the MUSe sICk

Discovery of talents and skills moving the rhythm that flows through our world, we try to find a connection to that inner tuning mechanism, but the turbulence between our eyes creates tension and distraction away from the point. Focus spanning the gamut from boredom to indifference to the listless sprawl that confides in playing out the human drama to startlingly sharp edges that make the mind and body revolve, the axis created by the sounding pulse crossing elemental bandwidths and wavelengths throughout creation, and sparks attached to the nipples of the entity that regards the invitation to our lands with gaiety. The muse died long ago, opened up inside of that Pandora's box with a chalk outline remaining, and depicting the flowing blood that was left after she was shot. Amusing the resurrection of the muse between each other, the humans take their angst and frustration out on canvas and through their compositions pointing out the shallow control pressed like a dead weight upon the masses, and limiting that one possession of dignity with its conformist agenda. Rebellion moves through the crowd with spurts of growth beyond the tragic hierarchy put forth by churches and states, blood and noise are attached to the hard work applied by these leaders, and soon the rivers dry up and allow for the profit to come to shore. If a corporate conglomerate can get more money from a main attraction like popular music, then anything can be bought or gained, but only once that pinnacle is reached. The goal of the artist is to see, but not just find what every one else is looking at, more or less to search out and exploit that hidden space between moments from past and present. The instruments are assembled to figure out the way that life is telling its own story through this music, leading us to the dawn of a new future, and armed with the metaphor and force of understanding the symbols. No hostages taken, and no intent to harm the rest of these captive cravings to express the exposed heart of human being, forgiving no cramped and unstable home from the eye of imaginative reinterpretation. We all contribute to this mystery of the breathing digestion of all things real, and song is the closest we can come to touching heaven without needing to be afraid to die. All this wealth of lore, sometimes impeding at the ankle anyone who tries to pass through without coming to learn something about themselves, and those that do not take such information for granted are rewarded with a passionate spirit. the determined appointment to be special among the sheepish multitude, wary of intrusions and visitors from other interests, but grafting on many concepts to the final deep and revealing look at an art-form. The music can come in a flash of insight, but can be caught up in a wasted hope for worthy material from which to draw upon, there is no need to be utterly special to make the muse real again. To feed or nourish her misunderstood spirit of freedom, anyone can contribute to the wealth that makes the creative energy blossom, and the awesome respect that is achieved is a reward beyond all dreams of success. There are few things that can be described as necessary, with those skills needed in survival excluded, and music can heal the soul's wounds by charging emotional changes in mood. Falsely assumed to assault the senses when heard, music is going to be the carrier for all of our communications, and take messages to another level that will mean a better fundamental association with others over the long run of history. this conviction splatters out of the hole from which both my heart's blood and mind's eye interpret the real and spiritual with equal measure. No one ever seems to just throw something randomly out into the wind, and get the proper feedback all the time, it seems that audiences like the fates themselves are more fickle than may seem first apparent with any crudely discerning apparatus. unwieldy can be the circumstances of respect and popularity, double-edged weapon worth speaking of before getting too far ahead of myself, and there is a gasp as somebody gets it in the audience. That vast and separate thing breaking us into different categories from the start. you versus me seems pretty absurd and violent in my judgment, and any other division that doesn't seem to fit the path of harmony may make its home Here in the abysmal places of the heart. slowed beats and heart-rate retreats into guitars that scream and crane to defy the gravity of physical strain. abuse from the same brain that gathers this information, too. the critical mayhem that implies a lopsided meaning over the natural inclination to reflect upon the various tangents that leads one to creative understanding. it seems that we need someone to force feed us what a culture would dictate to its participants otherwise known as advertising and laws of "nature". the tiny "n" is for the neutered feeling that we get because our world cuts off the urge that is, the personality takes the motion where the mind and body can then turn it on, and electricity streams through the nostrils of that freed beast we have become. nothing but music stimulates that desire, truly nothing ever will in any other aspect of conception, as quickly or as easily as the syringe of sound that pokes into the brain matter there. who knows what good could come from what we think or understand, and the only consistent intervals of time can conceive of the outcome.