...outside my window. It's not clear anymore.
Maybe it never was.
Memory is like that for me. I'm one of those people who look back and see something entirely different in the rearview than they saw at the time. It's...an interesting feeling.
I listen to Deva Premal sometimes. When I'm tired from unwinding a twisted thread which long ago sank beneath my skin. I haven't found the end of it yet.
Usually we think of betrayal as being committed with some sort of purpose in mind--to gain money, status, a relationship, revenge. There was no such external gain in this case. It was done purely for its own sake, raising it to the level of art. I'm not an artist; I'm an artwork. If I ever have the money, I'm going to have my creator's full name--all its permutations, and there are several--tattooed down my side in thick black ink.
I think Deva is an artwork too. Read her account of going from one impresario to another, one older authority figure with a vision to another. That's not necessarily what she meant to convey in this story, but it's a pattern that very much stands out to my eyes. The stern charismatic father who set her on the spiritual path which was so important to him...her subsequent fascination with Jesus and Osho...her gravitation towards a much older and more experienced man who took an interest in her latent musical ability.
I envy her. Her creators made something beautiful of her.
The ice outside my window's going to melt soon.
