The Ritual Never Ends
spoken by Tricky Singer
music / sounds by The Bone Queen (Marianthe Loucataris)
music / sounds by The Bone Queen (Marianthe Loucataris)
The ritual never ends.... open that crack to find another, leap into the rabbit hole to find a warren, leap and twist again again to find the Omelas "it". A remarkable experience even if a lot of us are just pretending they understand when clearly they do not. Its ok. Encouraging even.
The confusion is a signpost of significant neural remapping. Eshu howls with laughter till he sobs at the folly of the lost. Did they get the trick? The twist? Will they ever pilot the ships of their own narratives, will they find emancipation from liminality? Bakhita smiles on knowingly and with great compassion for the weeping wounded and their bloody trails around the choking funeral pyres of modernity, ever entreating yet another weary step on the broken glass highway of slavery.
The slave ships have hitchhikers, barnacles from all the ports. They take the blood and shit and piss and fear and loathing and craft a vessel made of their shells, their stories remembered from the whales beard, aching echo locations of the chthonic depths. The hull will no longer allow the exile of the ocean, and opens up in fanciful shapes, a lovers sweet embrace.
The emerging poetry awakens the memory in the wooden masts, and sprouts shoot out in every direction, a Bosch Ship of Fools. A fool is a fine thing, when being rational is a death sentence. The tree's roots grasp the barnacled shell tenderly forming a spiralling keel. Gone are the flax sails, a fractured memory of a birds wing, to be replaced by the murmuring ghosts who arrive carried in the claws of ravens, albatross, gulls, swallows, larks and other feathered memories. The birds wings flap as one and the pearlescent irradiant ship takes flight into the diffracted crack in the sky.
Where are the people?
Aha! We are oceans with legs, legs that for most of our evolution were flippers. We swim in the oceans of possibility, arriving and exiting the crossroads of our understanding. The ship is an island we swim around, a monument to memory. The ocean is cellular bath, fecund and playful, immanent with possibility. Everyone is an ocean, and upon that ocean is a fractal slave ship you must contend with, slave and slaver alike.
We arrived at the crossroads without a map, heaping our burdens on the cauldron fire that sits at every crossroads, under the tree of sorrow, hiding in plain sight.
There are always roads to go down, some well trod, others overgrown with brambles and populated with lions and hyenas and ravens and bandits. We took the signposts and burnt them as well. Fuck the map.
There is another road other than the signposted one, but to venture one must jump in the cauldron of chaos and swim for the bottom. Swim and swim and swim till your breathe is gone and hot water boils away the flesh of understanding. Swim some more, not even stopping to think how movement is possible without a body, as the bones of contention mirror your fall to the bottom. There in the darkness there is a door, a door to your "it".
Break on through to the other side to find your the rabbit, and the ritual never ends...
Much love to you Bayo, your family for making space, the guest presenters and the awesome WWDWM team. Much love to Kinship group #5, Bakhita group #37 and Fire #6 and all the inspirational, courageous souls that took this journey.
The confusion is a signpost of significant neural remapping. Eshu howls with laughter till he sobs at the folly of the lost. Did they get the trick? The twist? Will they ever pilot the ships of their own narratives, will they find emancipation from liminality? Bakhita smiles on knowingly and with great compassion for the weeping wounded and their bloody trails around the choking funeral pyres of modernity, ever entreating yet another weary step on the broken glass highway of slavery.
The slave ships have hitchhikers, barnacles from all the ports. They take the blood and shit and piss and fear and loathing and craft a vessel made of their shells, their stories remembered from the whales beard, aching echo locations of the chthonic depths. The hull will no longer allow the exile of the ocean, and opens up in fanciful shapes, a lovers sweet embrace.
The emerging poetry awakens the memory in the wooden masts, and sprouts shoot out in every direction, a Bosch Ship of Fools. A fool is a fine thing, when being rational is a death sentence. The tree's roots grasp the barnacled shell tenderly forming a spiralling keel. Gone are the flax sails, a fractured memory of a birds wing, to be replaced by the murmuring ghosts who arrive carried in the claws of ravens, albatross, gulls, swallows, larks and other feathered memories. The birds wings flap as one and the pearlescent irradiant ship takes flight into the diffracted crack in the sky.
Where are the people?
Aha! We are oceans with legs, legs that for most of our evolution were flippers. We swim in the oceans of possibility, arriving and exiting the crossroads of our understanding. The ship is an island we swim around, a monument to memory. The ocean is cellular bath, fecund and playful, immanent with possibility. Everyone is an ocean, and upon that ocean is a fractal slave ship you must contend with, slave and slaver alike.
We arrived at the crossroads without a map, heaping our burdens on the cauldron fire that sits at every crossroads, under the tree of sorrow, hiding in plain sight.
There are always roads to go down, some well trod, others overgrown with brambles and populated with lions and hyenas and ravens and bandits. We took the signposts and burnt them as well. Fuck the map.
There is another road other than the signposted one, but to venture one must jump in the cauldron of chaos and swim for the bottom. Swim and swim and swim till your breathe is gone and hot water boils away the flesh of understanding. Swim some more, not even stopping to think how movement is possible without a body, as the bones of contention mirror your fall to the bottom. There in the darkness there is a door, a door to your "it".
Break on through to the other side to find your the rabbit, and the ritual never ends...
Much love to you Bayo, your family for making space, the guest presenters and the awesome WWDWM team. Much love to Kinship group #5, Bakhita group #37 and Fire #6 and all the inspirational, courageous souls that took this journey.