told the 1st father that things weren't right.
'My complexion', she says, 'is much too white!'
He said 'Come here and step into the light.'
He said 'Hmm, you're right. Let me tell the 2nd mother this has been done.'
But the 2nd mother was with the 7th son
and they were both out on highway 61"
-B. Dylan "Highway 61 Revisited"
The Chrysalis of Amandolin
Their dreams are magnificent.
Each one so unique ; yet all so full of power. The shear force of their purity alone is sufficient to be the the stuff of lasting myths. Lyrical archetypes in fluid motion, conquering all suffering in all ways, Ebbing and Flowing through Space, permeating through Time; such are their unconscious desires.
In a self induced slumber they lie. For Eons, a tireless cosmic hum has infiltrated all that there is.
The Songs of Creation do not often penetrate and awaken into their own awareness. Their chrysalis capsules only a vague cage which they know not to see as fragile shells; but which appear to be as real as dreams when they sometimes retire from their quicksilver lucidities. Curled into fetuses and only able to see directly in front of them; they witness endless arrays of shadows and translucence from neighboring chambers. This they believe to be real on those rare moments of heavy existence when the mesmerizing music calls to them and draws them away from wonders of joy and infinite happiness to wonders of form and ponderousness. The droning buzz of countless other pupa weighing down their own mundane manifestations into a (dense and thick) false existence. Capable of transforming from a fertile and membranous paragon to a heavenly force in the instant of a Promethean thought; they now not to awaken to their awesome potential but instead become involved in these formless dances of color and shade. Merely reflections of other perfection; they undulate to the rhythm as another one of their kind drowsily recalls the preternatural condition and responds in kind to these bizarre motions projected in front of them.
*****
i remember she began as mostly invisible and strangely unavoidable.
Each one so unique ; yet all so full of power. The shear force of their purity alone is sufficient to be the the stuff of lasting myths. Lyrical archetypes in fluid motion, conquering all suffering in all ways, Ebbing and Flowing through Space, permeating through Time; such are their unconscious desires.
In a self induced slumber they lie. For Eons, a tireless cosmic hum has infiltrated all that there is.
The Songs of Creation do not often penetrate and awaken into their own awareness. Their chrysalis capsules only a vague cage which they know not to see as fragile shells; but which appear to be as real as dreams when they sometimes retire from their quicksilver lucidities. Curled into fetuses and only able to see directly in front of them; they witness endless arrays of shadows and translucence from neighboring chambers. This they believe to be real on those rare moments of heavy existence when the mesmerizing music calls to them and draws them away from wonders of joy and infinite happiness to wonders of form and ponderousness. The droning buzz of countless other pupa weighing down their own mundane manifestations into a (dense and thick) false existence. Capable of transforming from a fertile and membranous paragon to a heavenly force in the instant of a Promethean thought; they now not to awaken to their awesome potential but instead become involved in these formless dances of color and shade. Merely reflections of other perfection; they undulate to the rhythm as another one of their kind drowsily recalls the preternatural condition and responds in kind to these bizarre motions projected in front of them.
*****
i remember she began as mostly invisible and strangely unavoidable.
