Popol Vuh
In den Gärten Pharaos

Hey you… Yes you. Look at yourself in the mirror.

Turn on the light and observe your face closely. What do you see? Do you recognize yourself? Maybe it's been a long time since you've looked at yourself properly; perhaps months or even years have passed. Is your life as you imagined it when you were daydreaming during math class, staring out the window? How do you feel when you wake up in the morning?

For every love that is born, there is one that dies; for every destiny we choose, there is another that dissolves. Are you the one looking at the mirror, or is your reflection looking at you? Who are you? Are you smiling with satisfaction or frowning? Did you have a good lunch? Have you achieved your daily goals? Can you see anything?

The human being is at least twofold; we are amphibians capable of wallowing in our waste or whispering to the stars. Look closely! Mud and purest spring; black and blue; hope and desolation; Life and Boredom; Black Magic and White Magic.

Every coin has its flip side, every Energy contains its opposite; cause and effect, to be AND not to be... Look closely, look at yourself; you'll see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

The Popol Vuh knew all of this very well.

White Magic:

In the king's garden, a gigantic ibis eclipses the sun as we wash away our sins; a spectral electronica haunts for a moment the underground of consciousness, but every earthly concern is far away; Life is in the surrounding All. A gentle tinkling of Tibetan bells and lines of tabla pluck the secret strings of the soul, which becomes restless, yearning. In a crescendo of percussion, the ibis circles above us and shapes the electronica that now meanders sinuously and unstably; it circles, protects us, and its wings sweep away the excess Energy. Calm has returned. A spiritual "minimal-jazz"; piano crystals and guitar breezes melt into the spring water and accompany the ibis's flight as it fades away in the distance, on the horizon.

Black Magic:

A terrifying, powerful, and exhausting organ drone resonates continuously in the cathedral, without interruption. The Apocalypse is heralded. Electronically filtered monastic choirs chant heretical psalms; tribal percussion desecrates the Churches, and the clamor of timpani in black waves now prevails, now intertwines with the organ. On top of a cliff, we gaze petrified at a monstrous maelstrom below; inhuman beauty that pins us to the rock where we await, at any moment, the end of the world. The organ will finally fold in on itself, and the majestic liturgy, devouring us, will return from where it came, to nothingness.

Let's turn off the light now. We've seen enough for today.