Oct 21, 2016

The Haunted Road


- Photo taken by Bram - 


The agents of chaos set the tone of the first night. Loki trying to steal for us the key to the gates of Valhalla. Last night, as it was, a rush of preparation to open the door... for what? for void, that old formless mother of creation that takes shape like a blank page, like empty space and all her looming potentialities, i who have always lived my life in potentialities i longed for the sweet confines of certainty, a song , a touch anything to lay down in bed and not confront what demons lay in the night, demons of failure of incompetence, shame for what? always have been one with a whip in my hand for my back. set up from a world of expectations and that being the down payment on disappointment, or bitter disappointment ... but my mom says that I added the bitterness --- "unable to destroy his invention he racked his brain" --- to try to find a use "he began to entertain the idea of locking himself in a monastery" --- so this is it, locked in the monastery with all the masks of being looking into them shadows that linger behind these eyes --- more so than the fear of failure, the fear of being untrue, of lacking real meaning and so in that way I see the way, and yet truth can be a harsh teacher, and not in the way that you've expected. perhaps all your good intentions will be rejected.

What takes place in the core is that performance is a way for us to take our minds off of the problem, to think around it and let our souls digest it, before it digests you... like the demon in this space, the grab you by the balls demon that exists among these walls from what travesty, i do not know, what sick generation of mind.... but there it lurks in the night as we dance, poets of chaos. fools of holy pursuit, cast asides in the journey of golden eternity --- that sun rising from the east, a gull flying and a petition for peace, a drop of blue gratitude at daylight and what that means to the grass, perhaps we shall all be blades of grass one day, or perhaps once when, we were.

The air is thick with exhaustion, the work of the day drum, the building, creation of a living heart, a symbol of community, to give life, to teach life at the very least, and our frame came out off kilter, not at all far away from me, in all my asymmetry. and i wonder if some doctor woulda had me sent back, torn me apart to do the job right this time. my living heart is defected, a hole in it where the blood rushes back, and so i, imperfect, son of miser and misery housewife --- but also all the reflections of light and beauty.

and say yes.

And so to dance with the demons in the wake of the full moon light, poured out intentions of being ness ripple on into the Niagara night, mother niagara a moonshot away from my blown kiss and all of this.

are you comfortable being formless? a perhaps you are, but only for a moment? are you comfortable in your skin? what if you are arab? or chinese? or hippy jihad? what if you are gay? what a terrible proposition, i could not think of a tougher fate in the annals (pun intended) of the social animals (halls). My brother yelling faggot at me with such vehemence, a common theme in social language. what if you are poor? among the lowly destitute? what if you never have hardly a chance to be the things I take for granted. God damn --- no, no damn, just God feel, and feel god in the misery, because energy is neither created nor destroyed only transformed by the words yes.

And so I try to get past my social conscious on the waves of these lads, we all do, together because we know there's something better, to touch upon the bliss of pure conscious and be harmonically surrounded by the angels of a thousand layers of sky and night, come night, come night come night, disappear into my mind --- to be confronted by the kiss of ecstasy.

 - Cpt D

Road Waves, Haunted Special, Culture Jam October 18, 2016



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