Envision:
Waking up, running in the woods; dense with trees, too tall to see the canopies. The moonlight shoots through, somehow, dimly lighting the way. You see a light, brightly toned orange. You run toward the light, hoping for some type of rescue. Just as you think you're safe, your feet leave the ground. You fly toward the light nearly twice as fast as you ran. It comes closer, gets brighter and figures appear.
Before you can define logically what they are, you burst through the trees and land on the hard dirt, slide until you're feet from the flames. Looking up, you realize the figure as a familiar one. It's an owl, Made of Wood, bringing the sun to earth.
Steps behind you. You're much to weak to look. A strong hand grabs you and hoists you onto it's shoulder. It's black feet crunch leaves as it takes you across the clearing. There is a place for you. The figure tosses you to the dirt and hovers above you. The fire seems to come off of it. You hadn't noticed before, but other figures are there too. When your eyes adjust, you see their men, women and children; dark faces, painted chests, some with their hands removed. Men wore grass skirts, green, splattered with what seemed to be black paint. Women wore nothing but beads around their waists and long banana leaves tied snugly around their wrists. Men were paper thin paintings, wearing headdresses that seemed to be heavier than the lot of them.
All were kneeling before the strigiform, not willing to acknowledge your existence among them. A chant rose and the calm became an unsettling noise. It wasnt English. It didnt sound like any language you'd heard before.
Your name is called. Called again, called again, screamed. You don't recognize the voice and fail to respond. The first figure steps to the side and gives you a clear view of the scene. They aren't kneeling in front the Owl, it's a woman, tied by rope to a peice of wood, covered in symbols unknown. From where your name was called, she screams for you. You don't recognize her. Her face is bare, but her naked body painted in bright whites, yellows and blues, dotted with black.
One of the older, more fatherly men approached her and said something in her ear you couldn't hear over the chanting. She calmed immediately and would have fell from weakness if the rope wasn't as tight. Full lipped, red-haired, thin and model-esque, you can't recall seeing a more beautiful woman. She knows your name, she expects you to help her. She pled for your heroism.
The broad figure placed you in a chair, more like a throne. Made of log and leave, highly uncomfortable, yet rigid and oddly regal.
Younger boys cut the girl's restraints. The young lady tried to balance herself, but failed and tumbled almost into the crowd. Landing face down, her crimson hair flew in all directions. The older man helped her to her feet gently, as if she his own seed. She gained her footing and stood. Even more beautiful standing alone; nearly six feet, the fire behind her made her a shadow like the first figure. The crowd stood, momentarily shrouding the woman, then parted a walkway for her. Like a wedding in Wicca, the man, dark as coal, walked this fair-skinned beauty down the passageway.
Just feet away, you cant bear to look at her with the knowledge that she can see you. What help had you offered? The coal man stepped back , allowing her to kneel before you. She placed her head in your lap. Her face was warm, as was her breath. The coal man binded her wrists and ankles with the torn ligaments of wild bore. Another man painted a figure onto the back of her neck, resembling the owl they had engulfed in flame.
The coal man lightly touched the top of her head, ordering her to look up. She stared into your eyes, almost lovingly. No more pleas left her lips. Her head was nudged back and throat cut with the coal man's long blade, fashioned with feathers and pristinely cleaned.
A cry rose from the crowd as her head fell back into her lap, blood painting your genitals, thighs and down to your feet. Shock. Dancing, drums, improvised string instruments. A wailing female voice, strangely close to English.
The coal man donned your head with a crown of rose vines. He leaned in and whispered something in your ear. It wasn't English, but you made out a word you could recognize from it. You whisper, "Light."

"Made of Wood, Sparks The Light"





I'm wasting my life. I spend about 18 hours a day, slumped behind a brightly lit Dell. When I'm older, the teenage years I'll remember are the ones I'm creating for myself now. Lonely Nights, brighter than the daytime; sleeping rarely, there arent enough hours in the day, I have to make time. Drowning in tap water and reality TV, missing my girlfriend, my friends havent seen me and my mother lives with a zombie. Sleeping during the Day, I've Become a vampire. I scream when the light hits me, dance to the sound of keys tapping. I've albut lost my social skills. My brain is so stressed and my body is going with it. All i put in here is water and grease.
I've found that i really enjoy 5 am. Twilight, when the world is blue and the clouds are black, looking like a Warhol. Sleep is no longer a necessity. I'm losing my humanity while skillfully keeping my sanity intact. Never assume I'm crazy, or at least any crazier than I was before. I'm cool as fuck, just a little smarter. Thank God for the craft I've developed over the years. I've grown to be able to do pretty much anything through sheer determination. I'm still absolutely nowhere, however, but that's further than where i started.
I'm confused, worried and life is going by faster than the minutes are. I put my heart into my music because there's nowhere else. Sweet, blissful, sultry sounds. I can build worlds inside my head with this music, and visit each one separately.
This collection was inspired by classical music, stick figure paintings and dreams of trees.

Never go against me, I've done battle with God himself for my own liberation.