Label: Not On Label (Dust Flame Self-released) - none • Format: 13x, File MP3, Compilation 320 kbps • Country: Russia • Genre: Electronic • Style: Noise, Experimental, Industrial
2 to say about this one, except that Qui-Gon's referring to the fire as "brother" is inspired by Francis of Assisi's "Canticle of the Sun". Even though I don't share Francis' religion, his words have stuck with me. I guess I'm on a bit of a kick with their music lately. Thoughts and comments are ever and always appreciated; thank you for reading, and i do hope you enjoy.
A fire is such a brief thing, so easily doused, so easily snuffed, so easily lost when the wood becomes nothing but ash. Is desire so fleeting? Is love? Is this why the Code forbids such attachments—because they are nothing more than the flash of a flame? The branch is coarse beneath his hands, beneath even the callouses that rasp against bark and desiccated wood. He breathes in the smell of the forest, the stillness, the soft laughter of the boughs of trees that are barren, now, shedding their cloaks to dance in the oncoming chill.
He can smell it in the air; when they wake in the morning, the stubbled blades of blue grass will wax hoarfrost-white and gleaming.
He stoops for another fallen branch, stirred with the image of his Master kindling the flames, as if bringing a being into life—and perhaps he was.
The play of his hands as he rasped two sticks together, the softest whisper-blown Isolation - Dust Flame - Dust Flame Archives at the faint, faint curl of smoke.
Yes, the act had seemed. Obi-Wan purses his lips, sure that he had seen, then, a glimpse of all his Master saw throughout the living Force: the wood, the heat, the smoke, the flame. Would that he could explain to his Master how the song of hands, the quiet concentration, the coaxing breath, the alighted eyes. Even his booted footfalls are silent; there is no path, nothing but My Love - Unknown Artist - Pop Karaoke Vol.
3 (DVD) to guide his steps in the total darkness save the few faint stars peering through the tree-boughs and the half-cast sky. At last when had his meditative wandering carried him so far? Qui-Gon is half-lost to the night, Red Mitchell, George Cables - Live At Port Townsend face dancing—the smile still there, the secret Obi-Wan will never know—his indigo eyes agleam.
At last his Master beckons him—one broad, strong hand—the hand that seemed to father the fire itself from the wood. The memory sluices through his veins and he shivers; the cold does not bother him—he is stocky and hale, wrapped as much in the warmth of the Force as his robe—ah, but that moment—the moment is kindling all of its own. He sets the gathered branches by the fireside, settling himself cross-legged on the ground, shuddering briefly at the cold, cold grass, and begins to feed their newfound kin.
Obi-Wan glances up, feels the fire kiss his fingertips, fixes his attention solely on his task again. Qui-Gon wraps himself in his robe, lifting his Isolation - Dust Flame - Dust Flame Archives to the stars. Tell me, Padawan: what does this world feel like, through the living Force? Obi-Wan pauses, cradling the largest piece of kindling in his hands.
The wood greets the fire as a friend—as death, of a sort, for ash can be of little use to growing things. And yet there is no animosity between them, the fire and the wood: the branch sings of having danced in the wind and the fire laughs, laughs and says yes, then the branch shall dance again in a different form, as sparks in the sky, sparks bright as the stars.
He feels Qui-Gon through the Force, then, brightbrighter than fleeting flame or ancient star, his presence curling up like smoke and gathering like heat and that soft, gentle baritone laughter of his is woven through the crackle-song.
Full of promise, of hope, clinging to the soil with everything you have in spindled roots. Not as it used to do, not so long ago. The tree that has weathered gales and droughts and lightning and storms and such raging flames as put our brother here to shame. They sit in the near-silence for a while, the fire and the soughing wind picking up a meditative strain. It must be late, but they are not weary, and as the night wears on their fire grows dim, the flames whispering of such a brief, beautiful life.
Qui-Gon reaches out, hand hovering over the dying embers for a moment, before gathering a coal. A lesson it must be—. Hush, now. Slowly, then, the ember grows cool in his palm, and he sets it at his feet, a small, ubiquitous remnant now of wood and the memory of flame. He glances briefly down, finds no bloody, shining, blistered wound. No pain at all. Dawn begins to prickle the horizon, two ruddy suns locked Isolation - Dust Flame - Dust Flame Archives battle, spilling blood even ere they rise, sending flares across the hoarfrost-latticed grass.
Get an Invitation. Notes: I don't really have much to say about this one, except that Qui-Gon's referring to the fire as "brother" is inspired by Francis of Assisi's "Canticle of the Sun". Our brother is hungry. They moved him, too.
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