Chance isn't.
Random isn't.
Death isn't.
The soul is timeless. It knows no frame of measure. It knows no history. It knows no future. It belongs to all things at all times and is as infinite as the future itself. You cannont comeback once you are gone. You are already here....and always will be.
Listen to the wind. For it bequeaths to us it's secrets. These secrets are our dreams. Our love. It's secrets are whispered or yelled to us depending on how it deems the necessity of our discovering of it's secrets. The voices mesh and mingle, each with it's own voice among the foray of itself in it's bifurcations and seamless interwining pleasures and horrors. Listen to the wind. It calls the names of your past and present. It points it's invisible, but visible to those that listen, finger at the unseen and unforseeable. The wind is our friend of change. It sweeps away our tears and our sallow eccentricities. Listen to the wind, my friend. It is the sweetest voice for it will never misguide you. Ride it's voice.
This is an excerpt from a handout that I got at a Sleepytime Gorilla Museum show. See them if you have the chance. You'll be glad you did.
Author, John Kane.
The Buffalo Seat
The worlds museums in all their rich variety have but one subject: the past. Perhaps this constraint is natural, a structural inevitability. While it has been argued that the past is no more real than the future, the past bequeaths to us a rich inheritance of corpses, stretching back before man, which threatens to crush the present (and future) under the weight of it's sheer substantiality. The present is merely the means by which the past access it's ever growing wealth of material, which we fall into with each step.
We walk on the soft corpses of trees and bake bread with the bones of our ancestors who were themselves ashes of dead stars. The past comes to greet us with the first rays of dawn, already minutes from the sun. The night sky brings us news sent from worlds long extinguished and we return the greeting to worlds not yet born.
The past overtakes us before our words cross the room, banishing us each to a solitary island of absolute presence. We watch the waves and take our revenge on the despotic past with the only available weapons, meager and insidious: lies.
Let us turn resolutely away from nature.
Let us spurn what has been in flavor of what might have been.
Let the hard facticity of accumulated time be washed from us in the clear waters of empty possibility.
Let the ghostless voices of unrealized worlds sing through us, or mute fish-mouths shaping a silent curse on the tyranny of this, the only possible world.
We are free. Our curse on a past that cannot be undone is a blessing on a future that will never be, a freedom song, a mantra of clear joy and rightness of place. Yes, of place; for this museum that cannot stand still is, if nothing else, a place. Not a resting place for the sedentary artifact or closed book, rigid depositories "Truth" and "Beauty", but a window seat on a train passing through a forest of truths and beauties and into the open plain where one awaits, mouth open in perpetual surprise, to be shot by the passing buffalo. (The inevitable and the impossible converge.) For the buffalo will shoot us, already has shot us; The bullets are on the way to our open mouths, only, like the voice of the buffalo, moving too slowlly for us to percieve, for us to believe. The Sleepytime Gorilla Museum is a place where at last we can push aside our plate of ancestors' bones, saying "No more for me, thanks. I'm ready for the buffalo's revenge."