Dwellers & Choosers

A lighting cracked the sky open. A thunder deafened the air. All was muted. And it was not. Showers from an airy crevice were descending. First as vigorously as the raids of winds gushing through the wide open spaces were invading the cliff. Then, slowly, steadily soaking the mafotherphunkie beach with abundance of liquid the weary clouds were puking, having laboriously digested the steam absorbed from the ascending mollicule clusters from the hills, mountains, valleys, fields, and oceans alike. Digested, they presented themselves to the world as a countless formation of miniscule, yet enduring, warriors. Raid they do not. They just are. An army they might be : for lack of a better word.

A shower of deafening electricity scraped the horizon. A succession of kaleidoscopic, second long sequences lighten the airy filter, pushing through the narrow passages, catapulting ray arrows towards the ground, towards the rivers, towards the branches, towards the steep, rocky levees guarding the site of the infamous counterriting. Plethora of syncopated, broken beat imagery galloping in reverse through the airy corridors, echoing the blurry amber flows. Blurry cohorts racing. Blurred rushing torpor. Thick its miasma. Thicker even than the speed at and with which it inhibits itself.

The trees as resilient as mafotherphunkie phunk. Twist, bend, swerve. Persistent in gentle, sinuous movements. Firmly anchored in the rhizomorhic web. Unshakably, decidedly providing unquestioning support to the amber once wandering through the brownish wastelands, now hard-headedly holding to the veteran ruts in the everprotective bark.

The moon swept by a devouring lighting. The moonlight swallowed by a blinding thunder. The sky cracked open. The surface of the river like a gigantic screen displaying an array of reforgotten scenes from ye legacy of ye kids. Factory walls kiss the nights full of endless conversations, hands holding hands, resistance, vigor unthinkable, whole-heartedly persevering. Ye kids. Ye heritage.

Amber steadfastly holding. Transmit the stories stashed in each, regardless how remote, corner of the vulnerable, yet vibrant, host. As if all devouring thunders and lightings were being gulped by the sedentarily melting mummified leaves infused with the decaying tissue of the attempt to be merged with the moment at which amber was loosing its solidity to the muddy streams. As if the soil were so porous that it could no longer barricade gelatinous flows. As if the undercurrent were muted. And it is not.

In reverse. Broken beat syncopations are being sucked into the silent, quixotic soundness of the amber re-attached. Ethereal in its solidity, glorious in its modesty, colossal in its majestic simplicity, it is the fruit of the tree’s inside, but it also hosts other fruits. Fruit emerging from the communication sent through the trunk, all the way to the roots, pumping into the rhizomorphic undercurrent robust signals to be conveyed further onto the layers beneath, above, and around. Talk of the amber like a message bearing fruit flourishing from the disintegrating mummified mud.

Shyly peeping. A glance at the raging world nurtures it with a dosage of immunity fiery enough to alleviate the feary eye. Hesitantly peering. Breathing in. Then fucking exhale. Another irresolute glimpse. More nurturing vacillations. Fruit thirsty for the sites to invigorate the new dwellers of the landscape clothed in the attire reintegrated through desertlike storms.

Attire like an armor. Shelter from harsh climes. Haven for the delicate dweller hungry for more soothing nutrients. Breathing freely. Safely established in the wondrously protective habitat. Soft, yet piercing like phunk, is the mafotherphunkie look at the world that turns out not to be all that raging all the time. Indifferent to whatever gaze it spills upon the fragile sight. Free from everything, but not for anything. Like phunk!