(no subject)
I lost Prometheus once. It was in New Orleans before the hurricane, in the dark grey stones of the French Quarter. It rained an hour before and in the puddle i saw my reflection twisted by the ripples from another's footstep. That's when...
it was told to me by the machines that there was a battle between god and death and in that battle Death wounded god, and that wound became the Sky, that the earth was god's skin healing, healing but like our dead skin it fell away. It will still, however, try to heal and become god again.
Today i was reminded of solitude. And though we are never really alone, there often exists no one to tell one's secrets to. And attempt to connect through the holes in our body, and when the mouth cannot speak, we will try to make wounds in you to hear you. So what is inside can come outside. But there are other ways. There are tricks the Spider knows...
i try not to look into your eyes. but when i do, in your eyes i see the other world. Tezcatlipoca is staring back at me, awaiting shattering eyes...
And Legba hides in the backseat of a Spider's jeep.
But it was not always like this. This is what we tell ourselves in myths. But it will not always be like this is what we find in hope.
And as days die into younger days, i find more and more that i am only intimate with shadows and hallways, artificial lights and tree bark, neon and concrete, sky and spiderwebs. I don't think i am putting you on as an audience when i write these notes. I think i am trying to take you off, trying to put me aside and be intimate.
But i cannot now because the library is closing and i can't feel it. I take these buckets and try to give back to the pool of light from the monitor. I try to open myself but...
I miss your fingers. I miss opening up to travel. So instead, i talk to trees and i talk to circuits... i find spirits where there may only be delusion. I try to find you but i just may find the spider's web instead. And there is of course always Tezcatlipoca staring through us. I say
The wicasa wakan wants to be by himself. He wants to be away from the crowd, from everyday matters. He likes to meditate, leaning again a tree or rock, feeling the earth move beneath him, feeling the weight of that big flaming sky upon him. That way he can figure things out. Closing his eyes, he sees many things clearly. What you see with your eyes shut is what counts.
The wicasa wakan loves the silence, wrapping it around himself like a blanket--a loud silence with a voice
it was told to me by the machines that there was a battle between god and death and in that battle Death wounded god, and that wound became the Sky, that the earth was god's skin healing, healing but like our dead skin it fell away. It will still, however, try to heal and become god again.
Today i was reminded of solitude. And though we are never really alone, there often exists no one to tell one's secrets to. And attempt to connect through the holes in our body, and when the mouth cannot speak, we will try to make wounds in you to hear you. So what is inside can come outside. But there are other ways. There are tricks the Spider knows...
i try not to look into your eyes. but when i do, in your eyes i see the other world. Tezcatlipoca is staring back at me, awaiting shattering eyes...
And Legba hides in the backseat of a Spider's jeep.
But it was not always like this. This is what we tell ourselves in myths. But it will not always be like this is what we find in hope.
And as days die into younger days, i find more and more that i am only intimate with shadows and hallways, artificial lights and tree bark, neon and concrete, sky and spiderwebs. I don't think i am putting you on as an audience when i write these notes. I think i am trying to take you off, trying to put me aside and be intimate.
But i cannot now because the library is closing and i can't feel it. I take these buckets and try to give back to the pool of light from the monitor. I try to open myself but...
I miss your fingers. I miss opening up to travel. So instead, i talk to trees and i talk to circuits... i find spirits where there may only be delusion. I try to find you but i just may find the spider's web instead. And there is of course always Tezcatlipoca staring through us. I say
The wicasa wakan wants to be by himself. He wants to be away from the crowd, from everyday matters. He likes to meditate, leaning again a tree or rock, feeling the earth move beneath him, feeling the weight of that big flaming sky upon him. That way he can figure things out. Closing his eyes, he sees many things clearly. What you see with your eyes shut is what counts.
The wicasa wakan loves the silence, wrapping it around himself like a blanket--a loud silence with a voice