After You Dump Me Into The Cold Grave, No Legacy Will Survive Past Me

by Wings Of An Angel

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about

The terrible ambience was everywhere, inescapable, earthshaking and horrifying. People all around you have been locked within it as if they were animals in a zoo. All the while, you are slowly walking as a pale anonymous shadow in the crowded streets, surrounded by binary duplications, without anyone noticing your fragile existence, nor recognizing you for who you truly are. Even if you had an identity tag – nobody would pay attention. Your heart is heavy like coil; how could you forget smearing it with fairy dust? You daydream as you walk and imagine yourself standing still in the green cemetery, like a stone angel, weary from the ills of time, looking aimlessly on the very few visitors to your grave. As your death unfolds in front of you...

It was dark. Very dark. Hardly any light beams shone above you, none on you. On solitary nights of spiritual torment you walked alone and dived into the streets that were your prison and at once the allure of ultimate freedom. You immersed your body and soul under endless skies and swam against abandoned blocks on your way home, the one and only home, the eternal home. You were mentally naked and somewhat frightened to be all alone against the world at such a late hour, but you simply couldn't give up. You had to keep walking, at all costs. You had to fight this battle.

Alternatively, you thought to yourself back then, maybe you should have chosen a different career; sitting up straight, cross-legged, on top of one of the hidden caves in the Himalayas, meditating to unconsciousness. The scriptures call it Samadhi. You could be still and just in your spirituality as the greatest yogis from the beginning of civilization. However, you cannot honestly choose such a futile fate for yourself, because you were always too much of an individual to be just "like someone else".

At that moment, you also quietly reminded yourself that you were not the programmer of reincarnations, nor his assistant. Thou art merely a human being, so tender, so fragile, and incapable of escaping your physical limitations. And there were many such limitations to your paradoxical character, perhaps like all humans secretly have.

With such unfathomable ruminations boiling inside your mind, you always arrive back to your empty room. To write that your room is similar to a grave is too cliché, so it is better to avoid portraying it like that. Nevertheless, on many nights, it would be fair to say that this tiny residence has felt like a forlorn tomb.

Herein, you have dreamed and envisioned your illustrious abstract fantasies, unassuming in their randomness like alien tentacles, in the utter loneliness of your existential fever and in the indestructible longing to express yourself without end to infinity.

Genius' dead end is arrogance. Humbleness is the point you arrive to when you have exhausted and extracted all you could from pride and swagger. If you meet a genius who is not humble – you shall ultimately know that he/she has not yet genuinely arrived to the pinnacle of his/her potential. He/she is still struggling with oneself at the crossroad. Because once you become a so-called master of your craft, although you always keep seeking for further meaning in your chaotic inner life, there can be no place for haughtiness in your heart anymore. You are suddenly free energetically - a free radical of the highest order. You stop tapping yourself on the shoulder and seeking attention as you open up to appreciate other colors around you. I remember the years I had struggled with pride and how luckily, through very hard work, I was able to cut those branches off the tree of my life.

Now it's midnight and you sit flat-footed on a simple TV chair; the one you had received as a gift for your birthday; to have a steady place for one of your greatest missions: Gazing in the windows of your life (and neighbors). Nestled in the memories you have accumulated so far, you drift away on the boat to infinity.

Lazy people write books, but you have no time for such an indulgence. You, on the other hand, create psychochromatic (and quite naughty) artworks. You created some music, which was your first virginal love, but your sonic body of work was never prolific and profound enough for you; you always felt as though it falls short of describing your lifelong vocation, your furious and tempestuous psychic adventures, your intimate voice as a single man fighting the greatest battle of all, your struggles as an outsider artist in a material and capitalist reality… Plus, on top of all, sound is too abstract and impersonal, too sensual (unlike your disciplined life's framework), too umpteen and limited. Thus, you have found an even greater source of inspiration; your second and most mature love - the psychedelic visual arts in your signature dazzling black and white, the truest and most genuine colors of your life. In this manner, you are constantly humbly expanding your chamber of psychedelic sciences further and farther....

Oh my... how fast the nightly ghouls spread across your amber on unearthly shadows and the all-pervasive eye of your creative isolation bleeds striking gray colors unto the digital canvas; blunting the senses like exploding rockets. You do not move or flinch; you're well-seated on your chair, flying through one of many escape routes in your imagination...

Sometimes, you feel lonelier than Coltrane's A Love Supreme. You are not easily deluded by your feelings. You are well aware of the increasingly high price you have to pay for remaining an old Poète maudit. Your past is so sanctified to you because it holds the potential to explain you; it is the only source for such abstruse psychoanalysis. Giving up on society's core values has taken its toll on you, but you are ever the fiery fierce intellectual you remember yourself to be; only much more sentimental, nostalgic and emotionally transparent.

You cover your body in a thick wool blanket and continue onwards to reflect humorously into the cold air of your room. Light is flickering on the walls, creating the illusion of a lack of solitude. You remind yourself of your favorite memories from the same apartment building where you have lived for the vast majority of your life. It is almost as if it was in another lifetime. Long ago, so long ago, too long ago? Where are you now? Has anything substantially changed? You are too tired to answer your own doubts.

You remember the beautiful walks around town at dusk time, dozing off while listening to pirate radio stations and dreaming the multitude of lives you could have had... You remember the valleys and the mountains around your hometown, the silent breeze of cool air stroking your cheeks on a warm summer night; it all seems to you now like one madcap hallucination…

Later on, in the smallest hours of those long nights, in your esoterically lucid dreams, you would be a runaway who had found a warm bed amid the cool bosom of the sea. You would then envision azure skies as seen from old porches; damp and crumbling.

You want to be a sea in your next life; or at least a never-ending, continuously unfolding dream; perhaps starting by visiting the provinces of isolation of other outsiders... Half-smilingly, you admit to yourself later - your life events, unlike your public work, were terribly monotonous. Sort of an uninterrupted perfection. You loved life too much to sincerely give your love and life to another person or "higher than thou" cause – you were drunk by the abstract life, the unsung life, the life beyond words and sounds, that only your mysterious artworks could portray.

Suddenly, you remember that you have lived a whole year in the so-called City of Love. However, you, on the contrary, killed your love life during that year. Interesting, why are you remembering this now? You also remember that like a ghost, you were spinning back and forth those strangely deserted streets, those obscurely narrow alleys, via the empty courtyards in the dead of night... Out of sight and out of mind, out of your own mind, in the hardcore heat of the night. Half asleep, half mad. Fishing for as many meanings for your life as you could find and a world that was not there in the first place. That could be there, but was not. Because the world you found there was a netherworld.

Do you remember how you patrolled the red-light districts in search of the sublime? There, of all places, you hoped to find your long-forgotten peace of mind. Like a lunatic who escaped from an asylum, you followed strange vehicles on their way toward socially forbidden nocturnal pleasures. In your wanderings, you saw too many lost souls with a landscape of instability in their darkened eyes. Moreover, there was no light to be found in their hearts. Nor any kind of solace or redemption to guard you away from this orgy of naked souls.

There, you mostly saw prostitutes celebrating their prestigious transmigration; but just like the ocean waves that hit the stark beach, you witnessed them all breaking loose. And you remember lucidly how you felt too many emotions but kept to yourself; keeping to yourself was and still is your national sport after all...

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released September 12, 2016

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

Sound magician, visionary and poet-philosopher whose art projects blend these passions in fascinating ways. My life's work gives wings to my infinite psychedelic imagination. This ever-expanding alternative universe explores outlandish mental landscapes, quirky existential commentary and unorthodox humor wrapped in a holy trinity of avant-garde sounds, thought-provoking titles & original cover art ... more

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