Here Is One

I’d recently come across Elizabeth Frazer, originally of Cocteau Twins fame. Much to my delight she had a deeply resonating relationship with Jeff Buckley, a musician that most registers on my frequency. As I data mined the net searching for clues of their affair I came across this short series detailing the symbology, synchronicity, mythology surrounding their union, one that was associated with a multiplicity of coiled, uncoiled, and recoiled emotions from both parties: I was mostly struck by the synchromystic author’s inferences of Fraser as a sort of etherwordly Siren with access to phenomenal auditory magic beyond the visual spectrum, drawing the forlorn and fatherless J. Buckley into her clutches, where his untutored and unprepared heart was distorted by a vagary of emotions in which his arrested psychic development left him vulnerable. As I’ve had an affinity with Arthurian legend since reading Christien de Troyes the later part of high school, Sir Lancelot came to mind, and speces of Lord Tennyson’s Lady Of Shalott. But even more is the image of the goddess Kali, with a necklace of skulls, dancing above her slain cohort, Shiva, after sucking his blood.

If you are not familiar with the life or music of Jeff Buckley, here is a rather folkloric slant of a documentary. The end of his life took on a mythic ambience, the emotive warrior in isolation, much like Lancelot wandering away from the Knights Of the Round Table, to nurse or attempt to rescind the flow of love he felt for Queen Guinevere. When I first discovered Jeff Buckley, I felt robbed as many of his fans seem to feel based on comments on youtube videos, but the more I delve into his music and the more the mystical qualities open up to me, I realize my spiritual naivete and move closer to a flowering understanding of the elegance of death. The Great Summit of Judgment or the Eternal Damnation runs through the river of Western eschatology. Holding onto those old stories, it’s easy to retreat in fear at the prospect of Kali and her sword or tremble at the great wrath of Jehovah. Maybe we will find that once abandoned to the flow, we will be where we believe we shall be. In Buckley’s case, he washed up at the end of Beale Street, home of the blues.

Elizabeth Fraser and Jeff Buckley, “All Flowers In Time Bend Towards The Sun.”  Indeed.

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