The Process of Falling in Love and Living Happily Ever After- explained through music.

The Opium of Old Age

Inside a low-ceiling theatre, almost 20 children are on display. Each child enacts their own monologue and sing harmoniously in new language wherein the most delicate of human dynamics are protrusions of ineffable truths. All are in progress. One child silently celebrates the coarse sound of construction paper split by small dull scissors while another marvels at the discovery of a 4th layer of skin he found on his hand with the application of cool white potion used formerly as an adhesive. A broad window long into the room offers the set a backdrop of a vast green field with rolling knolls that lead into a lumbering horizon. The azure sky allows the sun to shine through-reflecting immensely on the clouds. The clouds themselves become suns without circumference; free of form. They beam white light- sparsely inhabiting the sky in horizontal streaks that navigate at slow speeds. This light obscures the shape of the child standing in front of the window-turning her into a frozen silhouette. She is humming. The well dressed audience in their twilight sit in the back of the room. Throughout the opus it is common that within such naive banter, words of stark wisdom can resound within the hearts of the audience. Gestant with feelings of empathic nostalgia and regret for a life of lessons unlearned, the Old produce silent tears and hold their applause as to not disrupt the performance.

An Alarm from an Emblem of my Peace

Lately,

In a dream…

The dimensions of my peace are not in metaphysical increments because they come in forms with distinct names. It may even be morbidly mundane to those that live in rotting urban centers. There is a stark project housing unit somewhere in the UK that can tell you my story. It’s shaped like an unclosed rectangle with the opening used as a courtyard facing a large body of water. Vegetation has dominated the side of the building. Flats have wide open windows. Some tenants have even taken it upon themselves –with the help of a negligent government to break through the walls for wider openings and make-shift balconies. They are people of color; hang-drying brilliant traditional garbs and modern clothing. Although they are underprivileged they remain content but never complacent. Lush with grime and rich with life this poor place I am in awe of. Suddenly they push back from their communal flat openings into their rooms. A spray of doves and seagulls cover the suns rays as they escape what I am confused by. I stand their possibly with someone else. I turn around to a hazy nothing. A large body of water probably stagnant with long-term metropolitan influence. The recoiled people tell me with their response. Slowly they emerge from their shambled flats. Still they focus on what made them afraid but now it is reverence they express; an admiration of what I can not yet see. This is self-unawareness. Beholding…

Lately,

During conscious life I’ve tried to pinpoint what self-unawareness is. I’ve come to use my dreams as maps for where I am in all facets of myself. I’m gaining insight. I enjoy encouraging myself. The feeling of the audience’ reverence reminds me of a photograph I took of myself that I entitled “Seeing God”. Though God or whatever my gaze is fixated on is not pictured, it is this that shows another vital affinity to my dream. It was taken in a grimy part of London. I used a steel scaffold to hold my camera- this photograph happened to captured a very pinnacle point in my life. At that point I excelled. This dream is probably a sign of strong growth.

By leaps and bounds.

Beholding…

A Train's Providence

I want nothing to do with trains except the tone they may emit during cool spring nights when its voice rolls through the trees and lands as soft wind against the skin. They exist only at a distance to haunt the mind with immediate desires to flee or pursue. Chasing tail ends of rolling northern lights abandoning a western town for someplace strange yet congruent having headed for the north promised by the song of a distant freight.

Fighting a Gorilla in a Phone Booth

Now here's the stage during late mornings and early open afternoons that I choose to pace about my house trying to reflect on things that I think I've done wrong. Usually It feels like a fog in my brain deceiving me with truth and falsehood. This fog is not something that I should fight but have every power to simply dismiss. It is only a matter of short time- that it falls and soaks the ground-eventually-ironically nourishing its surroundings.

Clouds at Night

A violet sky has produced a wispy lavender Phoenix that charges toward a star. Having scowered the expanse of existence for the one that shines as brilliantly the Phoenix' fears not that his steadfast eyes my wander-but his wings from fading from its reach.

AMEN

"United with his fellow men by the strongest of all ties, the tie of a common doom, the free man finds that a new vision is with him always, shedding over every daily task the light of love. The life of man is a long march through the night, surrounded by invisible foes, tortured by weariness and pain, toward a goal that few can hope to reach, and where none may tarry long. One by one, as they march, our comrades vanish from our sight, seized by the silent orders of omnipotent death. Very brief is the time in which we can help them, in which their happiness or misery is decided. Be it ours to shed sunshine on their path, to lighten their sorrows by the balm of sympathy, to give them the pure joy of a never-tiring affection, to strengthen failing courage, to instill faith in hours of despair.  Let us not weigh in grudging scales their merits and demerits, but let us think only of their need--of the sorrows, the difficulties, perhaps the blindnesses, that make the misery of their lives; let us remember that they are fellow sufferers in the same darkness, actors in the same tragedy with ourselves. And so, when their day is over, when their good and their evil have become eternal by the immortality of the past, be it ours to feel that, where they suffered, where they failed, no deed of ours was the caused; but wherever a spark of the divine fire kindled in their hearts, we were ready with encouragement, with sympathy, with brave words in which high courage glowed."

                
Taken from Bertrand Russell's "A Free Man's Worship"