7andala, you, I, and we never trusted our "leaders" anyway. It is time to face forward; it is up to us--the Palestinian people--to bring justice to ourselves, and we will.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
From frequency of feedback
Sounds of frequency, feedback, drums, and cymbals--the haunting voice comes in occasionally but he is the minority in this soundscape.
But his voice is what resonates.
Five+ hours of hearing him sing, and every five minutes and 19 seconds, he takes me back to that fog-filled place, where everything is in dim lighting and soft focus; where I'm not alone, but we are because all regard for others is neglected. And the sound is damaged because the speakers are, and so are we.
///there can be no wrong in this, and I can do no wrong in his eyes, he implies\\\
My vision strengthens to dreamy hues of black and grey, the bronzed blush of dewy skin, and a deep, dark, blood red--the colors are savory as is the sound of flawed feedback. It's psychedelic and sexy, pale and devoid, and it all fits--like the the beauty of death or the chicness of heroine or the liveliness of goth--it's morbid and right; it's damaged and perfect.
I listen to my hearing get damaged, and as it muffles, his voice echos and turns hollow; his calls sting me as they travel from the recesses of the cave--he won't let the vision and its sounds rest. He demands their frequency from me, and twists the frequency wires and prods my bare heart's sheath with the bare wire tips, forcing me to listen as he repeats the feedback. I have become his sound system, and the frequency streams from me.
I thrash back and it jets forth in wide reverberating ribbons, pocked with veteran filters, blown out from sounds blasts that have come before. Yet, whenever those sounds were born, wherever they've crawled, whatever their past that brought them to this formation, they are now as they are meant to be.
///the feedback can not be wrong from this, and I am damaged and beautiful, in his eyes, he implies\\\
And the song loops again, feedback chips away a bit more at the sound and the speakers--doing more damage and creating a new frequency.
But his voice is what resonates.
Five+ hours of hearing him sing, and every five minutes and 19 seconds, he takes me back to that fog-filled place, where everything is in dim lighting and soft focus; where I'm not alone, but we are because all regard for others is neglected. And the sound is damaged because the speakers are, and so are we.
///there can be no wrong in this, and I can do no wrong in his eyes, he implies\\\
My vision strengthens to dreamy hues of black and grey, the bronzed blush of dewy skin, and a deep, dark, blood red--the colors are savory as is the sound of flawed feedback. It's psychedelic and sexy, pale and devoid, and it all fits--like the the beauty of death or the chicness of heroine or the liveliness of goth--it's morbid and right; it's damaged and perfect.
I listen to my hearing get damaged, and as it muffles, his voice echos and turns hollow; his calls sting me as they travel from the recesses of the cave--he won't let the vision and its sounds rest. He demands their frequency from me, and twists the frequency wires and prods my bare heart's sheath with the bare wire tips, forcing me to listen as he repeats the feedback. I have become his sound system, and the frequency streams from me.
I thrash back and it jets forth in wide reverberating ribbons, pocked with veteran filters, blown out from sounds blasts that have come before. Yet, whenever those sounds were born, wherever they've crawled, whatever their past that brought them to this formation, they are now as they are meant to be.
///the feedback can not be wrong from this, and I am damaged and beautiful, in his eyes, he implies\\\
And the song loops again, feedback chips away a bit more at the sound and the speakers--doing more damage and creating a new frequency.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
In between
There is so much in between...
...in between moments: seconds of inspiration and desire; hope and action--when she is still discovering but has not yet realized.
This is when the bomb creator is in the mode of creation--when the beads of technology and perspiration are still forming and dripping. In between the initiation and the finale, she's wiping her brow with her forearm and thinking of her childhood and her demise.
She feels the pangs of love and despair, having experienced both but never to fruition or resolution. She has somehow always just been in between--never complete--although she has come close.
And she thinks of those almosts now, while she's mid-way through her process. Even the way she holds the tweezer, light tension--enough to push each prong toward its mate but not to a closed clip--is an almost. Yet, the tweezer is how it needs to be, and, as such, she grasps, places, and releases the thin particles that too are the in-betweens.
Perhaps, this is how she has kept her soul--she's never given it fully. And it prevented her from ever feeling enough to be angry or to love. She's survived this way. But was it really about survival? What good was it to her--to survive and thrive and be in between? She was stuck in the midst, for she was forced to begin and was clueless as to when she'd complete her circle.
Then, she coughed, and it ticked...tick, boom.
And as she looked around, and saw and sensed the dust settling around her to its final landing place, she was hit with a realization--she was again in between--in between, physical and spiritual. She snickered a smirk, half-silently suggesting that God had played a good one on her. But the snicker subsided and her face grew as long as her gaze--she knew this would be her end: in limbo.
And her gaze glossed, and she solemnly tapped one ghostly hand's finger pads on the other's finger nails, and she saw the tweezer standing on its prong tips amid the debris, covered in dust. And she remembered life, and the almosts it brought her--she preferred her new state: at least it was true to her; true to the in-between that she had felt had always been her destiny.
She had experienced an end, followed by a beginning, and found her place and her purpose in between.
...in between moments: seconds of inspiration and desire; hope and action--when she is still discovering but has not yet realized.
This is when the bomb creator is in the mode of creation--when the beads of technology and perspiration are still forming and dripping. In between the initiation and the finale, she's wiping her brow with her forearm and thinking of her childhood and her demise.
She feels the pangs of love and despair, having experienced both but never to fruition or resolution. She has somehow always just been in between--never complete--although she has come close.
And she thinks of those almosts now, while she's mid-way through her process. Even the way she holds the tweezer, light tension--enough to push each prong toward its mate but not to a closed clip--is an almost. Yet, the tweezer is how it needs to be, and, as such, she grasps, places, and releases the thin particles that too are the in-betweens.
Perhaps, this is how she has kept her soul--she's never given it fully. And it prevented her from ever feeling enough to be angry or to love. She's survived this way. But was it really about survival? What good was it to her--to survive and thrive and be in between? She was stuck in the midst, for she was forced to begin and was clueless as to when she'd complete her circle.
Then, she coughed, and it ticked...tick, boom.
And as she looked around, and saw and sensed the dust settling around her to its final landing place, she was hit with a realization--she was again in between--in between, physical and spiritual. She snickered a smirk, half-silently suggesting that God had played a good one on her. But the snicker subsided and her face grew as long as her gaze--she knew this would be her end: in limbo.
And her gaze glossed, and she solemnly tapped one ghostly hand's finger pads on the other's finger nails, and she saw the tweezer standing on its prong tips amid the debris, covered in dust. And she remembered life, and the almosts it brought her--she preferred her new state: at least it was true to her; true to the in-between that she had felt had always been her destiny.
She had experienced an end, followed by a beginning, and found her place and her purpose in between.
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