Sunken Contents (track #4)

Album   Marker and Parker
Artist   Marc Zegans
Written by   Marc Zegans
Length   5:25
Mood Fierce
Theme The Hero's Journey


In the moment of fall
the slur, the cut, the jibe,
mast snapping, decapitating,
wind driven swing of the boom,
roll over--you dropping too fast,
too deep for them to touch, much
less bring you level.  Proclaimed Mingus
you can't be brought low when you are beneath
the underdog, and falling fast from that subjugated
position, humiliation is an indulgent luxury, consumed
by those who imagine that loss of position carries meaning
to the death.   It is a meme thing that, a transmitted misreading
of self, soul and scripture that causes endless harm, inviting as it does
all manner of violent substitute for discourse.  And that is the virtue of the drop.
When you fall fast and hard, your guts having long exited your mouth, your pain
a curiosity to those who watch you writhe, and critical comment on some embarrassing
position, from which you long departed, arriving perhaps through no fault of your own--chuff--
at a new, soon passed, lower place, its station sign black on white streaking by, as you descend
further still, no longer wondering when you will get off the train, but only will it slow down long enough
for you to see something of the landscape in clear focus--you pine for unblurred edges, for the considered
moment, a longing satisfied fleetingly if you are lucky, and you rarely are, or so you think, at such moments doesn't really affect you.   And so the nasty interject is not so much silenced as muffled by a deepening pool
of water that scatters light at its surface, bends it at the point of penetration, and absorbs it on the descent.

Those who have not taken the fall, imagine that when you hit "rock bottom", you will be shattered utterly.
You like, like Humpty will be blown to bits, and them sorry-assed, domesticated minions who can't or won't
think for themselves will be powerless to help you, as if it were them you'd be turning to in the first place.
Yes the bottom is solid, but you reach it slow, your relative buoyancy rises as you plumb the depths, and you bounce along the bottom as an astronaut walks the moon, light on your feet, but clumsy.  Unlike the rising astronaut's vacuum ballet, you are dancing in heavy liquid, you feel the compression at every turn.
If you remain, you will fold in, diminish, curl and deflate until you have become a hard point, a grain of sand,
visible, but unremarkable in every aspect, and there, washed by tide you will slowly and eternally recede.  

We who arrive at this place are not broken, but we can barely move, and we can barely see. We cannot
speak, for to open our mouths would be to drown.  In our wiser and more hopeful moments we simply
direct our eyes to where the light seems brightest and move as best we can in that direction,
rising slowly, stripping away the weights that have dragged us down, eschewing
the deadly density of the lower regions, pulling toward the surface slowly.
It is on the ascent that we have time to consider the landscape,
and consider it we must, or we will rise too fast, finding
ourselves crippled at the surface by our own blood
gasses.   It is in the ascent that we learn
what lay beneath us and how far
we had yet to come, before
we could speak truth,
our truth, in clear
and ringing