[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxrxL0aviGE[/youtube]
Let’s take it down a notch.
We are all allowed to dream, aren’t we? Racing a car down a mountain highway. The night breeze. Sails on a calm sea, all blue. Salt is in the ether. Rocks rolling down a dusty cliff, a few plants protruding here and there. Stuff, things, have existed for a while.
If a tree makes no sound when no one hears it, that is like saying peaks only rose jagged like into the sky less than a million years ago, which is sacrilege.
Some eyes light up in the dark with, the slightest hint of moon.
Does the Moon speak? It must. It says ages, scrolls upon scrolls of very formal and very private proclamation. It cannot be revelation, for it takes a lot of silence to hear it. But it is loud. The moon is stern, more so than the Sun or even Saturno. Severe. Severity is what it takes to drag the sweetness of ages. To relate.
Can the moon care about the opinions of a life of a few decades? We do not talk to it. Her. Him.
Crickets. Crickets sing to the Moon, wolves only pine. No, wolves announce. Aye. There is a formal start, a formal denouement and a formalissimo close. Heros are beckoned by the Sun, but it is the Moon they hear as they enter the travails of greatness.
She who speaks to them. Her voice they are stunned to listen, yet stunned is not the right word. Like paralized, but without fear. Or a deeper fear, a fear of the bones, a fear that celebrates. “If I must be sacrificed to you, it is a good sacrifice.” To lie with the little insects of the night, in the soft soil.
Covered by worms. Bones are made bare by her. Even when covered by flesh. She beckons them to feel the wind. To feel death, as a living thing. for the celebration of the Moon’s long conservation of sweetness, through the ages, of which humans are a blip. We, also, are recorded in the Moon’s annals. She sings softly.
With the power of an impaling stag. With the piercing of the sharp edge of a breeze. Salt in the bone. Leaves on the salt on the bone. Swaing to the immortal rhythm of death. A dance. Life is a dance. Is it not? What other attitude is appropriate to the knowledge of death? Of oxygen in the air?
Crows, but seagulls too. Perikeets are shy. But they hover, and listen. Bellow some overhang, with walls of leaves. They listen and gather the information, for the day, for the glorious flight. They listen, they are awake. Like the shamans, the guides of old, who gather herbs in the night, disappearing and appearing like ghosts with a rhythm all their own, a gift of the Moon, but is it a gift?
They make a tea, at that magical minute that you did not know until the cup was handed to you. Suddenly the stars came into sharp focus, and their millenial duty is understood, like the pebbles are understood, and the impermanence of the moment, for which their initiation trained them.
That is why the cycles, erratic from any objective view, but somehow not seeming.
They don’t care about you.
They follow the Moon’s edicts, and hers cannot be called caring.
It cannot be called a gift, a privilege certainly.
The Sun stains the horizon.
And the eternal mystery of life is revealed. As you walk away, dazed, blessed for a few months, you realize you are only a turist, and the crazy (crazy?) shaman is a resident, studious and diligent. One day he will die. He will be lost, and frazzled hair. The Moon consumes absolutely. Can it be called a gift?
He is like the rocks in the night, on the cliff overlooking the sea. Is the salt a gift? Are the corroded plants of the coast blessed? In that moment, in the night?
The waves ask the question, as they crash onto the rocks. Melodiously. The melody of questioning.
For a real question cannot seek an answer, only itself, the same happy question, over and over.
That is why they are residents. They listen, and they will let the Moon consume them, happily. Though the Moon erases happiness, for her feelings are older.
I have to admit, I’m a little scared. A year ago I would have busted an artery in laughter at the suggestion that anybody had a ghost of a chance against big DJT. Never for a moment did I consider this China flu coup. Which is fucking genious. Genius. came straight out of left field. The brilliancy of it is… Well, you can tell some people on the other side back then had the same thought as me.
I still give the odds to the Trumpster. But goddamnit, I am scared.
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtAx6VyhpzQ[/youtube]
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkgJ4B8wwPQ[/youtube]
Lol this is too much
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPZ6Ofp9GM0[/youtube]
Women need more representation in joropo.
All right. See you all later.
Rock on with you cock out, republicans. You have been doing excellent writing.
Salud!
- EDIT -
There was a poem here, but actually, it’s nobody’s business.
Bet none of you bastards knew that Herbie Hancock could actually play the piano?
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38zRx9AYDHQ[/youtube]
I used to hate this album. But I find myself listening to it with increasing frequency.
whats the cause for all your recent seeking of attention? get to the root. ya walked out a here like you were healed…
Speak to me like a man. What’s your gripe?
just asking…why are you attention seeking?
Not so fun when it’s incoming?
No response
Still no response
no one adds anything.
Nothings still.
Now you’re just talking to yourself.
Seems like it’s needed.