Creative Exercise 4/7/10
Sometimes certain songs can burn an image into your head so vivid that it is actually possible to grasp these images and translate them onto (metaphoric) paper. Well, for me at least. Case in point: Pretty Lights, what I would probably describe as “electronica with soul”. Here’s an example, and if anyone is reading this, i hope you enjoy!
Song: Pretty Lights – I Can See It In Your Face
He walks through the sand blasted wasteland.
Sunlight burning down through Earth’s depleted atmosphere, not enough to cook everything on the ground, but enough so that the miles that surround our walking hero begins to look like gritty glass. In the distance, a sanctuary, a haven. Blurred to the point of being a mirage, a dark city rises up from the golden desert landscape to glint menacingly(invitingly?) against the harsh blue of the cloudless, dead sky.
He walks with a steady rhythm, a surety of balance. The wind blows and howls around him, yet only serves as a mockery to the lone figure’s stolid advance. In the lenses of the dark goggle rests the shivering silhouette of the distant enclave, steadily becoming closer with the figure’s mile eating stride. His left hand is resting on the scabbard at his side and his head is bowed slightly downward, as if he is concentrating on the sounds around him. The howling wind pulls at his clothing, causing the loose ends of his cloak and face wrap to trail behind him. He walks in a state of awareness as he passes by rotting, burned out automobile husks; remnants and shadows reflecting the long gone decadence of a bygone era.
The aural manifestations reach him before the physical, and he is more than prepared and more than a match for the clumsy wastelanders playing at bandits. As four dark shapes explode in a shower of golden sand and reflected sunlight from among the mummified vehicles, the lone figure has ceased to be where the wastelanders perceived him to be. Before they’ve even landed two silvery arcs have whistled through the air to dismember two of the attackers one after the other. Another two lie on the ground writhing in agony and clutching the hilts of the daggers that have magically buried themselves in their chests.
The lone figure waits, head bowed, until the death throes of his attackers have ceased. He says a prayer for the dead, retrieves his weapons, and continues on.
The wind howls and the sun burns, as if nothing had ever happened. The sand immediately begins to bury the bodies of the dead.
testing testing