Lit&Image: Dazjae Zoem a.k.a PurpleZoe
Glancing at the anti-matter nontime piece, the Maestro of extralinear symphonies presses forward and backward, and sideward; a flask of pineapple tea at the ready, tin of cinnamons in surplus, a headstrong 7-string that goes by the name of Brandy slung over his shoulder.
His O.rbital D.issonance E.nhancement lens is hidden cleverly, somewhere in plain sight we're sure.
Ancestral beams flicker in his aura, I think. ...maybe I've got something in my eye again. Nothing makes sense here. I followed the riddle pieces. But, I'm... wait, was I supposed to climb the cloud steps to the left or...
No matter. Non-time is antimatter (#Muthawit-ticism).
Not something to forget in this world.
Yes, the Maestro... I was saying, or I meant to say: exploring x and y sacralities, commanding his exploring, plucking the flowering roots in many faceted mood halls of if, actual, and when (extending wisefruit-brews of ether), all in question/answer of awakened grey matter, Muthawit mixes passion, lament, and retrospection in his timetravel (even going as far as returning to the tree of life).
'Time means nothing. Time means everything.'
'Love in retrospect is love too late,' he shares, somewhat gently, somewhat not.
#Mutha-witticisms. So many of them.
Dizzying and mind expanding bits of Moonish wit.
Are we ready?
I didn't forget you left-brain dominant members of the readership. The best I can do for you, is describe the experience as sequentially as possible in such extra-chronautic space.
The disk? I put it in the Spinner, but I had to look away. The effect of O.D.E can be alot on the eyes.
I sit. I listen. The room moves. I tighten the skycycle buckle.
The etherscursion commences with a duet of sorts: 'Men&Women', perhaps a memory, translated observation from the Maestro's travels, or an anticipated meeting of amoured domes depth-roaming in cerebralicious intimacy, issued through the O.D.E lense.
It rises from impassioned flames now, stepping through involuntary transmutation perhaps, for the wings of the second track 'Waiting' have grown anticipatory: making an anthem for the boys in the train stations, audition halls, and lovers be they anima or animus glaring at silent phones.
It preludes, perhaps track 3's cry 'Give it to me', in which that same audition hall or awaiting of heart sentiment takes on the punctuation of a demand.
'Give it to me ...the last time I ask for it. ...The next time I take it,' saith the disgruntled war cry of the inheritor of deprived reparations, who would have the record set straight about the skill-roots of falsely proclaimed Kings, who shined with stolen crowns?
...or Observations of the jilted lover, key in hand, in buffalo stance by a vehicle in her non-requiter's parking lot.
Maybe the underground genius then, promising the growth of noncomformist consciousness into giant?
Perhaps all of these, are at its root.
I relax into the ethers. ...take a breath of the silvery waves rising up. There's always a calm in the middle of a storm on terra or innerverse, and in this ethering-series of cryptic vignettes 'Wind' is that eye, writing the words into the moistened Earth: 'Is this love, I will never know...'
Bittersweet, discontent, writhing, becoming.
It's frustrated melancholy, strangely soothing, recognizably tragic, and celebratory, enough to bypass sorrow, and inspire... reignition.
The sonic frenzy of 'Wasted' now, raises the winds, infusing electricity into ether; the first authorized leak from the trove of Men&Women or La Revenge De Uncle Baldy (coming to a timestation near you) reapproaches the storm in a feverish symphony of drumstick gloried, trumpet-heralded, whirl of guitar-moaning psychedelia, like the sung 'dancing-on-the-work-table' lament in a trifle factory that can't oppress the soul another day with its pregnant-with-distraction conveyor belts of stolen treasures manufactured by tired hands. Like one writhing in the vat of futility rippling-full with burning nectar from forced fruits plucked off deserted fields.
Perhaps one tired puzzle assembler turned to the other (or a partner-of-name passing or fixed), transfiguring the angst into the picking of fruits hidden in grey matter, on the waves of a subtly ferocious post flame guitar-strum ember flickering: 'Are you Satisfied?', where rhythms (v.) a laid-back and equally hard-hitting thump in the Maestro's paradoxical tradition, naturally, of bass-and-drum heartbeats sonically blooming.
'PMS Junkie' now ascends from guitar strum to big band curtain drops and scattered aquatic wahs whirling 'round sax-bloom rifts, that rise with the vocals like a consciousness that's reclaimed its power of self, or passion its unsure of, asking 'How are we feeling?' with at sometime maniacal curiosity, at others Mutha gentle.
It delivers to us a riddled bloom at its end, with petals, may petals of even more shapes and forms; 'Martha Squatter', a supreme frenzy of drum and bass fit to soundtrack a hunt, leading me to question again, is this part of a lovestory, or a series of them?
A love that is also a war with a lover consulted repeatedly on how they are feeling, because the partner-in-amour essentially reduces the heart of the other to a temporary space in which to pile cryptic treasures?
Is my overthink acting up again? In this instance, only the Maestro, would know.
Perhaps such riddles will not decode.
Perhaps Martha the Squatter was simply a squatter he met traveling the good red road, and 'Tree of Life' isn't a reissuing of X&Y riddling, but an o.d.e to the harmony of form and flow, swirling in water-ripple wahs and Island bass sway-conjure, inspired by a fresh apple in a grove somewhere he stopped to eat before moving on.
Perhaps Men& Women is simply code for: life.
In this vein of sentiment, the timetrodder's code would naturally follow: 'Who needs time?', in its almost eerie, guitar string alt-grit, touching on funereal rhythms, delivering old form to its recycling ground, where its once-spirit can be wept for in nostalgia and congratulations of higher destination.
I tap a broken clock in salute.
It preludes the track that perhaps leads it all to Higher Power, seemingly referred to here at the etheric journey's end as a 'Two-fisted God' following the heartchamber-stir 'When it's time' in its soulful, majestically gentle, sol-soothing monologue, or perhaps, prayer (issued in that period of assessing, reflecting on the steps pressed into the Earth that have led one to the present point, where its time to look to God, and whisper 'Two Fisted God I want some more.'
Men&Women is a puzzle, a looking glass into the rotation of psycogs in a genius machina, a fiery parched-heart hydrating etherlixir, fresh-squeezed, from the tree of an everything and nothing life. Because Men and Women are vessels. Men and women need Men&Women.
Because Men and Women are lost and sometimes found, and lost again, and...
Consider this not The End but pause to savor.
Further details for the hemisphere-of-left& the sol-flow on the right:
This series of the Maestro's travels will be available after its release in UA 2010, commencing on 6/18, and stretching it's other-graced hands to 6/26.
The review is now posted in the den of URBAltians