by dschapman

The singing of whales in the ocean is something that we land-apes do better to not try to understand, although some of us love it, we can barely comprehend it. It is a beauty beyond the comprehension of the open air, of complex language, of modern music theory, John Cage. In the isolation of the deep there is nothing but the pure, personal, transient melody of the whale-mate to his fabled whale-mate, the sing-song admonitions, signals, adrift in the infinite waves of the lush, endless blackness, blue and cool and tranquil. It is beyond you and me, we are nothing of it, in it we drown. The sort of love that lovers only dream of, the romance of the titans of the universe floating at peace in the deep toward each other. It is heavy, heart-heavy and vigilant. I have never heard such music. (Bow and curtsy, here comes now the princess, dressed all in silver and white and majestic; before she knows what is happening, someone will have cupped his hands over her mouth, and pulled her away into the closet, where he will have killed her, and raped her, and eaten her still-hot heart from its casings; the revolution rips the stains of the old world from the fabric of time and replaces them with crystal palaces, shattered by the people’s court; guardian angels swung their fiery swords over the heads of their wards, as protectors, but they themselves went unprotected, and the harsh taste of salt dragged them under, the drench of the blood gave them weight, and the fell to the earth, thusly weighted.)