Mountain flowers flowed out in carpet under the granite teeth of bears, the silksong still waters shifting slip from lake to falls a canyon behind. Though half a mile north and downhill, he could hear the faint roar of cascade against rigid sharp stones below as the waters would slip yet further away.
Cedar breezes and that mystery smell of water evaporating in the sun on grey stone. He wanders this place as if he lives here, though it has gone a lifetime away. Chill mountain lakes, snowcapped peaks thrust still here at the top of a world.
He brushes away the pine needles browning on the rock overlooking the shallow lake, just a broad space of river as it slow shifts water from higher places to low. He sits and waits for her arrival, wondering if today will be her day.
After a missed Saturday post for this series because… well… while I heard music I liked with the focus I had, I haven’t heard anything that really grabbed me. Yesterday’s post with the Mission as a focus was an attempt to try to get back on track with the nominal excuse that I was inspired in ways by their music and (largely) deeper cuts.
As I feared, the synthwave/darkwave/coldwave/postpunk exploration did quickly become very “samey” as I listened. There were decent bands, but few that I didn’t already know that really captured my attention. And there were even fewer that didn’t employ English as their language of choice. So, I decided to course correct and go into this labyrinth based more on whim than on algorithmic curation.
one of many iterations of The Eden House (copyright owner unknown)(more…)
The Mission circa 1986, found on internet (unknown copyright)
Yesterday, I made a veiled reference to two songs on my mind at the time that I wrote Between Shadow. And while they do not exactly fit in with the criteria that I’ve set out for myself in this series (non-English, strike; new to me, strike, darkwave/coldwave/synthwave, strike), I thought that I might as well include them for readers so that the reference isn’t lost on them.
I often wonder lately if it is my shadow drawing me into dance and embrace, if the million mile journey is here in my heart and conventional wisdom would say that I never need leave home. I give my shadow name, because a shadow should not remain without a name just because it refuses to share one.
“Scáthach,” I whisper and it just laughs and twirls away. The mistress of shadows, in the castle of shadow, from an island far, far away. It is neither denial or affirmation, and I do not have the energy to play a neverending game of warmer and colder. If it is just my shadow, it would likely care less how it is named.
