To: K-list
Recieved: 2002/08/23 07:48
Subject: [K-list] blood music
From: Marsha
On 2002/08/23 07:48, Marsha posted thus to the K-list:
Thought I'd relate an experience:
I see a male figure atop a horse that is standing on a high overlook in the
mountains. I witness this man and at the same time am him, feeling his
feelings.
---
I am just waking up from a nap when this familiar image returns.
---
He is looking down on a far away village and the wind is whipping through
his long hair and dark clothing. The horse's mane streams. The man wears
layers of cloth and heavy leather. I feel that he is a warrier, though I
see no weapons.
He suddenly feels a sharp, piercing, exhaulting wildness running throughout
his body. His heart beats faster, big, big thumping beats, and his breath
deepens and quickens. Mine does the same. His eyes are on fire and his
heart sings with a strange music. A falcon circles overhead.
There is also music in the wind - the kind that blood would make...deep,
elemental, sad, longing, cutting - down to the heart and marrow. His horse
feels what he feels, moving to reflect, whinnying and snorting. They flow
together.
---
I have seen/been this man many times over the last year. We feel and do the
same thing each time.
I recognize the music. I have heard it flowing under old, old Irish music,
some Jewish Kletzmer music, some Mongolian Tuvian Shamanic throat singing,
selected Tibetan Buddhist triple tone chanting, certain Pakistani sacred
music, to one scratchy recording of an old Hawaiian shaman, and so on.
These musics all evoke these same painful, longing, yet free (for a price
(?), exhaultant body/emotional feelings. Blood music, body music, myth
music, earth music, legend music, wind music. The blood responds even now.
Truth.... freedom ? Tears. Deep. Everflowing.
The man embodies them....for us(?). The body in bed sighs long toning
sighs.
---
The village he watches is his village, but he will not go down to it. When
he considers going there his throat tightens. His tribe is his tribe, but
village and tribe confine. If he remained there the light would go out of
his eyes and he would die....slowly, along with the horse. His tribe cannot
hear the music.
Once the music is heard you can never not hear it.
---
My body lying in bed takes a sharp shaking inbreath and tears very slowly
run out the corners of the eyes. I feel lonely. A looooooooooooonnnng
lonlieness. True home sings.
---
The man feels lonely, but he is free. The lonesome gripping sadness
wrenches at his heart and body with pain that is even physical, followed
again and again with the realization: "But I am free, free, inside the
lonlieness."
The horse, at one with him, knows what the man knows, feels what he feels,
and moves in expression to the deep blood music that flows through both of
them that flows through........what?........much more than them.
He is Mongolian, has a sharp intellect and sensitive feelings.
. ---
When I hear Monglian music and other 'blood music,' or see photos of
Mongolian people, or other certain photos, my body reacts so, and then this
image returns with a certain ferocity. The man is always on the edge of the
cliff, feeling thus, watching the village.
His tribe is deaf. He can hear. They will call him to battle if he sings
the music that rages in his blood and heart to them. So he only watches
from afar. He only waits. He sees the music moving under the village under
the earth.
---
The body, at the computer now, feels tears wetting the keyboard.
---
A woman, far away from the man, dressed in a long whitish nightgown (?),
brown hair down her back, ageless, walks from her small house in the woods,
to the little pond in the middle of the wildness around her house.
She hears the music, too, and goes to the water to listen and feel. In her,
the music feels different, softer, but it is the same. She, too, lives,
apart.
---
The woman is me. I watch her and feel with her. I have seen her many
times. Like the man, she always does the same thing. He on the cliff, she
by the water, in the wild hearing the music, feeling sweet, sad freedom. I
have never seem them one after the other like this, only at seperate times.
Is it the music that connects? It flows through both; both hear.
The music flows through my body, too. It is deep. From inside out. I don't
know if I can hear yet.
Something new flashes up: The word 'archetype.'
The body flushes with a red heat, trembles and the brain tips with a
dizziness. Sounds escape the throat. A fire around the heart.
---
Too much sudden movement in my house. Teens chattering. Kitchen sounds. I
need to be alone to hear the music. It will take a bit to return, but the
mind helps out by beginning to philosophise about what just happened.
Marsha
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