the he.said.she.said of our little villages has stunted our growth for thousands of years, yet we wonder why we stay in the game. we fight nausea and physical pangs of stretch and bend as we stay in the loop.di.loop of life and i wonder what tethers keep us safe as we overstand and find a new way to dance the ring of fire and strut the lines of comprehension.
as i read the hymn of apollo from a greek translation of historical mythos, i wondered about favorites and herstories from a native land that bear repeating, knowing i prefer a translation from rome. i find myself caught between the shire and the cliffs when i go underground, to later surface from the crest of a wave, either sicilian or reptilian or as pure as the freshly fallen snow.
as i considered a quote and landed lost in the valley of the grape driven apathy that swells the sleight of hand over too much barley, so too many fine flavors that serve our fathers and mothers as well as ourselves. we wonder how much response must be carried for our own offspring, if we find ourselves staring them in their adult faces....
music is the only salve that cures what hibernation steals from an eager insomniac. when the wyrd let me rest i know the growing pains of my first and fifth year find their surface among this that and then the third. protein fortified bone development and brainwaves that saturated the sounds of whatever swam from the stereo or down the staircase from the piano solos.... through the release of so many blind spots at once that i feel taller and smaller and longer and stronger and weaker in one long, solitary breath.
fading into some ancient glorification of a harbour that i hold for your flagrant piracy, your fragrant constellations that guide me through a technicolor transition in an old silent moviehouse. was that the absinthe or the smell of your hair? there were whispers from miles away and not one lip could be seen moved by language. we sought a higher truth that found nothing necessary more than the music drifting through the halls. our bodies responded to images and sounds that transcended the space between our minds, as we faded into one another among the shadows of every moviehouse and private parlour across the land. the gatherings of eager sensual beings grew as more prolific mediums spread....
and here we are. technology spreading more quickly than the roots of our trees or the vines of our stability. a variety of ghostwriters telling a variety of stories as we choose from a variety of translations of a variety of perspectives around no solid truth of what came before us. is the revolution being digitized? catch it over at the variety playhouse.
like Leto, the daughter of Koios and Phoebe and mother of Apollo and Artemis, the seeds of Zeus, my mother bore a contract for great competence through the great rage of an offspring who would bear quivers against men and women of the sort that carry tools as weapons out of greed, in a vain attempt at protecting a place in a people who are carrying tools as weapons out of necessity and the will to thrive amongst their own.
as Zeus overcame a generation, son of Rhea, daughter of Ouranos, spectrum of GAIA, accepted the birth of Apollo as a veil that he might pass through into an unfathomed sense of freedom by the renewal of anonymity. we are each an offshoot of heaven and shall harbour no desire against ourself, but guise a creative flow that serves beyond our sight. as a common consciousness of stories and light, the shadows bring colour through sound and may you serve yourself well among the vast ocean of potential. may you reach beyond the base of your existence into the bass of your greatest common cross section, denominating all domination, denominations and indoctrinations while allowing the architecture of your desires and plans to found themselves among a pure and sacred mud, recognizing the intricate piers above the muddy waters as an equally righteous oasis amongst the weary travelers of our human race. we should be recognizing ourselves in the distance.
maria of the fort was placed in a black hole in the spring of 1991, as every participant and patron was overexposed for the duration of our journey along a temporary timeline. memories lost but not forgotten are stepping stones for the return journey or the full circle round. reach beyond what you see, hear or know. recognize what you feel within the cosms of your existence.
live long and foster truth.
listen to the music.
be the muse.
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