The rhythms of life. Cycles. Like the one I’m on. Bleeding.
Music is an expression of rhythm of life. From heartbeats, blinks, and the breath to the spiral of experience. To track these rhythms, to count on the spiral, to exalt the rhythm, repetition, and rhyme of life is to be the creator of your narrative. To be the author of your story. Author as in Authority. You are the Master of your own Creation – and before I rant on, lemme just say something I always say, “I’m not telling you, I’m telling me.”
Singing, playing, arting, being, acting, expressing is the story of our lives, without art, what are we even? As we hurl our existence towards an inevitable virtual reality; delving us yet deeper into the spiral of our place in the universe, who will be the Creators of our reality? By the sheer magic of creation we conduct a reality from the depths of our soul. Babies, paintings, screenplays, songs, and performance art are all the birthplace of our personal narratives; the place where the story is told and is perpetuated.
Frankly, I’m headed to work and even with this incomplete thought I have enough to digest from within myself. To stew, to muse, to ruminate, to have a petri dish of creative substance for the day – from nothing always comes something simply for the relief of revealing the essence nothing.
I dig that my shit spirals like the flushing of a toilet in the early hours of our days…yet i can’t help but meditate on that expression as the simple placement of our existence on earth in the spiral galaxy we call home.
I haven’t had a day off in over a week – I thoroughly enjoy my days off; I’m a big believer in days off. But these seasons are all in the spiral of my existence…and as I progress beyond this rhythm what can I take away to help me on my next return? How can I catapult this experience for the next rotation?
Music. Rhythm. Creation. To author my tale as I desire. mmmmmmmmmmmm. ommmmmmmm.
hum diddly motherfucking dum.