as if tuning them up for some magical moment when nothing matters
but this palpable feeling of total immersion: unattached to past or
present, existing somewhere in the ethers beyond ourselves and that
urgency to do and be more of ourselves, always emulating “Another”:
Is it not this longing to live, to die—and somewhere in-between to create--
that is at the very core of who we are and why we are here? Do we not recognize
these breadcrumbs, these physical reminders that march before us like
storybook illustrations of a distant recollection captured through the lens of
the Universal Viewer? Yet how can we relate to what we have not yet become?
How can we sort out these multiple existences? Maybe we should compose a
eulogy that at each inception can be worn on our wrist as a bracelet that
identifies specific demonstrations of each mortality. “Here lies love, a forgotten
sentiment at the bottom of the box of multiple lifetimes: scarabs, acorns,
gilded lilies, gemstones with surfaces worn smooth as the tumbled mementos
melded into a litany of echoes chalked on the walls of the Temple of Silence.
No, I think not. Better that we move gracefully into the gilded halls without
posturing or pretense. Better that we let the excitement slowly creep up on us,
surprising us with symphonies of exotic sounds transmuted through frequencies
that by their very nature seep into the deepest part of ourselves, subtle and pervasive.
--Carol Adler, from Chaconne