too know the joy of chaos the or­der of things that seem too crazy to be log­i­cal. But this is not my Car­ni­val. This is not my tra­di­tion of oc­cu­pa­tion. I am hear­ing a bis­cuit tin in the back­ground call­ing out to me. Come home. Come home and oc­cu­py your­self and your streets. Take back what is yours from $96.5 mil­lion of ob­scen­i­ty. Take back what is yours from those who seek to com­mod­i­fy your eman­ci­pa­tion. Put a dol­lar val­ue on your rit­u­al of cel­e­brat­ing a long ex­ist­ing de­sire to be free. To claim the road as yours. To have a place in the world where you could be your­self. With your hands over your head. De­clar­ing your ex­is­tence. De­fy­ing any­one who says you have no right to be here.

Win­ter and all its pro­tec­tive lay­ers are a mem­o­ry now and in the dis­tance I can hear a pan­side prac­tis­ing the same phrase. There is a way that I am Car­ni­val that I am noth­ing else. $96.5 mil­lion can't stop me from be­ing that. I agree with my broth­er Jou­vay­ist Wen­dell Man­war­ren with whom I have shared the rit­u­al oc­cu­pa­tion of Jou­vay morn­ing for many years that we have to cel­e­brate that Car­ni­val en­er­gy, that claim­ing of our fury and turn­ing that fury in­to fire and turn­ing that fire to light. Light that comes at the end of dark­ness. Light to make us see that we are more than a price tag. More than a pap­pyshow of masks we have not made our­selves. That is the beau­ty of democ­ra­cy that has noth­ing to do with par­ty pol­i­tics. That is the or­der of chaos. And soon­er or lat­er we might un­der­stand that the pow­er of Car­ni­val is that you have the pow­er to take con­trol of the road with­out fear, take con­trol of your body and your mind and oc­cu­py your­self in a way that no gov­ern­ment can.

They could nev­er evict me from Car­ni­val. They could nev­er put a price tag on what the road means to me. Not rope, not end­less wee wee trucks, not noise mak­ing un­in­ter­est­ed in pan posers can steal away the rit­u­al cleans­ing of the Car­ni­val. Not even my im­mense sad­ness and dis­ap­point­ment at the state of my beloved coun­try can damp­en the ris­ing hope that Car­ni­val brings. It is per­mis­sion to mash it down and build it back up. In­to what you want it to be. In­to who you think you are. If we don't oc­cu­py it, we have on­ly our­selves to blame for sub­mit­ting our free­dom to those who have the dol­lars to sell it.

-Our doubts are trai­tors

-Buzz But­ler