sacredashes
I started this project in 2008.
It is a tribute to jesters and mad women; it is the story of the inner parts of the psyche that's fighting to break free from oppression of all things proper. It is for the ones who were and are both touched by madness, blessed with insanity..
Kissed by the gods or marked by the Devil, it matters not... madness is a portal to absolute freedom most people would never experience all their lives. This place serves such sweet Lilac Wine, it leaves me drunk.
I left this place when I found a way to tranquilize the wolf; I thought I found a way to lure it to sleep but it seems the wolf has awakened. Through dusty trails and twisted paths, the labyrinth to the house of The Prophets will throw the black dog off my scent for a while.
I have spoken about The Prophets once before. They are like outcasts that run a ship with a broken mast; steering dangerously close to jagged rocks, maelstroms and into the eye of the storm because they live so close to the edge, they have learned not to fear it.
I read about the Bone Woman yesterday, I read about the wild women who run with the wolves... have you ever read the book? I know now that I have been to places that exists but do not exist... I have been to Jahanam and I have been to the home of The Prophets.
These are the images I've etched of places wild and free; these places do not leave the taint of madness in our souls, rather it is when we acknowledge the madness running in our veins that we can find the way to these places. Noone is truly free from it and not all will claim to have stepped into a place that exists but does not exist.
Only the ones who seek the wild child inside that has been shackled and broken; the ones who seek to set the child free would journey into the eye of the storm, tip their boats too close to shards of jagged rocks or steer precariously close to the vortex of a swirling whirlpool because their survival in this world depends on it.
Need I give any warnings? No... come or stay, it is your choice.
***********Prophet of Motherhood - The Feminine aspect of III***************************
Been awhile since I walked these halls...
On the day of Woe, I returned to find the place abandoned; it was so quiet, I could hear the sound of the wind blowing through the marbled walls but I remember this place rang with laughter and constant bickering just months ago.
Even the Hermit, my favorite Rastafarian with his crazy mad locks and painted eyes, who resides in the lofty chamber #IX was not at home. So I went out to the woods looking for them.
Once a year, the prophets will gather by the Ageless tree.
She is the Prophet of Motherhood; the one who weeps over an empty nest; the one who waits by the roadside for the prodigal child to return. She has her limbs stretched far and wide to give shelter to wayward travellers who have lost their way home; she is the one who watches over the prophets at the darkest hour of the night.
She is the perhaps only reason the agoraphoebic Hermit will ever leave his room; with his lamp that will slowly burn the City of Glass into the ground, he will lead them to the tree where the mother lives and one by one, they will lay a rose at the feet of the nameless one..
Ash
It is a tribute to jesters and mad women; it is the story of the inner parts of the psyche that's fighting to break free from oppression of all things proper. It is for the ones who were and are both touched by madness, blessed with insanity..
Kissed by the gods or marked by the Devil, it matters not... madness is a portal to absolute freedom most people would never experience all their lives. This place serves such sweet Lilac Wine, it leaves me drunk.
I left this place when I found a way to tranquilize the wolf; I thought I found a way to lure it to sleep but it seems the wolf has awakened. Through dusty trails and twisted paths, the labyrinth to the house of The Prophets will throw the black dog off my scent for a while.
I have spoken about The Prophets once before. They are like outcasts that run a ship with a broken mast; steering dangerously close to jagged rocks, maelstroms and into the eye of the storm because they live so close to the edge, they have learned not to fear it.
I read about the Bone Woman yesterday, I read about the wild women who run with the wolves... have you ever read the book? I know now that I have been to places that exists but do not exist... I have been to Jahanam and I have been to the home of The Prophets.
These are the images I've etched of places wild and free; these places do not leave the taint of madness in our souls, rather it is when we acknowledge the madness running in our veins that we can find the way to these places. Noone is truly free from it and not all will claim to have stepped into a place that exists but does not exist.
Only the ones who seek the wild child inside that has been shackled and broken; the ones who seek to set the child free would journey into the eye of the storm, tip their boats too close to shards of jagged rocks or steer precariously close to the vortex of a swirling whirlpool because their survival in this world depends on it.
Need I give any warnings? No... come or stay, it is your choice.
***********Prophet of Motherhood - The Feminine aspect of III***************************
Been awhile since I walked these halls...
On the day of Woe, I returned to find the place abandoned; it was so quiet, I could hear the sound of the wind blowing through the marbled walls but I remember this place rang with laughter and constant bickering just months ago.
Even the Hermit, my favorite Rastafarian with his crazy mad locks and painted eyes, who resides in the lofty chamber #IX was not at home. So I went out to the woods looking for them.
Once a year, the prophets will gather by the Ageless tree.
She is the Prophet of Motherhood; the one who weeps over an empty nest; the one who waits by the roadside for the prodigal child to return. She has her limbs stretched far and wide to give shelter to wayward travellers who have lost their way home; she is the one who watches over the prophets at the darkest hour of the night.
She is the perhaps only reason the agoraphoebic Hermit will ever leave his room; with his lamp that will slowly burn the City of Glass into the ground, he will lead them to the tree where the mother lives and one by one, they will lay a rose at the feet of the nameless one..
Ash