A Quick Touching to the Soul
Floating music is how my soul medicine works.
This is how it works. This is the mystery: it drifts, smoothly, easily, through
skin pores that lean inward and suck. It effortlessly clings to the deep blue deep of
sky without sun, without air and only un-solid, blue heron wavelengths: emotion.
Few things travel like music, but there are a few things that do: delicate
lovers that never admit it but eat each other desperately anyway.
Here, with music, let us become the delusional and fragile human, the not
living creation but the holy, created. Let us reach to both the world and the delusion,
that sucking of the flesh towards the inward black and biting hole, because that is
what is real. We know this.
When something catches our breath—that is when we find the worth of
breathing. That is when the building of a people happens, a people that does not
know the way but is lost and therefore fruitful.
Such is the soul of the never captured,
the creation soul-God-sin and non-substance place,
the bittersweet of temporary pleasure,
the strongest allusion to a celestial gathering grouping.
It is an intuition-type logic that connects to the nether world, to exist in
sorrowful half-notes, narrow and long romantic whistles, swirls touching in winds
on foreign shores, to leave us when the song ends: a state of realized perplexity.
All we can do is sit and remember short moments in between soft-golden
morning light and electric midnight air. This, my soul and music and people and all.