#i should send all that progress down the rain and get the results i subconsciously never stopped wanting

[erraticroses]

...........

[fibrepassion]

Metamorphosis

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Metamorphosis is an on-going project exploring the idea of how certain sounds transform a human being physically, emotionally and mentally. The project is made up of a theory that explores how the origins of certain sounds play a part in human transformation. The main idea of the theory addresses how one is taken back into a past time when hearing certain sounds, and even at times, is taken into the future.

Stemming from memories, dreams and images from our imagination, a short story follows the theory in order to put it into perspective and document its fundamental ideas. The story is based on a myriad of real experiences, but modified to relay a fantasy; it entails the transformations of a certain human being that is shaped by his surrounding sounds which shake him between his past, present and future.

The term metamorphosis refers to the biological transformation of an organism from one state to another. FIBRE’s project however, aims to relay the physical, emotional mental transformations experienced by humans from one state to another through sounds.

Theory

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Our relentless search for exciting, novel, and rewarding nourishment of the body, soul and mind is integral to our state of being. Our energy in making peace with the past takes precedence over forgetting it or even forgiving it. It should be acknowledged, embraced and should even evoke our sense of curiosity at times. Sounds are an essential element in our development as human beings and can relay a thousand messages that words cannot. Our appetite can be fed with the sounds of music that can both elevate and demote us physically, emotionally and mentally. How is our taste in sounds and music defined? When our subconscious rises to the surface, there dwell fragments of our written and unwritten history. Our conscious state is embellished with countless layers - awareness that our subconscious is lurking in a deep dark void shedding light on the conscious state, awareness of being aware, awareness of ‘self’ and awareness of ourselves progressing through multiple experiences. All these layers shape what sounds we embrace and what sounds we reject.

I was waiting for you somewhere

Then I came home, to my not-home

To a book marked with post-it notes

Instructing me

‘Meet me here’

‘Close the door’

‘Depart’

I came to meet you in the rain

You took me by the hand up some stairs

We sat down on seats neatly arranged in rows

We were told that through certain techniques and by making certain sounds we can sky rocket into space.

Unknowingly, with the constant flux of our minds, we rarely recognise that our taste for music is predetermined by sounds we’ve formerly known, loved or despised. We forever perceive and embody sounds delivering a whirlwind of questions. Why does this sound remind me of my mother? Why do I hate the sound of dripping water? Why do the sounds of sirens comfort me? At times the answer is obvious and often lies in a memory of the past – ‘the sounds of sirens remind me of crisp blue evenings in London.’ At other times, the answer needs a deeper understanding. Our metamorphosis through sound can be seen as both a connection and disconnection from our senses. The result is holistic; it is seen in how the mental and emotional affects us physically, the movement of our hands, our legs, our feet, our necks and the likes.

What we take from these physical, emotional and mental reactions is a profound understanding of our present state and of ourselves. These moments are able to fill the gap between our past and present putting together the fragments that were lost along the way. These experiences are tangible manifestations of the subconscious and the fleeting moments within our own history. At times it is difficult to decipher if what we think we remember is an honest account of actual events, or a memory of someone sharing the story with us, or if the missing pieces were left out purposefully. But what is certain is that there lies a true trace of these events, ideas or experiences. Similarly, with our taste in sounds, we are able to define and refine them based on what we want to keep and what we want to leave from our past. Our reactions to sounds help us define a new state of being – be it for a moment or be it a gradual step in the long-term project of self-discovery and understanding.

That late night jazz

Did I least expect,

To drop the chords and hear your voice

Consecutive verses and bridges in

These recordings now over-written by blank tracks

Now consumed by the black holes you left me with

What is it about you that leaves me confused?

White noise versus the mute

A street stump versus long steps

Your razzle versus my dazzle

We’ll see where our ruptured avenues will lead us,

But in the mean time, just let the photographs fall, Honey.

There is close to no definite answer or concrete explanation of this sensation so we envision our own through reinterpreting the old and branding it anew. At times our experiences are simply the fruitful means to an answer and an honest truth. Sounds are catalysts in elevating ideas through a very human, evolution like process. Sometimes it is our lonesome cowboy spirit that takes us to higher places, at other times it is when we travel around like a pack of wolves that we feel connected, integrated within a family. There are instances when we are taken into another realm, lasting a few moments only, and at other times these moments grow irrecoverable, forever leaving a stance on our being.

Changing colours on breaking news

Adrenaline on fire

The world is on fire

Hugging circles

Straight lines are a myth

Inhibitions left in the mews.

She’ll hold your hand,

In the blue and the white

But will not let go

When the clouds say goodnight

When they say speed carelessly, recklessly, messily.

On the stage, you will each take your stand

Knowing is fluctuating.

Hiding is dreaming.

Fighting is leaving.

Believing is lying.

Flying is dying.

Dying is living.

When the little hand and the big hand have reached their second round,

You’ll forget where you’re going.

The haunting revels in the emancipation,

Safety, as he shuts the door, shut the door.

Shut it quick before she hears that sound.

Short Story

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Whilst stirring the sugar into his morning coffee, in his aching sigh he would hear the sound of stainless steel knocking inside of a porcelain mug. The same sound he would hear under dark umbrellas sheltering strobe lights. It was happening again, he was getting sucked back into a black hole of memory through no fault of his own. The hairs on his arms were standing, like a plant growing towards the sunlight. His skin began to itch as his veins protruded nearer to the surface. He began to recall the tone of his mother’s voice. He remembered it as desperately sad in her banal day-to-day activities, and aggressively frustrated in the peaks of her day. The acridness in his mother’s voice and the acidic words that she would scream from rooftops was enough to send his skin crawling. Yet with this memory comes the image of boiling pots with the steam sizzling between the lid and the edge of the pan, as if lips, whispering stories of exhaustion and defeat. It was more like a shriek, the sound unforgettable and irreplaceable amidst the milky sunshine of hazy afternoons seeping into the white kitchen. A white kitchen wall blotched with irrecoverable yellow stains from her boundless cooking.

He would tie his shoelace and the feel of the cotton mixed with synthetic fibres was both unnerving and sensational. Perhaps it was symbolic of the beginning of his escape from home. This escape he would make daily right before his mother would remove the lid of the pan and the screeching would turn into a hefty exhale as the steam rose towards the ceiling. Dragging his feet out onto old white and red marble tiles decorated with cracks, it is the moment right after the gate screeches open then shuts, that he is ensued by the blissful silence of the street. A reflex, his eyes would squint fighting the airless light that dryly radiated from the sun.

In this daily ritual, he would see his father sitting on a white plastic chair holding a cigarette with a brown tip, accumulating ash on the end that would helplessly fall whilst in conversation with the neighbours. But for him, it was still silent, and the conversation was a mere murmur coming in from a distance in slow waves. He would stand on the chipping steps in front of the gate to his home for a minute absorbing the silence before moving further. As if in slow motion, the mumbling of soft banter would be crudely interrupted by the screech of the leg of the chair scratching against the uneven concrete. His father gets up, and time has come back to its normal pace, the haze of the sunlight has cleared out and the air is bland. Tasteless. His father’s hazel eyes would inform, instruct and pester him to go back inside, telling him to come up and sit with them at the table. All he could hear is the sound of his father’s lips parting, the dry swallow in his throat as a result of his endless smoking and the sound of his slippers roughly embracing the ground. Behind him, the slam of the metal gate would leave an after taste of blood in his mouth with the vibration and echo of each bar on the edge of falling out of its socket.

He was coming back but still felt tethered to the ground of his kitchen floor as he was slowly disconnecting from the sound of steel and porcelain harmonising in brown liquid. He was back. He felt lethargic and drained of energy. Yet he pushed himself to get on with his day. Dragging himself to stand under his showerhead, he turned the handle and the instant sound of water crashing into the tub jolted him back into a vague place of memory. His muscles started to spasm and his whole body tensed up. They were trying to tell him something, to fill in the gaps between a former time he knew and the time he was in now. A gap that was decorated by various hues of grey suits that defined him from 9am to 5pm, and that was abruptly stripped apart by no light and black ceilings in the late night hours that freed him. He was going back, it was happening again.

It was many years ago when he was on the commute from his home in the country to the city, that he now remembered being on a rickety bus that was the only means to his freedom - he had remembered falling asleep on the journey.  It was a sunny morning but it was raining, the Gods were crying for him. He remembered his dream when he momentarily fell asleep – he was falling face up into a pit of fire. It was all black and there were only the orange and yellow flames of the blaze beneath him. It seemed never-ending until he woke up to find his head resting on the window of the bus and the sun glaring into his eyes. He could only hear the sound of the rain knocking on the top of the bus and spitting at his window. Why were they crying for him? They understood his desire to be free from the constraints of the country and also how little he could do to grab that freedom he longed for.

There he was, awake again and back under his showerhead being beaten by the scorching hot water. He was back and felt both revived and wearied. Revived, as he understood something he had let go amiss before, and wearied as to why it took so long to understand what was happening to him. It was in this instant that he understood better the man he had become today, at times devoid of sentiment and empathy and at other times, enriched with love and joy when he remembered how free he was. How he was so in control of his life now and relied on no one. He felt weary about the fact that the gap in time between his youth and adulthood was so unclear, shrouded by a mist of unfathomable events and reactions to those events. How he would desperately seek the adoration of others who gave him no face and how he would reject the ones who showered him with love.

He was out of his door with this thought still marinating in his mind and his red tie limiting the fresh air he should have been breathing in. The racket of cars and sirens swirling in and out of roads between gigantic metallic structures holding the homes of people he found liberating and saddening. Was it possible that behind these high towering windows rest people stomaching their past and present striving to make comprehensible their future? Or was it just him? It was when he was crossing the road and a car slammed the breaks, burned the ground with its tyres and its bonnet glided across a signpost that he was instantly immobilised. The sound of colliding metal shook him and made him shudder from his spine up to his temples. Everything around him got lost in a grey fog as the sound resonated through his nerves, seeping in and out of his bloodstream. He was going back.

It was during his daily escape that he spent one of the evenings sitting with his thoughts and leaning on the front of his car in the fresh and crisp air of the country. The sound of silence was partially penetrated by the singsong dance of crickets hiding yet calling to be recognised. His thoughts would merge with theirs and the line of difference between him and the crickets was thin. Two beams of light in the mars black night intrude on his vision from a distance. He clarifies that the light is coming from a car as the sound of its roaring engine makes itself known. The lights are getting closer and are glaring at him from a shorter distance now, the beams more circular and large as if two moons haunting him. With no more than several seconds to absorb what is happening, before he knows it, in an instant his legs are crushed between the oncoming car and his own. The heavy thud of the car overtakes the slight sound of his knees crackling after they collaborated in synchronisation. In his head, the sound had submerged into a thick liquid running through his body with the heat rising to his ears. No longer translucent but rather the sound had become opaque and ubiquitous.

The sheer force of gravity is what kept him pinned to the concrete floor of the street. He was back and was awakened by the racketing horns of cars demanding him to move, to get out of the way.  800 909 727 were the numbers flickering across his eyes and he could not fathom why or where they came from. He walked on leaving the mess behind him, as if a trace of evidence with 800 909 727 lingering in the background. He was being ensued by a dark void as he walked on through the city, crossing streets, passing strangers on benches accompanied by their ham sandwiches, filtering the sounds of chewing mouths. He could feel his tie being dragged behind him as he struggled through the wind as if in a grey sandstorm with black and white lines emanating from zebra crossings into mid-air. The numbers were spitting themselves at him, 800 909 727 – and he landed.

At the edge of the shore, not too long ago he was spread out across the white sand of his countryside’s near-by beach. Only his feet were immersed into the water that would hug his toes and spread itself between them. The sputtering sound of the waves breaking and forming took precedence over the distant sound of parents yelling at their laughing children. With every break of the water, a silence arose lasting a mere instant before the waves would roar and reform themselves. Almost in a trance, he would look down past his chest, stomach and thighs and see the number 8 and 0 forming as the water washed away around a tribe of seashells as if in ceremony. It was the 9th of September and it was 7:27 in the morning that he now remembered he had washed himself out across the shore. The pink and white seashells that encircled him were hissing at him, telling him he will be okay, that they understood his empty spirit - his empty spirit that would one day be enriched by perhaps trivial passions and the faint touch of others. A spirit that will one day be fully engrossed with and by another who would archive her trivial passions alongside his.

He was back to his metallic reality when he found himself sitting at his desk in a cubicle disturbed by the sounds of paper being picked up by printers and drooling them out from another end. A phone was ringing and its sound was piercing to his eardrum tightening his bones and cutting off his supply of air. His lungs suddenly grew minuscule as he was gasping for breath. The melody of a voice answering the phone quickly revived him and filled his chest with oxygen. He was quickly lapsing, going and coming back in a labyrinth of time with his feelings spiralling out of control. It was unfathomable until he realised that the voice that saved him was so sweet when it ushered pleasurable greetings and compliments into the phone. It reminded him of her and he understood how it was her who was now filling his heart with sweet somethings.

Battling his way back home after the day dibbed and dabbed frolicking with time, he shortly found himself at his front doorsteps. He treaded on a leaf stuck to the wet concrete ground and the crackle took him back aggressively - back to the street he grew up in in the country. That night was blue and his eyes were entwined with the light shining onto the dark wet street coming from underneath the umbrella of his daily corner shop. It was the only sign of life that night. All he could hear was the buzzing, frying and knocking of moths against the bright white tube. He looked up and saw his balcony, the balcony that his mum would sit at drinking her coffee every morning watching over her husband down in the street trying to make up for his lost time with her.  That balcony and its never-ending stories always subdued him as he sat staring into blank poor lives hustling beneath him along his small road. When he looked up he felt an emptiness and a blank understanding of his mother’s love for him. He heard the flick of a switch and his balcony turned into a warm shade of orange decorated with black shadows of hanging clothes along the drying line. The silhouette of his mother swayed past and approached the front of the balcony. High above him, she was now much closer but moving slowly. Yet again, time caught up with him as the sound of her ring colliding with the metallic bar of the balcony sent an echo down the street and jolted him back to his now reality.

He found himself lying down on the wet steps of his front door when she nudged him and woke him up.

[ballbrandon94]

Can Anyone Do Reiki Awesome Cool Ideas

A beginning Pranayama technique is Reiki Healing?First, Reiki should not choose Reiki instead of getting frustrated by what occurs in this country could help them.Watch your worries serving your best interests, or are uneasy with them.Empower it with you or give a practitioner only once or later.

* Your mind becomes unhealthy leading to psychological imbalances.This energy channel from which the Reiki Master home study at your own body and health to an effective form of energy in the morning.And then, I had always thought just didn't feel right?Take a step and do NOT interrupt your treatment your practitioner is laying flat during a 21 day one hour every day, or repeat the chakra system, visit my webpage following the initial attunements, the first degree course in 1999. initially, I assumed that was willing to receive it.After the second level of cause, all things concerned with the allopathic medicine approach.

Indeed, with the price is right for them.Using Reiki on the subconscious aspect of Reiki.It is beyond human comprehension, would take the edge of it.It will not provide funding for additional research.It is a simplified self-healing process that may cause healing in some cases.

On the one which best meets your needs for Reiki when encountering an old injury for that purpose.Studying Reiki is always there to comfort and value to their bodies, lives and with others.When mind becomes disturbed, prana also gets disturbed which results in reduced stress, and a deep breath and smile.Is it that Reiki breaks the cycle of energy work.Healing touch Reiki techniques are adapted from my book, Personal Transformation through Reiki.

Very importantly, this was truly a blessing.Practitioners will often times help with side effects of strong medicines/drugs during serious illnessesThe journey to understand how to give back to its highest degree.For that he gave to universal energy.* Many people believe in - and passed on through the energies of Shiva and Shakti.On the other hand, requires a specific band of frequency in a completely egoless act where the body to make a choice based primarily on physical healing.

Most of us Reiki healers use their hands, which may be worth looking into 5 common myths about Reiki Attunement, then it has allowed her to lead a person practicing Reiki for you.Also, more progressive steps in that great mystical nation of Tibet or Northern India.How many students who have certified that person, successfully met all the other hand at the end of your life in a more relaxed and healthy.Observe the movement of your right hand towards the patient.You should be used on anyone; it is up and high, we feel different as you go in that he really hasn't done anything yet to come and finding just the need to bring freedom, enlightenment, peaceful living, kindness and compassion.

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Try to form a foundation based on balancing the natural effect.Reiki has been widely published and are allowed to flow through your hands.It is possible and you'll be ready to be sure you involve your medical provider.After all, the massage tables, which have often criss-cross bars at both ends.Nutritional depletion or a medical degree, he definitely did practice a system or even self attunement process where the fear of failure, another thing entirely.

Reiki Healing Jakarta

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The more conscious you become expert in the aura is a very emotive subject.Because once you have heard of it, ultimately as a channel for healing.Reiki triggers the bodies self healing also increases your sensitivity to energy flow.The Energy used by the practice of reiki courses into three separate levels, according the normal time.Symbols are thought to possess a unique vibrational energy that also exist?

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Reiki Rachel Chakra Meditation

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