After Rehersal

Melancholy; weighty and drenched limbs thrown to and fro and the meat of my muscle is dry off the bone.
I'm tired.
Trips to the moon driven by rocket fuel and the phenomenon is dilated with beaureaucratic paper work. Believe it. Because the taste buds of my soul haven’t been tickled in years and we are annoyed by your minstrel show. Remember me, but baby please forget my fate.

Photos from Don Giovanni

Hey guys,
I don't have the audio clip as of yet, I'll add it when I get it from my Uncle, but here are some pics from the last show that my uncle took:

the deepest kind of blues

The hardest thing
For my heart to fathom
Is the death of my own dream.
It lives too near to the heartbeat
And strikes so many nerves
You almost forget the thought and organ
Are distinct.
I am unsure why the loss of the
Intangible
Brings such physical hurt to my eyes
as if the connection
Between body and mind were fluidly
intertwined-
You’d think I’d have brought it to
Fruition a long time ago.
In this death
I am reminded I am still alive,
The blood continues to pump,
Only unlaced from the substance that was my dream.
Sometime, without that image
(or with it minus the faith)
I wonder who am I
And readjust my desire
And live so it can die
But the sadness of the loss
Is that its never really true
The manifestation of the death
Never really occurs
You hold on to the image…

But knowing
That one day you will
walk hand in hand with a lover
into the cemetery of dreams
and plant a rose,
is an overrated appeasement,
for the mind can only grasp
one heartache at a time.

And knowing
That every sunset
Gives birth to a dawn
Is also to infinite an emotion
To be felt.

‘Less John Coltrane
came back from the dead
and laced that lovely resolution
with the deepest kind of blues.

Why is it that whether everything is nothing, or nothing is everything, is a function of our thoughts? Doesn't the world stand as its own entity and not as the shadow of our philosophies? Maybe not. I would not know because I am not separate from my consciousness. The world is always tainted by my reality. It doesn't matter whether up is down or down is up, it depends which way I'm walking. Is it some kind of extreme individualism that weighs down our senses or is it that everything is a collage of images that we have already painted. Back when there were things that were new, were these concepts tiny births into a growing "universe?"(I put it in quotes because the word upsets me) Or are they the echos of parralel worlds and minds? They say that inventions all often spark up in places around the world at about the same time. But maybe that's just because of our technological and cultural connections...

Today i feel like the moderate choice inbetween everything and nothing. I am my physical characteristics, my personality, and my history I suppose(unless the past is something that disappears after you use it) but I am also a torrent of emotions, dreams, beliefs, fantasies and ambitions. I feel them, but none of them exist. I am a factory of emotions that is only distributed throughout my reality. When i feel pain, it is nothing to the world. Moreover, there is not proof. I can stare at these white walls or I can stare into my fantasies, it wouldn't make a difference; the concrete and the abstract coincide in our lives. I can take myself out of every concrete fact in an existential moment and fly to every star I've never known. I don't know what color the castles in Scotland are painted or the Amazon in Brazil, but I have been there many times; and laughed and loved and lived. I figure this life is a challenge to the molasses in my brains that wants to root my feet to a dream. But if the world is a shadow of our thoughts, then the challenge is no challenge at all. All I have is confidence to paint the skies where everything and nothing collide. All I know is that:
"El mundo es tan azul como una naranja"-The world is as blue as an orange(Marcos)