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  • Writer's picturerobertsavela

the fine arts and Horseback

The blackened high contrast sludge-motor anxiety version of Mazzy Star’s So Tonight That I Might See, not songs but blueprint documents. Sans-serif normal circular repetition riff scrawls from the hand quick loops and loops and loops with that grizzly vocal coming at you characteristic of the brush. The Jungian spirit and sacred grids unite like the dark and the light, black and white free of vulgarity. Hypnotic transparency spell, kill eyes she gave me with obliteration of intellectual responsibility. No I won’t go over there with you point-line-plane dark eye shadow only the hierarchy-of-patterns-tarot knows mechanically perfect. Keep it cult. Invoke the spirits to help and heal a world that is inhuman and harass the atrophied shitbags that suggest conflict Jesus H sumbitches trying to remake the grammar of communication. Ritual top end is it even necessary to intimately involve the audience?

Beauty through automatic heavy better-to-feel art metal like the band Earth form and function for ya to dig up all the crappy repressed memories of stupidity and flawed artistry you did catharsis and purge like the Tao nothing forced, so hard it physically hurts violent scratchy lettering and mentally creates tears. Forever changed like a young Alan Watts. Those sexy tears turned to joy don’t punch yourself, emerge from formlessness calm acceptance guitar riff loops and loops and loops against limitations imposed by memory.

The city drivin’ watching the corners creating visions nature like cheetahs and bikes and motorbikes and scooters and tuk-tuks and walkers in the shadows and developing an interior meaning and nothing stands alone. Don’t upside down the cross, an act of selection with lonely alleys and spirit mountains and flickering spotlights bouncing off bricks five stories high but leave some mystery like Wooden Shjips brother on drums heavy beneath the surface stay golden and on-time and cymbal language not spoken with some love of dark forces that don’t burn beyond emotion for four hours maybe five. Also that master of the thud barrels from Acid Mothers Temple the best of psychedelic smell the magic rock and roll look to the unknown oozing ayahuasca-geometry is reality. Stay in a dark small room or upheaval at the cemetery quiet and by yourself try it once, good instincts the dying, the dying killing of the past western line of energy that takes us to a god that exists and meditate on metaphor it’ll drive ya nuts. Tyrant symmetry before and after the present moment static vs. momentum.

The end church of the invisible mountain has a hidden agenda a Zen koan see that one with cliffs and some snow and some no politics dead bodies they gave it all they had but always incomplete, think-it-so Aleister Crowley and the mountain fought a few like a UFC championship oh well hatecloud dissolving into nothing.

Tires going a hundred miles an hour the hearing must enrich the meaning but once in a while a crack friction dirty sensuous Mithras rises from the triangle depths always been there, the sun always there, the devil came before God, a grand unified theory as a mythology without religion. Ahriman there too, respect shine shine shine on you crazy Arjuna so open to life. They all secure the ritual half-blood candle decoration until the end. Either nothing or all, meditation or force the listener debauchery. Take a couple for the team like the serpent one by one otherwise it’s always raining.


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