88 Allure

I struggle to hold this image in my mind. My vision is shaky, erratic, and full of feelings. There is a stage. Facing my eye, are two dominant vertical planes. Within my field of vision, the uppermost plane fills two thirds of the picture. The lower plane lays across the deep, fading beyond my sight. A third plane splits the picture, horizontally, at the lower third.

A sinister figure is coming.

My vision breaks, skipping like a scratched record or an interrupted conversation. You speak and I speak. We speak with harmony and rhythm together in a dance. In a matter of milliseconds the rules of our game are broken by an invading force. Some asshole in the corner decides to interject.

My vision is limited to a vignette, like a heavy theatre spotlight beating down an actor's neck. At the center, an orb of light blasts outward and fades into the black abyss. The sad dancer takes the stage. He twirls and swirls while the silent audience cracks beneath the heavy weight of his power. The dancer floats with ease and in a sudden event of fantastic awe, he takes flight. The dancer is damned. The finality of his routine has been unveiled.

In the hot and heavy theater light there is a levitating man. His heart is cold and so it has been painted into the eternal portrait of the sad dancer. As the man floats above his audience he contorts in bizarre ways. The dancer's head drops beneath the right collar bone. His lower torso is discarded. Tossed to the beasts of the crowd like bread for subhuman serfs. Dancer man's arms and legs labor to fall in line. Slaves to the mind's heart and the hearts will. The final image is a man broken apart by his own idealism and twisted will. In this interruption of vision, the last image is a disembodied man forced into the shape of the Nazi swastika.

The drums beat softly in the dark.

In a moment of rest I remember my place. The image of a theatrical stage bubbles up like 1,000 war drums at the break of dawn. The Head is coming. A powerful fire erupts in my eye. A massive vessel commands the stage. From its mouth the raging fires glow with intoxicating glamour. It is as if the hands of Prometheus have laid upon the stage.

At each flank, towers with subtle ornamentation command the space. The two pillars stand before the stage like God's Chymera at the gates of Eden. Perhaps they are the monsters of twisted order?

I rest my heart in the flames. If the divine is not everywhere, it must undoubtedly call fire it’s home. Color hasn’t much of a home in the images I’m sharing. When I picture these things, fragments of color are spat into the shapes and forms. But, the color won’t stick. The scene resists the flowing hues of the color spectrum.

The three fires thrust spectacular light into the area. Take a crystal with many planes. Shine a strong light through this crystal in a dark room. The fractal light produced from the three fires is just like the light put through a crystal. From this, an undertone of seemingly chaotic geometry is cast throughout the image. The lights of fury lay over everything; the forms, shapes, and lines.

The war drums re-emerge…

As the fires of Prometheus stare me in the face, my ears tremble and my teeth shake. My heart rattles to the beat of the war drums. My face sweats profusely from the power of the head-fire. A darkness in the corner professes it’s submission to The Head. Sorrow and pain will be transferred away from your soul. Fury and Power will cleanse the scars and fleas from your body. The Master Artist of pain makes his face known to his disciples. As the Artist of pain takes his place at the left hand fire, a second entity approaches. The Minister of Leisure marches to the right hand fire. He affirms his place at the flame of pleasures with a standing profession to his sacrality.

The Horns of Heart, belt out long cries for The Head. As the picture surrounding the Fire of Prometheus solidifies, the intensity of details in focus increase. His shadow is cast on the vast backdrop. His shadow commands the picture. I can nearly see The Head beyond the great flame. His face and upper body are stretched and smeared by the distortion of the wavering fire. I can see him. Just as his image is captured in the fire and his great shadow is fixed on the scene, the image freezes.

I can not find the consolation of confronting the demon. Face to face. Twisted heart meeting twisted heart. The Head, the dictator, the god appointed tyrant, and that man I could become are lost in the flames.

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