nirvana ballad (artist) @nirvanaballad - Tumblr Blog

POSSIBILITY TEA

Positions of pulling gravities. Movements modular, in a raining of rays. Cavort the stellar sources -- a vinculum of vectors; lines collapsed without breaching set parameters. Minerals remembered.

Hives of undulation. Humming resonations.

Red dead -- rooms filled with radiation.

Harvest of heat. Hardness of hedonism.

Hark the message against the universe. She has shown us the escape routes, chutes, and shafts.

An anti-brilliance arises to match the trajectory of transcendence.

On and up the sun rises. Out into the depths of outer-space. Momentum builds.

The crowd roars.

In respect of Bonobo’s performance @ The Royal Albert Hall May ’22.

May ‘22

#art writing

[???]

In the midst of the smoke, the thing moved. It was a mass of black fog (or, at least, what appeared to be fog.)

April ‘22

#art writing

CHANDELIER

In the light of the chandelier that swung, pendulous; sunk through the absence that was embraced by a spiralling staircase, there were the voices that had echoed through the house in the seemingly immeasurable years that it had been unoccupied.

She (the chandelier) had recorded them; and these stories, somehow; silently, exuded from her.

None knew of this. Who was there who could hear these otherworldly frequencies?

Mention of this extraordinary phenomenon was exclusive only to the chandelier’s own memory and writings -- her record, and her storytelling.

She settled herself into meditative contemplation.

There were characters that had been drawn from the mysts; and, events that would have been received with ridicule (had they been published) were her’s, and no-one else’s. However, the chandelier never wrote for the spectacle of others. There was no-one who could hear, so there was no motivation to speak. The barriers of languages saddened her; but this sadness was so ancient -- and her subjectivity so profound -- that she liked it as a friend.

March ‘22

#art writing

[???]

In the weeping waves, there were the faces of the ancestors.

Prevalent were their voices.

Masks of obscure gods (characters of the zodiac; aeons that were counterpart to nebula strewn throughout the galactic wash) accosted the presumptions of the little humans that swam at the coast.

Ah, the resistant seas...

The mariner meandered at the movement of the moisture. Buoys danced far out towards the horizon. Immersed within the models of motion, unsettled lights modulated on the water.

Was there a song to put to such a day? A way to honour such an experience?

Thanks to the heavens, there was not a thing that was forgot. The songs had not been forgotten; nor those who sang them.

Muted colours arrived behind the eyelids as the dreamer awoke.

There were stories to be written this morning.

February ‘22

#art writing

DREAM COUNCIL

If harm were to come to the young lady, it was certain that the blame would fall upon the Dream Council.

Observation of Lunal had thus far revealed that her magic/super-natural powers were further developed than had been suggested in the meeting earlier in the previous day. The Council had hoped to intercept the girl in a time during her mutant rise. Instead, (from what was said) she had already begun to shape the abilities and (it seemed) to organise them into an effective mental schematic. If she were to continue cataloguing her competencies herself, the power that might be yielded over her would decrease drastically. The programming needed to begin when her deepest facets were exposed.

This is unfortunate, Lukahn considered.

Most importantly of all, what had been observed clearly indicated that within Lunal was the foretold resurgence of the partizan aspect -- a temperament that had been thought extinct since several thousand years before.

So The Dream Council believed.

Lukahn resisted thinking the following:

If we were to have enlisted the wisdom of that man [the wandering itinerant whom had left the Intricate Plane in the previous month] his knowledge would have informed them of the truth of the aspect.

While he blocked this waterfall of cognition, he sighed deeply, crushing his ribs inward.

They needed to evade further scrutiny from the government appointed NGO in this protectorate. With the re-location of the populous complete, the operation was ready to commence.

Come nearer, and you will face my wrath.

Lunal wrote the words into the consciousnesses of the police officers as they approached her. The screaming was becoming familiar, like the sound of the rain.

January ‘22

#art writing

[???]

A harp sung of her.

January ‘22

#art writing

[???]

They died in the undertaking. It was not the death of a martyr, but a death that would lead that person into the next theatre of life.

January ‘22

#art writing

[???]

In the haze that extruded in forms from the impassible fog, a disassociated life-form clatters into view. The mode of it was stoic; voids where emotions would usually reside.

Harnessed and programmed to terminate targeted assets of the pharmaceutical corporation’s private army.

December ‘21

#art writing

[???]

In the waiting world, there was a name that shone strongly -- an awareness of whom was abundant in the consciousness of its populous.

High lights conversed and spoke of that person.

In all the years that they had watched that world, never had they encountered someone of such extraordinary dignity and profound non-complacence.

In the words were worms, and those worms were seen by this person; as if between the lines was a dimension visible to the senses.

Chosen as the mover of a planetary destiny, they set out against the possibilities (that which had been predicted;) and to set that destiny as a singular future.

Motions of a malevolent power that was sunk deep in the raiment of the world caught the attention of that blessed person. What was to occur would involve all to the very edge of the solar vicinity of that planet.

Heightened were the dreams that accompanied this person > dreams occurred for them in between the moments of their waking experience.

An old dream spoke to them.

There was a troubled wind that rushed through the avenues of trees.

A matter of seconds would have been enough to calculate all the synchronous activity on that world.

November ‘21

#art writing

[???]

We are all aliens in a foreign land, he thought; gazing upon the up-ended heavens. The rain was unlike anything he had ever seen. A desert’s rainfall -- a jest from the roof of the sky [and the stars fixed within it.]

He watched for impossible hours.

The rain did not deplete the cloud cover; instead, the clouds reached down to touch the earth.

With veins aglow [plasma], he basked in the illumination of it.

Choosing when (or when not) to drink of it’s waters -- learning this -- was now a blazing desire within him. It burned like a blowtorch.

He launched from where he had been fixed atop a post that stood higher than any other edifice at the settlement.

In the transparent language of silence, he hailed those as they awoke. They were surprised by the rain.

It was a photograph that had yet to be taken.

November ‘21

#art writing

[???]

Since the birth of his son, the man lying here has been without sleep. His insomnia derives not from the common anxieties that you yourself may have found filling your head late at night.

Nor can his condition be blamed upon external factors such as noise pollution.

No.

The reason this man cannot sleep is fear [flashes of screaming imagery.]

Fear not for his own life, but for that of his child...

The cause of this fear?

That same child’s mother.

She is a murderer.

October ‘21

#art writing

[???]

As a problem arises, an awareness of it grows; until, as if by accident, that awareness is infected by the problem and its anxieties. Did the problem pre-meditatively choose to allow itself to infect that awareness, and the individual it belongs to? Is the anomaly sentient?

How far one allows this conjecture to extend is the duty of the individual themselves to constrain. However, when an antagonism is hidden by the assumptions that it is inanimate, an enemy might grow in might and power, and slip unseen into those interior territories (that often go entirely undefended) of an individual. Thus, conflict emerges.

Those who decide upon survival awaken to the threat, and choose to begin constructing defensive measures.

A junction emerges. Does one imagine a castle, with a bastion wall, a moat, and a drawbridge?

The donjon was where the occupant of the castle would retreat during a siege. Awaiting psychological siege is a practice that becomes habitual to the mentally damaged.

It is easy to add to this fortification.

Does one, (in contradiction) imagine a computer firewall, with the greatest core depths of the brain an encircled kernel?

Would the human then become vulnerable to infection by computer viruses? The first thoughts of the very worst people would be to begin calculating how to build viruses that can infect humans.

Are offensive attitudes and manoeuvres viable? Training is required. But, who should we ask for this training?

Training to combat insurgent activity takes years. Most would select the ways of the warrior; but, there are other pathways; other roots to an eventual victory.

To select to train as a healer means to reconcile that one must learn to heal by first healing others.

In the annuls of the ancient history of psychosis, there are individuals who stand apart from the majority. They are the unsung heroes of great psychic conflicts that, truthfully, effect the global populous to every corner of the world. As a Golden Age is about to initiate, a huge upheaval often preempts it -- from which, the people must then resume what was paused during this elongated span of turbulence.

September ‘21

#art writing

[???]

IN the crowning of the root contains the meaning that at moments was the clean and unbroken fire that drove no engine, but blazed without reason in the times of the Warrior Goddess.

Sworn in movements cast and caught; rent by the cascading waves of energy, set sail in the midnights of the hollowed earth -- the places that the diving dreamer let be the countries that would retire once their purpose was met.

In the gravities of the enormity that by name went as Ilonda, there were denizens that would create and build the meta-structures to be visited when their most prime days were long expended. The breaking beams and metal struts set by oxidization to green of rust, in planets dead and lectures held in orbit -- stations that contained the libraries of animate tomes -- too true were their prophesies that She and Her would turn to stone, the books caught up in decisions that were not their own.

Like foreigners made to fight against the lands they visited -- frequent footfalls struck at the naked ground that held the seeds set to germinate a thousand years after they were sown.

It is true that all the winds did moan at the passing of the stability now degraded -- in measures gained in counter-flux, the possibilities grown into roads. Death to the flow was made of stone -- the ever-changing made of tar that would never cease in its undoable dominion.

Such was thought, and then dis-waged, the make-up of the churning time unbeknown to those who laid behind the age -- return the conquest of the tall and statured trees.

I was one who saw it then, the passage bent to the whim of methods dim. I who knew each of those who would, one day, bring about the end of the reign.

September ‘21

#art writing

THE CALAMITY OF ERET

Eret the Obtainer, for this she was known. In the dreamy forests of the furthest South, the Empress of the lands known as Bask prepared her magic. She had no citizenry, for all had died by her hand -- hideous as any mass slaughter, her campaign now faced down the country known as Nozia. Thought was beyond her: all she spoke were her darkest feelings; unconscious afflictions on all who heard them. Moan endured. Her magic was that of the sorceress, lunacy coupled with madness resumed, and endless became her hatred.

In the darkness that had arrived like any other night, but had persisted for the last four months, a druid -- who hailed from the Northern Coastline -- happened upon a party of headhunters in a clearing behind the great cube-shaped edifice at the edge of the forest that carried the same name as did the planet but whose association was never made by any human.

Eret continued the enchantment, incantations of the deafening pressing of the moon on the earth -- corrupting the firmament.

In the creases of the tightening paradigm drawn by the sorceress, resided that which was drawn from the wells that provided reservoir for the resource of destruction.

Caught-up in flights were the kites of Kamzu, her presence made the winds that carried them feint; the proclivities of her will pressed against the compelling of the deep midnight that resembled and represented Freedom, brought by blood, that the Nozian Arcamedial had installed in so many of the territories of Moan.

While Nozia continued its conquest, it was Eret who would end the age; one of pain and doubt -- annihilating the first and last of all the peoples of the planet. Their hopes and thoughts dashed unto oblivion, replaced by the reason of the distant stars.

Vestige trace sign indication hint remnant. A suggestion evidenced the mark on the edge of basin.

September ‘21

#art writing

THE OBSERVATORY AT VEYA

In the times that were penned by the most valued of the King’s scientists, the world would come to know both magic, and the presence of the gods.

Calculating significance and span, the man known as Doctor Fabian dreamed of places beyond the world beneath his feet -- the spinning giants which he viewed with the Great Telescope at the Observatory in central Veya, were palaces within the heavens, refracting the hopes and desires of all in the Age Of Men. They were icons of power and purity.

Placing measurements beside the expanded amplification of the planet known as Erina, the doctor felt a moment of rushing profundity -- an experience of the divine that he would remember as his first that demonstrated the touch of the tangi-communicative; the subtle, gentle message that said that his life had not gone unnoticed. Erina could see him as clearly as he saw her through the lens of his telescope.

On his way home, as the hour grew late, and the shadows of night began to fall, Doctor Fabian stopped beside the Old Fountain. He had had it in mind to stop here, and sit and listen to the coursing water for many years -- but! this was the occasion where this desire was finally realised.

There was more to this evening than the usual movements of silent birds and midnight cats. The streets were nearing emptiness, but for the footfalls of the City Guard, dampened though they were by the flooding from the broken aqueduct, resonated.

The infrastructure that separated Veya from the wall and the singing quadrangle preserved the security that they represented.

It must feel truly honourable to work as a guard. While it could be said that the importance of Doctor Fabian’s work as a royal astronomer far outstripped that of a mere guardsman, he often had these pangs; unable to see the shining of his works and discoveries from the perspective naturally provided to him. Quaeya required him. It was his duty as a citizen of this country to work as he did. He strongly believed this. As they were the last civilized bastion on all of Moan, patriotism had become default. In this, he continued a life that he had thought for a long time would eventually result in abject failure. He imagined being a tradesman, and believed it was in the unknowing of what such a career would entail that he was attracted to it.

As it was, a depletion of his character would soon conclude his studies of the heavens.

September ‘21

#art writing

[???]

Inconsequential void; ending potential blackness dead. Excommunicated from the hive, reassigned/re-possessed by the liquid submerged half-human. Seldom septic, sparks of revelation. Multicolumn colour, core to the myth calamity. Calm. [All that remains of the storm.] Harmony of that which hurts. Hardened to the noise-wall -- wind that will readily blow you from your position. Boisterous break of blanket cloud from the extreme southern reaches.

Unbalanced great trees rotate in the breathing.

Damned Drake dreams of a black-and-white world while awake.

August ‘21

#art writing

THE HOUSE BETWEEN THE LAKE AND THE TREES

Across the darkening plain, days

Spent under the influence of the rain --

Calling owls

Contend to tell

A tale of people living in the house

Atop the rise

In the middle

Of the forest

To travel to the entrance

Of the woods

Is an undertaking

Itself

Creating a thread of plot

That’s worth is

In the hands of the glancing

Guardian.

Magic in the throws of ancient strife.

Visions of a lake and its kin

Swamp the senses and

Cause an altering

Shifts between

The Lake and the Trees,

A further character

Is made know, one

Woman,

Among many people

As vital to the story

As a thousand stars,

And the eternal moon.

August ‘21

[recovered from October ‘16]

#art writing

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