A princess of crimson dress and black mane of hair roams halls of a darkness thick as ink deep down in the forgotten heart of the castle, illuminated by the light of a feeble candle, following chalk symbols scribbled in the walls by an exiled hermit who will tell her of the end of her father, dissapeared on a fateful night to be devoured by a swarm of owls.
She walks in search of the truth which was a ghastly ending, the doubtful steps she takes across the menacing pool of black perhaps indication of a premonition of the awful story she will soon have to endure. Past closed doors, past rooms where treasures and jewels spill murdered by time, over a floor thick with dust like the furry back of a moribund beast.
Imagine this like you were a spy infiltratred in the intrincate cranium of Mervyn Peake, imagine this and imagine a skewbald beast becloaked, of face red and white following on her steps stealthy and methodical like the articulated dance of spider legs in an invisible web spanning across the maze of halls, imagine this and imagine a filthy master of ritual hopping after the beast, leaning on a twisted crutch. Imagine the exile sitting in a room tracing lines on yellow parchment, which are the map of these halls shrouded in darkness, representation of a labrynth where the light of the candle and the pouting lips of the princess and the red eyes of the beast and the filigree on the grimoire under the arm of the hierophant are but imaginary dots dancing their strange dance, imagine all of them in rapid sequence projected over the screen of an old cinema while the grand priest of psychedelia directs his freakish orchestra from a dark pit, crafting a swirling spiral of music over which the characters of our silent drama continue advancing one after the other through the belly of a sleeping dragon made of crumbling stone and rotten wood and white bones.
This majestic edit of Vangelis has been produced by Los Massieras, a wild bunch of psychodelians who lie outside space of time, and are connected to the underworld heroes of the Berliner mafia. Their debut 12 is to be released in Bananamania, an alliance with the Discoteca Oceano family, very very soon. ‘Tis surely a love affair.
We are proud & honoured to feature in this blog the writing of Taraka from Prince Rama of Ayodhya. It was an instinct, confirmed by our correspondence, that the pillars of cinammon and golden sand upon which Prince Rama rise in a flight of fantasy whenever they play had to be founded on a powerful literary spell.
Now you bear witness.
Say thank you in the box at the bottom of the page.
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A forgotten siren, a lichen-lined echo, a ghost of a chord, thin and ancient, beckons deep from within the fossilized mouth of a cave.
You enter; your existence is enveloped in a shadow of timelessness, spacelessness.
You shout; your voice experiences itself as non-different from its reflection, a simultaneous ringing inward and outward.
The primordial drone rises to a crescendo as diamond encrusted wings
clack in fierce reverberation against the lining of the chasm,
drawing you further within– and then– a veil of sound is lifted to reveal
the mummified bones of a prehistoric woman with hands folded in
delicate prayer, whose existence predates Lucy, predates contact with the first australopithecus, predates our consciousness of the Self as a tangled tree of ancestral linkages and our need to preserve the archaeological prisms of the past in anything but echoes;
Amen Dunes calls her Diane.