Whereas  achievement is attained by men with goals --- and goals only dawn on one after enduring horror, persecution, loss or sorrow, (which focus the mind, and create empathy), I accept the shadow of SORROW crossing my path as a privilege given by a loving Father.

Whereas Evolution is initiated by Activists who dedicate themselves to eradicating the causes of planetary sorrow,  kneeling in the mud to pull weeds from the field so that the Farmer behind can sow seeds that will feed generations of children to come... I accept kneeling in the mud.

Whereas activists’ work is to point out corporate greed which creates famine, denounce conspiracy on high that locks out most of humanity, and fight the racism that allows the hungry to fight among one another, instead of fighting a common enemy. Whereas my work is to discourage the appetite for genocide and  expose theft of common goods by the super rich, wreaked upon the uneducated and disenfranchised, and examine the hypocrisy and artful spin control that disguises the thefts done by CEOs who collapse corporations at whim, line their purses with stockholders' life savings,  then invade third world lands simply because they can --and -- whereas such sins go on twenty four hours a day, -- we activists are prepared to join in rainbow coalition and battle tirelessly against some very rich, powerful and dangerous people.

Whereas our tools are popular organization, meetings, potluck dinners, community garage sales, parties,  posters that display our wrath at being misused, public demonstration, creating furor which will fill the pages of newspapers and create public condemnation of the selfishness of famous, self-righteous, deceitful, wealthy men, so that in the resulting public scandal, we can demand CHANGE, human rights, fair trade agreements, fair laws and fair share for the many, -- demanding these changes from the few ---  we accept that there must be furor and danger of being bruised and attacked and not crave silence and peaceful simplicity TOO much.

Whereas the simple life leaves the body lean and the mind free to travel all dimensions, and have unlimited inspiration, I accept the simple life of an activist as a privilege --- given by God.

Whereas suffering, exploited and underrepresented people live the simple life in sorrow and hopelessness, and have no choice in the matter, I volunteer to join them in the simple life to honor them and with my discomfort, sitting hours at my PC, keep their discomfort  in mind...

Whereas the people of all lands are ravaged by war, government sponsored genocide, hunger, homelessness, poisoned air, food and water and are sick, cold and hungry, I choose to rent, not own, fast not feast, wear sweaters and not turn on the heat as a reminder to myself of them.

While this great debt crisis and engineered depression is caused by 13 oligarch families who have purloined not only the Media and thru Lobbyists, Congress --- but the presidency itself, men who have used elections to appoint brigands who pose as heroes while secretly serving an unseen oligarch's legislative will, I must smother rage by reminding myself that they also are the children (perhaps of a Lesser God) and should be easy to talk to, maybe over dinner one night.

I refuse to think of politicians and tycoons as ignorant, turned off jerks or a coven of meat-eating hierarchical Nazis in Armanis and Lears. If I did, they would reject my teachings when I met them. Hate is not useful. They are perfect as they are. I'm just glad I am not like them.

I am made of FIRE and am dressed in the gleaming armor of the soldier of God. THE rich weren't given the opportunities or the finery that I was given. Wealth corrupts and absolute wealth corrupts absolutely.

I will neither judge nor scold the bought politicians or the CEO oligarchs who buy them but give both the chance they need to evolve as they read verbal lightning bolts I've placed in journalists' emails or my own wry, humorous sparks in the alt media --- knowing my fire is not arson designed to burn them out, --- but a glorious blaze designed to light their way. I vow to use truthful words showing the cause and effect of their actions, down to the last third world infant dying of hunger or toxins created by the oligarchs and their transnationals, and their bought, flunky, banana-republic despots held aloft by death squads.

As God is nothing if not serendipity it may be that one day the oligarch thusly pictured in the media either will consult me on his errors or send soldiers to kill me. In the first case, my words will last an hour more. In the second case, my words will last forever. God will decide. Whatever is to be, I write because I must and just pray that positive change will occur. If a man so pictured in a portrait asks to meet his artist, when we do lunch, I'll compliment him on the great groceries, point out that his own workers have never eaten that well and ask him to please, pay them a better wage.

Whereas it has been given to God in his great humor to make activist-writers careless, kind-hearted, charming, witty prankster visionaries with good eyesight, I am glad that it also occurred to Him to make us wizened, wily, maverick loners, without plastic credit cards with inscribed name and credit line, appreciating that, but for such lacks, I was never tempted to dress in beaded silk, inhabit night clubs, drive shiny cars or date distracting heartbreakers.

I live alone, beyond the pale, unfiched, the ultimate outsider, with nothing but wits and a hard drive. I accept my lot with joyful spirit, live in my cloistered monk's cell without rancor, knowing that upon my heart, my Father's Name is writ in fire. And all I need I can buy with that signature.

My cottage is not in town where din distracts, nor in the valley where river roars. Nor do I dwell in meadow green, lured to sow, nor on the glittering shore in lenient sun, nor in any place where beauty lulls. My hut is on a mountain crest in cyberspace where all can see the beacon glow of my words. When I throw stones into the rushing gorge their echoes and messages are carried to humanity below.

Whereas some men dwell in perfumed cages, mind blurred, attention-span diminished by electronic soma, earning salaries they then must spend, investing in quirky mutual funds, 401's, IRAs and laying their savings before the feet of the false God Mammon called NASDAQ, I am spared all this busy-ness. I have learned the law, 'there is nothing to do.'

Whereas some men spend their lifetime creating surplus, then are stripped of their winnings, enslaved by those very Lords of NASDAQ, Dow and DIJA, and by their false friends, the Federal Reserve and IRS, what I create is so bounteous that I am taxed to give it away, but I do, to E-zines who joyfully take my gift.

I light the lamp in my cell, hang the beacon in the window, stay awake to watch the highway so that I can  warn, advise those who live in the valley below, teach them to abandon the casino, go home, and make their roof strong so the giant's coming hoof will not demolish them.

By stroking the keys of my keyboard I fill the nine realms with music. My keyboard is my church, my prayer, my rosary, my choir. Hail Mary the keyboard is great, while I type, the Lord is with me.

AFFIRM NOW, THE HACKER'S PRAYER: I am sorrowing, cloistered, poor ---privileges all. My keyboard is my rosary and there I pray eight hours a day, hoeing my own row, not someone else's. Yea though I walk through the valley of simplicity, I am glad of heart.

Techno-monks of the world, unite and sing this song of gladness. We smile up at our Father, smile IN at Him. Many lives we have lived in dalliance, sensual delight and sleep. This life we consecrate to The Great Task - the honor and elan of membership in a Paul Revere PC-Researcher /writer hacker clan of WEB PATRIOTS.

Nextlifetime we will accept the palace that we earned in this life but we are in no great hurry. For a palace such as my cell and ecstasy such as my heart enjoys, are not bought with any coin.

Affirm: I am the typing hand of Supreme Being, my words are rainy torrents, feeding electronic lightning bolts of His righteous wrath broken by rainbow humor shining through.

Inside my cozy cell, my heart's fire is a golden seed, the spark of life its germ, and as the storm falls, it germinates so that an immense vine wraps my house, red roses bloom and jewel-plumed ideas, like emerald, lyretail birds, build nests there. The sun of eternity shines down on us like a smiling Father and we are warm.

As a farmer has faith in seed he throws down, I have faith in the seed I scatter for why else would God prepare a Cyber field where words can sprout, grow tall and feed the multitudes, where each word-seed dropped, all see, all taste. Here words root, spread invisibly deep, pushing stem toward stars.

When I falter, fear or forget, I summon vision of an indigo-flowered tree whose fragrance delights us all. My seed will bloom! Knowing that, I take up tool and dig. Behind my back, above my head unseen,  angel's sword and shield  put wings on my moving hands.

Gladly I accept the earthly chore that my Father in Heaven has given me. Daily I note that I can live on air, feed on air, sleep and dreaming fly in highest sphere, eating the sun rather than dining on rocks which impede flight and invite stuporous, dreamless sleep.

I am intoxicated by the fruit of the Lord's field, the sprawling tree where knowledge hangs like apples on the google trees of the World Wide Web. While this garden is walled, its gate opened with a single key, well named, 'ENTER.'

In the history of galaxies, there was never a library like it. What would a Gandhi, MLK, Norma Rae or a Silkwood have done with this Modern Library of Alexandria? My PC's jewel chips are made of melted, glittering beach sand, where I walk on information beaches, swim warm, inviting knowledge seas, communicating with angels on far shores.

Intoxicated with the power to dig diamonds and pile them in secret cache, I work long hours.  I love the work I do, love the future vision of a planet healed, love the man who hears my song on a distant, future shore in spite of the illusion that I am alone in my small cell.

And when I rest, my head lies not on a pillow but on a grassy knoll where dead heroes sleep and third world babies sleep, dreaming of mothers they barely knew.

I dream of the 13 families who thoughtlessly made bellies cry with death and never cared and who greedily traded in arms, then persuaded bought politicians to carpetbomb and knew full well the innocent civilians children who died. I dream that they awaken, weep, repent and beg forgiveness.

                 It is all perfection. If beauty is truth, than where I am is beautiful. Pity me not.  Instead, join me.