I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately admiring the imprint of faces and places swallowed up in time.
An ancient amative light sat patiently on the blank sheet before the electric medium; the electric medium sitting buzzing eager to tell another silent story.
I wrapped the skin around its spindle; and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously, urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--
And minute punctures in the skin, where the projector's teeth sink in, whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.
The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel-- where the countenance of a single solitary bulb omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent-- powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star across the darkened room
onto the patient white sheet where my eyes await the tattooed memories to dance before me.
I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair echoing the silence of the screen-- (hypnotized by the hum of the projector-- an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate incantations of chattering crickets.)
The stories are shielded from my inquisition by layers of translucent grain that leave textures gritty-- and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure and expressions ambiguous.
(How clever you are to stay silent, and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)
Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions and if you linger for too long the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--
Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire. Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.
I must be careful, and fully aware-- of your transience.
These ambulant hieroglyphs speak volumes in their silence-- and I find myself drawn to the blurry smiling faces as they peer into my soul.
History breathes. and History repeats. but lies silent in the sands of Time. Becoming muddled, but waiting. for its story to be told; for the mediums to rise from the grave.
I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation to have its memories and histories burned onto tape. and as I sit here I wonder of the Society whose soul I will peer into-- when I am unearthed out of the sands of Time.
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings As his earth dance Soared above the pulsing Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed To their bonneted ladies Bedecked in colonial frocks. In turn each pair sashayed Down and up the line, Whirled and laced their way Through outstretched hands Of family, friends and neighbors Shaping an arch at line's end For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape Countless bridal pairs Have sealed their sacraments Spinning in the whirlwind Of the Virginia Reel - With each interclasping of arms A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings, And bowed with his band to receive The applause rippling the air Like the patter of ancestral rain Nourishing the sweet soil Of our common earthly essence.
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