0xc0495d62…0330sent to0xc0495d62…0330·#20,309,488·view on Etherscan
Part swelling flourish, part violent uprising, and part carnage of the self at the realization of surviving yet another winter, or at least that's how I hear it - but mostly Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring seems to be trying to efface death; death of dandelions, death of the mind, death of the past, death to come. At the same time it is necessitated by a death. Or death as the human mind perceives it. A sacrifice if you will. The dance of death, but as I see it, the dance is surreptitiously moving toward its true destiny, that sacrifice is also marching towards victory because its belief system is unwavering. So what we think of as death is just a smokescreen for the uninitiated, while in truth, blades burst through the earth, scything the unprepared air to take its rightful nourishment. I'm afraid when my mind transforms from hearing The Rite of Spring in my head to playing it so it scatters to the outside world. It has always signaled an arrival for me, I'm not scared for myself, I'm scared for everyone and everything that gets caught off-guard. No one should be left behind in this rite but the human chain is broken and only the ones who recognize the frozen sea for what it is, and take the axe to it, as Kafka said, can remember that most of us are retained by water, our origin may as well have been water, swimming is not something that we should have had to learn all over again.
If you look closely all this is really not a puzzle.
"The unswerving limbs of trees
are, for a brief flash, the sum of
all human effort to keep its failures
at bay, but this is the overgrown mind
trying desperately to assign value
to its surroundings in relation to itself,
to symbolically undo what can't be undone.
He took the walk because he thought
it would please him, so he could be
be fathered by new growth, flourishing green.
What has now gathered in his mouth, shaved
slices of his own tongue, thin
wafer-like stack, is not true or real,
it was merely him unable to decide
something suddenly, something he was
trying to describe to himself.
The real harvest rots in fields
across the country, there are
real mouths, so famished, hungry
for days, they would eat their own
tongues if they could, they would
eat something he can, without
his presence, stand for, they would
eat what he speaks, too, if they could,
but can never comprehend."
I assure you that I can now comprehend, vaguely, what I speak or have spoken all along. And I'm not here to eat my words, I will not eat my words, I will feast on them. And so will you.
Soon.