Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Stillborn rivers, leaky mires

Well, I have never seen such a terrible room
Gilded with the gold teeth of the women who loved you

The quote's room incites a personal moment of ill hubris. Its wavelength becomes accessible every now and then on this cozy regio of mine that, in the end, doesn't have all that many different layers. Yet it contains some that activate under the golems of new moons  animated new moons that inevitably return. The hissing mythagos ignite into the pale light of consummation; they flare, flicker, sigh and wane. I glare down at the mystery play and watch the trigger go off repeatedly in a cinematographic sequence. In disjunct stages, the regio expands into a vertical village of stone columns, the regio collapses into a fragment; a faded blueprint of all the designs that were, scattered teeth of varying ages. The room slowly turns the great wheel toward its very own seasonal summer and beyond.

(image: a snapshot; lyrics: Joanna Newsom, Go Long)