Real Big Sky

 Under the inky dome, stars wedded to it

My creation takes shape and form

I brought you forth and lived through you

And you became my crutch, night after day

Injecting you into my dreams to sleep with a smile

So shackled this imagination, so pallid its complexion

It aborts any sense of renewal, of vulnerable redemption and meaning

So, burn down what you worship

and worship the immolation, for this fire sustains life

And prepare to toil, to sow, to sculpt.

For the rivers carry a new song, and the sky deem us wondrous

Only if they shelter creations anew. 

Dedicated to Emma Ruth Rundle.

            

Happy Trails, Myles.

 You were the most perfect car in most respects.  It was a good ride - ruined only very slightly by your creators lack of quality. 

Goodbye little donkey. You've been a good friend. 

Storm Corrosion

 All we can do is predict the storm and prepare for it as best we can.

Mother Nature does her best to love each of her creations. 

Not out of malice. Caprice, maybe. 

All you can do is accept it. 

And when the last snow flake has landed and the winds throaty roar has faded into eerie silence, is a chance for rediscovery. 

And Mother Nature allows us to choose the soundtrack. 

She did make us predictably stubborn.

Passenger

They say the arrow of time goes only in one direction. And that the direction is shown by entropy, so says physics.

Physics also describes music as a collection of sounds. A capsule of notes and intervals and pitch and rhythm, if you will. 

But how do you go from ingesting this capsule to forming a memory? Where things are clear to the exclusion of all else.

And no one explained how ingesting this capsule makes time travel possible - as you are transported to different sands and smells, in a mere instant. 

And no one even mentioned about the tears that now well up and on the brink of rushing down your face. 

How could they have missed all this? 

Maybe they lived that moment and chose to let us have our own. 

Maybe they knew after all and did not have words enough to say it. 

Maybe they could say it, but chose to read words of another. 

Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: “For nothing is self-sufficient, neither in us ourselves nor in things; and if our soul has trembled with happiness and sounded like a harp string just once, all eternity was needed to produce this one event—and in this single moment of affirmation all eternity was called good, redeemed, justified, and affirmed.”

Maybe nothing more ever needed to be said. 

Triangle

First it hits you. Pierces a dense vacuum.

Then it jerks a solitary tear.

As a nightmare, it haunts you.

Then it builds yearning. A craving desire.

It becomes that next breath - you gasp and choke. 

And slowly the vitality is assured.

The paltry apparition of the same struggles against this wind of change.

Burn down what you worship. Worship what you burn down.

Happy Thanksgiving

Music, this wonderfully weird arrangement of myriad sounds, is entertainment. At least on its shimmering surface.

But as Sisyphus' ordeal describes, we have our own burdens to carry up the mountain. To aid in this endeavor, we each have our own crutches - some find god, some work ceaselessly, some consume drugs, some sulk and some, who have exhausted all of their own resources, choose to not push that boulder anymore. There is solace in the fact that this fickle fabric of space and time that has wrapped each of us in cosmic causality, there are some of us, enough of us, to use music as a crutch to be able to lift each step.

This is not an admission of hardship or a wail against the saints of fate, far from it. This is an admission, if impotent, of the gratitude that this, our tribe, is able to move on, thanks to the propulsive force of this music. To some it is a friend who does not judge. To some, it is a surrogate parent, for when a soothing hand on a fevered brow was needed, but none a warm body found. This is acknowledgement, that we consider ourselves worthy of Mother Nature's blessing to carry on, drawing sustenance from her bosom - where many grew cold by the wayside.

With as much wayward grace as I can purchase, I say thanks. Tomorrow, even if the sounds stop playing out loud, they will remain with us in our hearts, our candles in dark corners. Reminding us, that we can swim in the rivers of nihil and still draw breath.

Bulls on Parade!

Hell has indeed frozen over. The hairs on my body stand erect in fear.

Rage Against the Machine just announced a handful of shows in March and April 2020. No, this is a big deal. I need to convince you its a big deal.

Rewind, back to 2004.

Second year of engineering. I had neither phone nor computer that I could call my own. Youtube did not exist as it does today. Internet connection was not a given. What the fuck even was 4G LTE?

Its hot, sweltering. Sitting in a friends apartment, I have hijacked his desktop. I was looking for porn to be honest. And I did find a folder "Videos". I see a bunch of blurry thumbnails. And my horny fingers click on this one.

Woodstock 99. Rage Against The Machine. Bulls on Parade.

Blurry as fuck. I see an immense crowd, a blow up doll (nice) and a mass of sweat and bodies.
And then the riff hits me.

Its very difficult to explain this - there are moments in your life that change you fundamentally. Tom Morello, that marxist magician of a guitar player, conjured this combination of notes and played them with such ferocity, he made them sound erotic. Very very erotic. An instant injection of testosterone. Everything went hot. I had to move. A lot. Maniacally.

"... Rally round the family, with a pocket full of shells....."

9 years in the US have made amply clear what those lyrics mean. What greed and inequality and racism is, has become clearer. From near and afar. What RATM is and means, is made amply clear.

And yet, that riff retains it vitriolic, mercurial, erotic appeal. It changed me that day. And it changes me still.

All of music is that perfect time when that perfect set of notes hits you. Like a haze being lifted from in front of your eyes, things gain piercing clarity. The rest as they say, is nostalgia.

Freedom.

To celebrate a tyrant.

A vain man.
A jealous brother.
A disappointing child.
A betrayer of trust.
A domestic abuser.
A denier of medicine.
A murderer. Giver of trauma.

Happy birthday, you terrible being.
May you live a long life.

A rare blossom

As time ticks into steady eternity

Nary a beat missed, silent rhythm merciless

Chained to this hourglass, addling towards the horizon. 

Glorious effort, satisfied beads stream.

Look back at the footsteps 

Impressions in the sand, effervescent though,

A voice so familiar greets

"So long ago did we meet

At a junction many moons past.

Have you my answers yet?

Have you value for your heart?"

And as the cadence seems to slow,

Mirrors rotate, flashing images gallop.

As a bead settles on my eyelid

Blurry picture and many a hazy words

Focus into attention.

Unsettling calm in a din, miasma of sounds

"Old friend, how frail you've grown.

At the edge of the ocean where we did part.

Speak of your travails

And the wonders you sought!"

"Truth be told, as our salutations faded,

A door I opened faithful to promise. 

And walked along the presented path.

Where I sought rare blossoms

And murals of rare desire

Sculpt the clay placed on the turning wheel.

Seek the light of love and life.

But my eyes were seized, by the fiery leaves,

every one of which, float away with the wind. 

Fortuitous exodus to the drum beat, to every step of design.

And as I came upon a stop, 

Shimmering surface dark, gleaming edge on the path.

A sigh exhaled upon the cold waves.

Stilled waves a desert reveal

Whose bosom you tread

Facing down the sun, bearing shoulders spent. 

Shared agony beckoning, I touched the reflection

And here I stand, alongside you.

To hear of the blossoms you sought. "

As the bead races past the eye

Crystals of sand stand out, each one

As the words spoken, reverberate, refuse to dissipate. 

Build up to a crescendo and melt away the links.

With a piercing note, into a million shards,

the hourglass liberates itself.

Shield my eyes, let the tremors pass.

With a passing glimpse, I stand on an edge, unspoiled and frail.

Fecundity abound, its secrets unknown.

I take a step to assure my senses,

See a fading apparition - drags away with it a torturous sun. 

I tread a new oasis, Eden of promise.

And again seek rare blossoms. 

Phoenix Rising.

I feel the urge rising.

Not unlike the bile creeping up your throat, reacting to gluttony.

Not unlike taste buds feeling the scorch of a Moruga scorpion after a bout of flu.

Not unlike the soul put back into the volume surrounded by four white walls when a painting is installed in their midst.

Not unlike a long cold stove soiled by spilled hot milk and spitting oil.

Not unlike the first sight after a long absence is of someone you hold most dear.

The fondness after blooms after a parched summer of longing. I did not ask to walk on the cracked soil in unsheltered heat. But now, as I set my sights on an oasis, dip my calloused feet into the soothing touch of water, I look with gratitude upon something that I would have seen without notice.

I feel my muscles tense up in anticipation of the adrenaline fountain that is about to explode. Here comes the riff..... I have missed you so.