The unsung murmurations say rise up and fly or spin or float or dance or dream.Throw out
everything you no longer need, you no longer require, you no longer want or that you no longer
have time for. Drive on through the night, aflame with the wars of the world, drive on to the high
ground, drive up into the high plateaus where you will surely find the light of your life. The place
where the pulsing bell, the bell of the soul, the bell of street fighting nightmares will beat out the
path to freedom and to beat away the oppression and stigmas and cursed signs from the fake gods,
false prophets and slave masters. The metallic void pulses, beating out the evil spirits, driving us on,
the highway, the country road, the secret pass, the footpaths, the animal tracks, the moonlit and
sunlit ways that are going to redeem you from all of your errors and bad times and disgust and
dissatisfaction. Listen, listen to the howling wind, the howling that is also crying, that is screaming
that is actually laughing all the time, as we ease ourselves from the stupor, the drug of sleep, the
drug of incandescent fear, the drug of time that competes with our possibility to see between black
and white and the colours. The drug of stupor that falsely slows the pulse, that dims the rainbow,
that switches us off, while everything is becoming switched on fast and so fast that no speed is
involved. Slide along the stringed butterfly wind of the collective effortless. Godspeed you! Riptide
and tsunami of your miserable doubts, your lacklustre display on not hearing the jazz and the free
flow and the drummer who is laying down the rails, constructing the road back home, because it's
your home, your true home, your true place of abode, the place you were once, the place you
always were, where you are coming home to and it's our home. Do you see yourself, do you
recognise yourself there, see yourself here, see ourselves now? Once you were walking by that
river, you picked fowers, you smelt the clean air, you crossed the bridge, you took the long walk
through the woods, you listened to birds, you saw the animal tracks and I saw the wolves too. Even
though you were delightfully lost, you knew everything lay ahead, not in the past, the script was
empty, my story unwritten. The bees buzzed, the bats circled in the dusk, the sky displayed all of its
hues, ran through the pastel patchwork of evening, slowly into night. You were never lost and the
music was your guide and here I am now. Even now the music guides us, the violin sketches out the
melody of the present, radiates a flow, draws out the way that things will happen, the past present,
the unknown present, the future scape scratching in the pocket of dust, the pocket of shapes that
promises a jewelled cave, together, apart, meeting, meeting again and again, the grand arc of
reunion. We could pray. It might work. A pocket of desire that is never found to be extinct, and a
pocket of flaming fire that stitched destiny into all of its seams. How did we know, how could we
ever know and how could we have ever known as it was noted, was told before, was predicted,
performed ever after or ever since.We had it all and we now have the way the Black Emperor
chords and strokes and beats and pulses the harmonics back to life. You may go round and you may
go down but you will also come up again, to surface and to resurface and to surf the light. When
it's heavy it is not always so heavy, a finer tone reaches out to sweep you up and on and out, to
outer places, of there and here and of outer beyond, of nothing because we know that the nothing
is more than something, and the becoming all encompassing. Circularity finds no pleasure in
describing its way as a map or a narrative or a geometry that you can count out in time as a
religion or a philosophy or an algorithmic zen. Better get ready, better be prepared, better feel the
vibrations. Here it comes, zipped along the radiant notations, repeats, repeats, repeats of the beats,
stepping it out across the stones, across the stage, across the gateway, across the connecting minds,
the synaptic curves on display like a trillion million zillion l.e.d.'s, a mixing desk of mind, what you're
hearing, what you're hearing now as they play and as they are playing along with, what you're not
thinking about, not saying, not wondering. You're not wondering because you are, and we are you
and went through the loop, curled right out into the deep flora and fauna of time together, when
we were always together, before we fragmented and as we fought to coalesce in the mud and the
slime and the genetic mutations, before we got here, as we were arriving, as we formed ourselves
together as a species and a cast iron infallible god fearing universe, that was falling, failing, falling
uncontrollably and recklessly into mortal behaviour. When we became human we couldn't stop
ourselves, I couldn't stop myself, some other more dynamic, more dangerous, endlessly mysterious,
treacherous force was upon us, in us, inside of us, inside all of us, within me. Our bones, our tissues, our limbs, our bodies and brains infected with an unrealistic life energy with no purpose, no goal,
no impulse to transcend, only the urge to ascend. Forever and never possible to contain, we sway
and we rock ourselves to the end of the night, to the melodies that our earth-mothers hummed
and incantations that our fore-fathers whistled and drummed as we wandered our seasons in hell.
Stormy days and stormy years followed by centuries of stormy, timeless time.The mind, a stormy
sea if ever there was one, in reverb, in echo, in strict time, in loose arrangement and loving
harmony all gone wrong, all alright, wrenched into the twinkling of a light beam through invention,
all wrought in the twinkling of an eye through imagination, made up, thought out of time and out of
timeless time and out of our chaotic sublime. Quiet now, quiet now; don't stop even if you are
quietly moving around the circle, arcing from one place to another, listening as she strokes, as he
heaves, as they climb the sheer walls of sound+scales, as they shelter, as we also took our shelter,
as they wake, as we awoke into some new dawn or other. Feedback, something sweet, even
sentimental, dirty ecology of poetics of projection, then film and video, screen-composed, with and
for and against the sound, skipping jumping racing harassing, four projectors beaming across the
space, four apocalyptic light beams worrying the air in a celebrated zone of uncertainty, a zone of
obscurity, a zone of impenetrable joy that cloaks and robes the players across the flying v, staged with drums at the back, bass, violin, guitar to the right, bass, guitar, guitar to the left, vast
length of mixing desk to the right, space ship console straight ahead, projections further out and
above. The circles of the Cirque Royal a mothership, see the sky about to fall, see the author of
Amelia emerging from her coma, see anything that you are meant to, was going to, are about to and
remain fearless, be loving, be courageous. Courage mon amour. It's not dark yet. Godspeed you!
Behold the mothership that lands in a quartier somewhere near you
© alainayers 12.05.15
