Syrinx Arts

Life - encasement within the Visible.

Scherzo

Yesterday's Rain (June 19)

by Scherzo

Making your own music is nearly as practical as building your own house or cooking your own food, and more so in certain ways. After it is made, it acts as a form of remembrance therapy, transfiguring you into the person you were while making it. My hundreds of songs, many of which were lost in hard-drive crashes, range from my fourteenth year to my twenty-second, containing an immense variety of moods (I compose soundtracks, usually without lyrics). So whenever I am wandering the void of self-doubt, I recall myself through music, becoming anyone I have ever been – usually the brighter, healthier me from the decade when I had fewer worries, and often the majestic, impassioned me that seems more associated with an eternal core than with past or future. I have made few better decisions than to make my own music. I recommend it to anyone who feels the urge, and I recommend starting early, so as to capture as much "youth in a bottle" as possible.

Snails and their trails.

Scherzo

Life AfterRain. Gentle creatures silently claiming their turf, dainty snails and synchronised ringworms. Life is beautiful.

Scherzo

You can embody with skill, wisdom, and attractiveness, whatever you are, even if what you are is incomplete. Do not wait for your maturity.

Matthew

A skilled and heartfelt artist, also an old friend, has some big things coming up. If you're a DA member or value art, check out her profile and consider supporting her in her journey. http://thewhiteelk.deviantart.com

TheWhiteElk on deviantART Illustrator//Graphic Designer Outdoors//Spiritual Half Vulcan//Music Ju**ie Lover//Fighter

When you are lost, get even more lost. In that lostness, find something only you have ever seen. Show it to someone.

Matthew

I long for the day where the days are my own.

Scherzo

The Black Sea 2

The more I study this body, the more it looks like a high schooler's engineering project. A crosshatching of ropes and pulleys over a frame that's comically square. A swiveling head that must awkwardly aim at whatever it wants to see. Wide shoulders that suspend dangling arms like cranes. Ball-like ankles that cannot quite figure out how they should land on the ground. Strips of what seem to be tape or gauze plastered over areas that couldn't quite hold themselves together. Organs! Crammed in at the last minute, a salad of random lumps. Skin to hide it, as if in shame. And the whole thing bottled up inside of this miracle machine: DNA, which contains the recipe and lets it manifest anywhere there's a womb. Is DNA the part the high schooler's dad helped him out with?

And then I watch people dance with it, and I forget all my mocking words.

Then there is the god tree. The brain, the fruit of intellect, blooming in the skull, sending its trunk down the spine, rooted in the limbs by a fractal feathering of nerves. The heart, the second tree, pulsing from the center, sending out and drawing in. These are the patterns of the cosmos, endlessly elegant. The primordial packaged within machine. So can I convince myself to enjoy the rest of the body just as much (when it isn't dancing)?

It seems incomplete – halfway realized. Whether an adaptive program or a single maker at a single time conceived this, it needs perfecting. Our efficiency can improve. Keep what is elegant – do away with extraneous compartments and frivolous knots. Will it happen, over a thousand years? A million? Can we make it happen? What will it look like?

The Black Sea