Your Imaginary Friend: The Sweeper // prelude
My friend Paul, also known as Your Imaginary Friend, recently sent me some cryptic emails, each containing what appears to be a fragment of a longer story. Or a longer something, anyway. I'd like to share with you one of those fragments. It's a great prelude, I think, and I hope he continues fleshing out the whole thing. Read on for the story so far.
The Sweeper
“Surrender yourself humbly, Then you can be trusted to care for all things.” Tao te Ching (XIII)Prelude:
It is spoken of great musicians that their instruments have become extentions of their bodies and that by way of these instruments they can connect themselves, together with those who listen as they play, to another realm.
The masters of East Indian music are especially renowned in this regard. It is said that there are those who are able to transverse the subtle nerve channels of those who listen with dragon kites flown on strands of melody drawn from a sitar while accompanied by 10,000 ecstatic butterflies set free from a set of tables. Indeed it is said that there are those who are able to coax from a tambor ethereal vibrations that keep all those who listen gently suspended in the loving arms of living space. Together, these musicians conspire (breathe together) to open a resonant gateway -a subtle and shimmering window, delicate and intricate as a crystal chandelier – connecting the gods with humanity.
These great ones appear to play magical instruments; instruments whose function it is to connect us with sources divine rather than induce our exile from innumerable Edens. Alas! What compass could serve to navigate the bizarrely convoluted passageways that lay between the carnivorous carnival of Modern Times and our very essence?
In the darkness of our so-called advanced age, it often appears that the magical arts belong to another space and time in lands that bear little resemblance to our own. Apparantly barred from participation in the mysteries of magical instruments, I’ve plummeted down into the depths of despair to the foot of a prolific heap of refuse where we (Hey, how did you get here?) have come upon a man. A man with a broom.
[To Be Continued, I imagine...]