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The Oasis

by Cicada The Burrower

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1.
There was once an emptiness, that bore from the limitless darkness of its womb, all that would ever be. For a moment, for an eternity, A solitary glimmer interrupted Chaos. From this minuscule ember, burned the passions of the unimagined eons— And soon, from the loins of this primeval night, time blossomed, unfolding across the reaches of the chasm. With time, all that is known by man and all that he does not know, reached the precipice of being— And here, the fires of millenia forged the lustrous aether, under the brown fog of the first dawn. The dusts of time and matter tumbled forth, as the tumultuous waves of yet unborn seas— And at last, from the nebulous storm, light emanated, more luminously, than from the most massive stars. With the birth of light, came the first sound— A sigh, like Jovian thunder, that roared across the cosmos. I am told, that the sound can still be, heard by a practiced ear. It is the voice of god, speaking of all that shall ever be. In the desert, I first heard this story. It was night, and I watched flames leaping from a fire-pit, as I listened.
2.
The moment is evasive. They say to listen,not for the sound, but its absence. I have pondered this for some time. My movie starts in five... These are the salt-dusted pianese of gloomy, listless days, and I am payed to watch them. They bloom explosively, and they occupy my consciousness, like tense apprehensions. How are you... I think I'll have... It is not a silent bloom, like the weary opening of the pink eyelids of spring lilacs... It is a violent, effusive birth, livened with the chatter of ten-thousand bantam galaxies, unfolding. It is the ossifragant crackle of a glorious metamorphosis— A turning inside-out. A large butter, diet soda... Before my humble eyes... A universe erupts into being— Each constituent part, raining like asteroids, falling to its place among the multitude. Is the popcorn burned? Why is there so much smoke? I don't know, it does that sometimes. Heat and pressure, that's all it is.
3.
Once, the light bulb burst in the popcorn machine. It blazed like lightening for an instant, and then in burned out. The old projectionist— (He has so many stories about the way cinemas used to be.) He told me where I could find a light bulb, in a powdery, plaster storeroom. It was deep within the theater's gut. I needed a key. When I got to the storeroom, I pursued its messy shelves. They were filled with forgotten objects, rust-crusted hammers, fuses of various dimensions, signs I had never seen before, and a multiplicity of silver, moon-like bulbs in ancient, water-marked boxes. Entropy had taken hold of our provisions. It was madness... On the bottom shelf, in a dusty corner of the room, I discovered a large, glass mason jar, containing a mummified rat. I was compelled to examine its gruesome remains. The rat's eyes were like dim pearls, and its mouth was held rigidly agape, as though time had preserved the moment, of its final breath. Its carcass was emaciated, like a weeping corpus, over a purple congregation. Soon, the rat's struggle had dawned on me. Its pernicious fate had been starvation. How long had it been trapped? How ghastly! To view freedom, like this wretched creature, from the bindings of mortal captivity. Had it struggled? Perhaps... Perhaps, it had clawed frantically at the walls of the jar. Perhaps, it had squealed to an indifferent silence. Pleading for its amnesty, to the stillness of this place. With or without struggle, at a certain point, fatigued, famished, and discouraged, the rat laid upon its side, and waited, for the mercy of a failing heart. This is all I knew of its death.
4.
I stand atop this glistening, byzantine spire, the eye of my kingdom, so that I may remember something, lost to the crumbling ages. From this eagle's perch, I survey my cities, from the glowing, pallid marble of their Eastern walls, to the Western sands, carried by the steady breath of the sea. My eminence is affirmed, by the drumming of the legion's march, by the laurels at their rest, upon my brow. And should the proud patricians stay their ardent daggers— Bury them in hearty hams, instead, I may reign, like god, forever... but I have suspended disbelief, from the jagged fishing-hooks of fantasy. I am Emperor on the screen, or in the depths of grandiose reflections. I am the equity of quotidian days, frittered in the back row, below the rhythmic flicker of a mechanized projection... And when the centurions are on their march, through convoluted Roman streets and alleyways, they flip golden coins, that bear upon their face, the glory of my handsome Roman features— but only as I doze to sleep.
5.
When I leave the theater (I can only hope soon), the day has blazed away, yielding to an eerily deadened night. There are no cars around the suburbs, and the streetlights blink a single, fuzzy color. At that hour, it's often very cold. Too cold to smoke one more cigarette after work, by the dumpster. What insignificance! When the stars are out, they follow me to the car— The entire galaxy is behind me... How could I justify my clawing, in the midst of the grand, flickering ancients— And my unheard squeaking! Still, the night is newly born (if I ignore the straining of my sleepy, blushing eyes). And indeed, there is time then, to interrupt your typing, with wild schemes, or smoky, cold-footed evenings on my porch. I will recite my stories— And you have heard them all, Dear. You will still laugh, and you will tease me, in a language I do not know. Your words will be like an aria, a Devi's song— so sweet to me, so smooth in her tones and music— But of course, I still do not comprehend their meaning... Sing me Habenera, in your devil speak tonight! A year of dark affairs. My insignificance... I watched you sprout, from the empty soil of my grim garden, counted the hours at your side, beneath heavy winter precipitation. How? I can not fathom this fate— Your quiet arrival to my home last winter, like a cat entering a cracked doorway. How could you ever know, what lies beneath my hypnotized gaze— what frantic, grateful fervor, for I am not alone! I know you from the ages! Ursa Minor, I suppose, still wanders the heart of paradise— its deepest forests, where life is rich. I have heard, the cosmic thunder speaking, From the acidic fringes of the dusk, When psychedelic highs are peaking Over half-full cans and pizza crusts— But let us go now, it's time. The theater's closed, let us go now, Dear... through uncertain, half-deserted streets. Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

credits

released October 23, 2014

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::CREDITS::

Cicada the Burrower is
Cameron Davis: Guitar, Bass, Drums, Synth, Vocals
Alexander Monday: Poetry

All music recorded and written by Cicada the Burrower
Additional vocals on track 2 by Keegan Waggett
Additional drums on tracks 4 and 5 by Nick Bartley

Artwork by Sawyer Hildebrandt

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Cicada The Burrower Madison, Wisconsin

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