Laugh as the Sun...
There’s something about those folk.
These mountain folk, singing and dancing; they come out of the hills when the band is on or the weed is high. Harvests. In California. No-one who lives elsewhere can comprehend this expanse of these eccentricities, this hidden movement.
Tattoos, close-knit, wide laughter. Stories of sustenance, analog knowledge of living that the silicon empires have discarded in their race to conceptualize. To digitize. The wide forests and golden hills, the glacier topped Mountain, it hides in plain sight. Washboard bands.
I saw a bass guitar made of a washtub with strings strung at the crossroads themselves.
They fled the rising tide, as elsewhere, the tightening of the noose around life. The Schoolmen and their ilk. The punishment until death. The intriguing background is that the rules apply only if they find you. Hence the hills.
Names like Mote, or Clover, or Sky. Gifted names, not strung along under formulas that have been forgotten. Not lip service, ‘cept of course the service of the lips in the gifting. Burners, some of ‘em, but even that has gone the way of the Empire. It staggers under the weight.
I’ve met them who know of datura or even the wild smokes. Those natives who survived the holocaust of the Empire passed on some of the old knowledge of the land. But only to a chosen few.
They dance, beautifully, all in twirls and threads. Spun banners in hair, sewn patches on clothing, old clothing, not for fashion, except that it does become a fashion. A fashion of making, a Zen laced simplicity. And their eyes sparkle, maybe even upon you if your luck holds out. Gypsies, I dare say, probably gone in the morning with your wallet and your heart.
There’s something about those folk.
These mountain folk, singing and dancing; they come out of the hills when the band is on or the weed is high. Harvests. In California. No-one who lives elsewhere can comprehend this expanse of these eccentricities, this hidden movement.
Tattoos, close-knit, wide laughter. Stories of sustenance, analog knowledge of living that the silicon empires have discarded in their race to conceptualize. To digitize. The wide forests and golden hills, the glacier topped Mountain, it hides in plain sight. Washboard bands.
I saw a bass guitar made of a washtub with strings strung at the crossroads themselves.
They fled the rising tide, as elsewhere, the tightening of the noose around life. The Schoolmen and their ilk. The punishment until death. The intriguing background is that the rules apply only if they find you. Hence the hills.
Names like Mote, or Clover, or Sky. Gifted names, not strung along under formulas that have been forgotten. Not lip service, ‘cept of course the service of the lips in the gifting. Burners, some of ‘em, but even that has gone the way of the Empire. It staggers under the weight.
I’ve met them who know of datura or even the wild smokes. Those natives who survived the holocaust of the Empire passed on some of the old knowledge of the land. But only to a chosen few.
They dance, beautifully, all in twirls and threads. Spun banners in hair, sewn patches on clothing, old clothing, not for fashion, except that it does become a fashion. A fashion of making, a Zen laced simplicity. And their eyes sparkle, maybe even upon you if your luck holds out. Gypsies, I dare say, probably gone in the morning with your wallet and your heart.
There’s something about those folk.