Twelve Castles In The Sky

Quotes

2008-01-01T02:08:00.000-08:00

“A murderer is simply a reminder of our innocence, even as darkness is just contrast for the light.”

“If you have never been tempted to do an evil act, then you are not truly a good person.”

This Box Contains

2007-12-25T01:10:00.000-08:00

A cracked foundation underneath
A dazzling monochrome carrying
The weight of memories
Forgotten in their remembrance

Symphonica: Movement VIII

2007-10-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

Cellar door. According to J.R.R. Tolkien, the most beautiful sound in all of English. He claimed so in his 1955 essay English and Welsh. I quote:

"Most English-speaking people... will admit that cellar door is 'beautiful', especially if dissociated from its sense (and from its spelling). More beautiful than, say, sky, and far more beautiful than beautiful. Well, then, in Welsh for me cellar doors are extraordinarily frequent, and moving to the higher dimension, the words in which there is pleasure in the contemplation of the association of form and sense are abundant."

Although I do agree with him, I think we should not so lightly dismiss the meaning of this euphonious compound. The world you might find behind a cellar door! Carven niches containing otherwordly secrets and shadows. Entire gardens blooming with the verdure of a lime tree in fullest ornament.
Ayah’s unfurl in the deepest reaches and crumbling corners of a makeshift mosque, even as the duhr sounds amid a sea of orisons.

No words or sounds could describe the sights you could discover at the opening of a heavy oaken door, carved with intricate designs and figurines within esoteric dances. The creaking of this hefty portal is a deiporous song of deepest reverence and beauty. You could truly find anything here, if only you dare open it.

Carpe Horas

2007-09-30T14:07:00.001-07:00

You stand on the
Bridge between stars and
Proclaim yourself deity in
An act of faith

Symphonica: Movement VII

2007-09-25T13:01:00.001-07:00

There exists a secret garden. Where roses devour the deathly pieces of shadowed corners, a Cohen masterpiece. A place where symbolism grows in the half-lit spaces underneath the crumbling brick walls and where silence blossoms like tumoral flowers. Hallows and mosaics of dispersed weeds are in abundance, waylaying the footsteps of a god.
Buried keys feast within a archaic and pagan hullabaloo, an apotheosis of secrecy amid a carpet of burgundy soil. Sky-blue banners errupt from this imbrued field, only to whisper the arcana of the garden. And even as the Sun impregnates the etiolated air, it does but light the planted enigmas of a fearful child.

But let us not speak evilly of secrets, for they are the tears of God’s masters.

Symphonica: Movement VI

2007-09-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

I have the strong urge to return once more the bountiful tranquility of Le Lac, the little lakeless village located in the heart of France. No need to tell you again of its inhabitants; they have been described enough.
I will now take you just a little outside the village. In fact, we are now standing at the small signpost just by the edge of the last house, shutters firmly closed of course. It’s a little steel-gray post, with a black (white-edged) plate attached to it, with on this sign the name of the village written in boring, white letters. It is placed at the border of the modest eminence the town is built upon, the road gracefully diving into the river valley below, between large and rolling meadows of mixed grasses and patches of trees. Some of the more wilder plants and undergrowth blossom at its feet and softly sway in the often delicate winds, breezes and zephyrs that visit the hill.

Sunset would be the best time to visit this signpost, when the dying sun illuminates not only the open sky above (a few hesitant, but lambent stars appearing), but also the white letters forming the town’s name. They burst into a golden glow, fervently reflecting the dying of the skies. Even the black around the two singular words is somewhat lightened. Of course, without the dark surrounding them, the blooming letters would probably loose some of their portentous lustre. So, we should not bother too much with this shadowy cloak and enjoy the luminescent spectacle everywhere around us. The clumps of trees, a thousand shades of green, are now turning a unified orange. The nictitating meadows and fields are basking in the fierceness of a mortal and perishing star, whilst the few traipsing cows beaze to rid themselves of the day’s light rainfall. Even the concrete electricity posts seem to become things of wondrous beauty, the electrical cords hanging between them becoming straggling webs of moribund brilliance caught within, almost dropping aurulent drops of molten vividness.

Are you not pleased that you have joined me here? I see your flaxen hair blowing in the evening breeze, the cores of your eyes lit by the incandescent splendour ranging across the range of your sight. Even after the final honeycomb rays are exitinguished and die out, those deep and fathomless cores retain a radiance, one final smoldering cinder to remember a dusk never remembered before. And all this just to see a small signpost.

Walk In Beauty's Way

2007-09-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

Darwin’s muse in the
Whispered garden; she kisses
The reddest flowers and
Walks in beauty’s way

Symphonica: Movement V

2007-09-11T13:03:00.000-07:00

A bus ride past the rain-swept meadows, the swaying bristlegrass lamenting in great drops of sky-blue hues. Still, it is not the view that attracts me.
Across from me sits a young girl. Not unattractive; honeycomb hair, eyes the colour of the fields outside the dawdling bus. She had drawn her grey hood almost over her lush head, creating a half-ended veil of mourning. For in contrast of her sparkling appearance, she was in a somber mood. A Plutonian grimace has spread over her countenance, eyelids obscuring the sapphire beauty underneath. She softly reclined her head against the smudged plastic divider halfway the bus’ interior.
I wonder, what was the cause of her misery? Perhaps her greatest love, her knight in shining armor had turned out to be somewhat different under all the coruscating plating of a gallant heart. Perchance (such an old-fashioned word, no?) a falling out with siblings, parents. A heated argument about independence, about the wild and carefree spirit of a prodigal daughter.

Music was streaming into her being via the also quite grey earplugs, fitting elegantly in her aquiline and well-formed ears. She had now closed her eyes completely.
Once again, I had to wonder. What was she listening to? Perhaps she was drifting on the slow guitars of Crowded House, lost in the lyrics of Pour Le Monde.

Pour le monde, pas pour la guerre

And I wake up blind

Like my dreams were too bright

And I lost my regard

For the good things that I had

And the radio was sad

Maybe she’s a Tori Amos fan, softly swaying (of course an unbetrayed movement) to the dark yet bright tones of Almost Rosey.

Just why do they say

Have a nice day anyway?

We both know they wouldn't mind

If I just curled up and died

But the real question should perhaps be: should I have gone to her? Should I have extended a shoulder, a confessional box of deceptive comfort? Maybe she would have shrugged away, fearful and mistrusting, deeper into her own sad reverie. Then again, maybe she would have accepted. I guess I’ll never find out, certainly not at the moment I descended from the bus and our eyes quickly met. Right then and there, I lost not only my footstep, but also the nerve. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.

Je Crois Encore

2007-09-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

Love is but a silent step in the dark,
Softly illuminating vagrant hearts
That join for the briefest moments; a spark
Amid the traipsing stars, which then departs.
Yet some white threads will now not be untied
And thus in the holy tapestry reside,
There to entwine into a lambent sight;
A hopeful message to a lover’s plight,
Radiant for to put the Sun to shame.
So have I traveled and did there behold
A splendour and passion as of yet untold;
Of a fervid man and raven-haired dame

Woven in a tryst of suspiring sighs,

That never notice the dying of the skies.

Symphonica: Movement IV

2007-09-04T12:54:00.000-07:00

Why is darkness and black always associated with evil? Why are we still afraid of the night? Such a copious force in this world, it is hard to deny or remonstrate such a power. Yet, however much fearful, we are fascinated and enthralled by the umbrae all around us. From the beginning of recorded history, the overflowing pantheon of ancient times. Nyx and Erebus, the primordial Greek goddess and god of night and darkness. Al-Qaum, Kuk, Nótt. Every culture had its personification.
Even in modern times darkness is feared. Edward Hyde, Dracula; all creatures of the night. Evil, demonic. Despised.

74% of the universe consists of dark energy, an unknown variable in our otherwise so well understood plane of existence. Such an abundance of it and we attempt to deny it exists, that it can be found in all places.
In a zealot’s prayers or in the pealing gold foil upon the rood. In the saturnine revolutions of the seasons or in the whispering admonitions of a friend’s arcana. Even behind and within our own softly nictitating eyes, slowly blinking this swirling truth into forgotten corners.

Perhaps it are the evil and dark ones of our world who truly understand. Mass murderers, dictators, thiefs. Maybe they are the ones who have accepted the energy within their being and are what mankind is supposed to be. The way we were meant to be, were it not for our repression of the inherent night of the cosmos. An hereditary trail of pulsating darkness within the helix; a deep black core of awaiting discovery, if only we had the courage and enough guilt to dive within this pool of shimmering obsidian mercury. All I can do, is jab the knife on which is written my history, one inch further towards my heart.

Symphonica: Movement III

2007-08-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

It had been strange weather lately, the most beautiful and warming weather being followed up by hard rain and thunderstorms, before going back to warmth. Still, this was turning out to be a pleasant evening, the setting sun igniting the fields of clouds above, turning them into molten red, crimson and purple; a skyward garden only lasting a few minutes, but perhaps a conformation of heaven.
The old stone church kept silent, though, and only the top of the wooden bell tower was hit by the dying colours of the empyrean. It was a moss-covered building, its huge and coarse stones hacked from the by now disappeared quarries, from the earth itself. It stood at a crossroads and on a slight hill, a ring of grass around the foundation. Narrow windows were placed along side the wooden and red-painted doors, peeling softly unto the soil.

On the stone step leading to the side door, in all probability the door used by the priest, lay a black cat. It was studiously staring into the darkness with flickering yellow eyes, always restless. No one was around, not even the sound of cicadas could be heard, so what was that cat seeing? Perhaps it was a stray cat, simply waiting for nourishment to come by. Superstitious people might even have called it an evil creature, a demon, a dark angel; envoy to the Devil!
What was this iniquitous Hermes, this messenger of knavery, doing on the stone step leading to the side door? Or better yet: why is there surprise? Unjust and nefarious threads are woven all throughout the Church’s history, dark patches upon its self-written tale. The Crusades come to mind; witch burning, the holy wars against the Hugenots, the Cathars. Perhaps this cat belongs to the priest, guarding the church and its secrets.

Even today, the Church still works grievous errors, feeding us tablespoons of codeine to silently blind us, for us not to see. Distorting faith and religion. Distorting truth and our perception of it. Guiding us to their particular image of heaven and eternal paradise. Does it not make one long for the olden days, when there hardly was doctrine and dogma? Does one not long for religious freedom?! Does one not….

Suddenly, the black cat jumps into the kindred night, lines and contours blurring into one, the only sounds the soft scratching of nails across the stone steps. Huh. Maybe it was just a stray cat, after all.

Empty House

2007-08-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

The cello fills this
Empty house and drowns
The hidden corners into
A moment's dust-ornamented forgetfulness

I Remember You

2007-08-23T13:56:00.001-07:00

I remember you, if
Only for the sake
Of a memory that
Was never my own

Symphonica: Movement II

2007-08-21T00:42:00.000-07:00

You know, there’s this little village in the centre of France. A few houses, a few sheds. 21 people live there in total. It’s deadly quiet, a place where you can actually still hear the wind rustling the leaves, truly hear it. Live moves in an adagio pace for the inhabitants and stillness is demotic. I don’t mean they are lazy! No, absolutely not. They are hard and sturdy workers, rising early each day. But they are not keen on disturbances of their daily happenings.
Le Lac it’s called, The Lake. Not that one can be found within several miles, but that doesn’t seem to bother the townsfolk. A simple existence is all they crave.

One of the village’s greatest assets are two quite singular ladies. One is Madame LeGrand, a spirited 77-year old widow. She’s a small and slightly bony woman, but no less opinionated and shrewd. She’s intelligent and rarely misses a thing that goes on around her. She’s involved in the area’s politics, has opinions about discrimination (very much against) and enjoys her days very much. Still, underneath all the sturdiness, she’s a very sweet woman, who revels in company, even if it’s only for a few moments.
The other is Aline, a slightly younger woman, in character quite the opposite. She’s also a very sweet woman, but not well educated. When she was young she had to take care of her ill parents and after they had passed away, her mentally ill and younger brother needed care. I don’t mean she’s dumb, not at all. She has a good knowledge of the land and the local language, not to mention a natural intuitiveness. But she is analphabetic and her knowledge does not extend greatly beyond the boundaries of her village, her world. Aside from that, she is also a large and slightly chubby woman, naturally round-faced. She’s has a very gentle character, shy from time to time.

And these two women have become close friends. You can see them stroll around the village all day, hardly leaving each other’s presence. They take care of Madame LeGrand’s few chickens and afterwards they lean against the dark brick wall, laughing like two teenage girls. What they’re laughing about, no one seems to know. I certainly can’t understand the local French dialect, but they always make me smile and I greet them jovially. These two elderly ladies. The girls of Le Lac.

Home Of The Whale

2007-08-19T13:52:00.001-07:00

Thou rest enraged upon the raging main
In lightest robes the color of summer’s scent
I await thee now evermore in vain
And forthwith from the darkened coast I went
To drown my echoing sorrows, my shade
Within a ruby wine, a mead of auld
Yet in water I remain, thus to wade
In thy divine presence, thy endured world
Perchance to find myself oblique and askant
Crownèd lord by thee in ostentation
Creating a creature unable to defend
Against thee and thy virtuous elation
Still to reside in the symphonic brine
Forevermore endowing lambent wine

Soil

2007-08-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

The red veil of the sky descends
Among the warm vales of October
Where it reverently lends
A silent syllogism; moreover

The secret meadow is overflowing
With a honeycomb’s deepest delight
There are the darkness’ ambuscades growing
Pertaining a most transpontine flight

Await your littoral reflection
In a restless and rippling shield
For it will be your resurrection
In the brightness of the field

The field of righteous stars above,
The angels of the night who belove
The iniquity to which they belong

Symphonica: Movement I

2007-08-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

Beauty is all around. From the intricately placed stones of the cathedral, to the undulating sound of the swaying forest. From the deeply scented gust across the seas, to a lover's suspiring and lambent eyes, shot through with aniline colours. Beauty can be found everywhere, even for the untrained. You need merely look around and you are blinded by the glare.

But what is beauty but the antithesis of monstrosity? Could we find beauty in the repulsive things of our world, in the obsidian threads of history? Is there beauty in the heavy machines of industry? In the religious crusade, in the jihads? Can beauty be found in Mussolini, in Mugabe? In Hitler?
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder". But who is the beholder of ugliness, of evil? Perhaps suffering is beauty in their eyes, is pain and anguish the myriad hues of the garden. Perhaps even we can find within ourselves the beauty and splendour of abominations, like etiolated flowers, wilting in the deep desert of our beings.

Still, we can take comfort in what is around us. The simple things. A single scent, a lingering note. A touch. For they are the truly beautiful in this, our modern world.

Wool And Water

2007-08-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

Dance the water's preacher
Into the maelstrom, coarse
Robes aflutter, and wash
Away this painted melody