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01/26/2020
Floyd
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A cave beyond the maps
"[...] we have become accustomed to believe that cards necessarily correspond to reality and that if they don't, you can resolve the contradiction by changing reality." (Jane Jacobs)
Come, sit by the fire and drink from the herbs, which like a bitter liqueur expand your consciousness, befuddle you, beguile you and finally numb you, follow the strawflower before your closed eyes, the smell of herbs, curry and smoke.
She will show you the way to the holy place, roaming through dry circles of flowers, floating over lakes with caramel, surrounded by fairies who gigglingly sprinkle cinnamon, siren-like seduce you to the cave and lull and lure and stoke fire, shamanesses start dancing, dazed in spirit now as if they summon archaic gods.
Here you are leaning against the peg of an old cedar, not moving a millimetre and letting yourself be sedated by the flickering fire, by the gloomy obscure hustle and bustle. The dancers sacrifice to the holy fire balsamic sweet and spicy resins, labdanum and myrrh, it burns the schliefer, like dark musk and tobacco black, in the darkness away twitching shadows of animals, or witches in masks of fairies. You spend hours staring in wonder at the straw-flower mist of green glowing embers, you will never find this cave on maps, only Svaha is reality changing good.
Come, sit by the fire and drink from the herbs, which like a bitter liqueur expand your consciousness, befuddle you, beguile you and finally numb you, follow the strawflower before your closed eyes, the smell of herbs, curry and smoke.
She will show you the way to the holy place, roaming through dry circles of flowers, floating over lakes with caramel, surrounded by fairies who gigglingly sprinkle cinnamon, siren-like seduce you to the cave and lull and lure and stoke fire, shamanesses start dancing, dazed in spirit now as if they summon archaic gods.
Here you are leaning against the peg of an old cedar, not moving a millimetre and letting yourself be sedated by the flickering fire, by the gloomy obscure hustle and bustle. The dancers sacrifice to the holy fire balsamic sweet and spicy resins, labdanum and myrrh, it burns the schliefer, like dark musk and tobacco black, in the darkness away twitching shadows of animals, or witches in masks of fairies. You spend hours staring in wonder at the straw-flower mist of green glowing embers, you will never find this cave on maps, only Svaha is reality changing good.
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