Self-Portrait

This ain’t about me. It’s about us. It’s coming through me but it ain’t mine. It’s ours. I am a servant.

Half the time I don’t know who I am. When I attempt to logically conceive of me I forget. When I return to the magic of creation I remember.

I don’t create music — I am servant child. It becomes through my body — I am Queen Mother. Identities fluctuate and dissolve into unison for the purpose of music’s birth. With courage to surrender I enter the vulnerable place. I am gone.

Steady rhythms are weaved forth by ancient time-spinners. Mystical melodies are given volume from silent eternity. Music is being made but this praise ain’t mine. My body is present but I am not here.

Julia is a soft machine built to deliver a concise slice of the universal roar which serves itself endlessly through her. She is a portal, a pore for the force.

Sounds profound. Truthfully she is a basic instrument. When this is her knowing, she is humble. When she is humble, she is most free, most at peace, most played, most prolific. Humility aligns me.

Narcissism rejects me. Like a fool I would lurk in the cemetery gardens of holy corruption. I would run circles around graves. I would bury myself in snakes. I would choke my own soul so the songs came strangled. I would claim myself ruler and justify my attachments. I would embrace it all as perfectly divine.

My heart. Shining through purgatorial tears is always my smiling heart. She cannot be escaped. Her subtle smile illuminates all blues, witnessing my inner struggle with unbearable compassion, holding me in her peaceful arms while my guts spill.

When I tire of dying, I allow her to envelop me until she becomes me. I allow her voiceless mouth to open, so my throat can deliver her song. I allow her message of purity and peace to demolish my self-righteous systems of identification. As does the deep call for human unity chant down Babylon.

– Julia 8/27/17