Somewhere between the vibrating vocal cord and the drum of the ear
There seems a world recognized but never visited, that exists at the approach of beauty. An island continent of vibrant and faded, clean and decayed, composed and chaotic, where harmony and discord sing heavenly duets, and the deepest deep tree roots and highest high clouds are wed. Are there inhabitants of this realm? Permanent residents of the channels of beauty communicated, or merely engineers designing telescopes? Telescopes hung on gallery walls and projected against silverscreens or released from the cavern of the soul in Victorian draped concert halls.
I imagine a crease in the sheet music every time a song is sung, folded a hundred times, a perforation, a shimmer of light from the other side. The vibrations of voice at a certain pitch form a hole which is a tunnel. A passageway through which one can crawl to arrive in a world ungoverned by laws, logic, and morals, but instead guided by aesthetics. There, every thing and nonthing is a dance. A swimming color motion, a sea of unified chaos into which body and self and consciousness, shape, distinction, and awareness are submerged, dissolve and spin out in slow motion cloud, a tornado in reverse.
To paint the stars radiant.
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