Chaotic Beauty

[Salvor-Hardon]

WOW... I'm still trying to catch my breath.

 

[Guest]

MARIA McKEE
show me heaven

There you go
Flashing fever from your eyes
Hey baby, come over here
And shut them tight

I'm not denyin'
We're flying above it all
Hold my hand, don't let me fall
You've such amazing grace
I've never felt this way

Oh, show me heaven
Cover me
Leave me breathless
Oh, show me heaven, babe

Here I go
I'm shakin' just like the reeds
Hey baby,
I need your hand to steady me

I'm not denyin'
I'm frightened as much as you
Though I'm barely touching you
I've shivers down my spine
And it feels divine

Oh, show me heaven
Cover me
Leave me breathless
Oh, show me heaven, babe

If you know what it's like
To dream a dream
Baby hold me tight
And let this be

Oh, heaven
Cover me
Leave me breathless
Oh, show me heaven, please
Leave me breathless
Leave me breathless
Cover me

 

[inlovewithyourghost]

 

[Fallenfromgrace]

 

[neonlyte]

http://trotz.com/albums/icestorm2005/IMG_3382.jpg

This reminds me of this:

Another time, many years later, I drove this way with Madeleine. It was winter, a few days before Christmas, we had a wild notion retracing our footsteps might open our eyes and had flown to Madrid, hiring a car to drive on into Portugal. We lay over-night in Salamanca taking the Ciudad Rodrigo road early the next morning. It is an isolated and barren region, vast walled estates bordering the road, a few cork or olives trees are the only relief in an empty landscape.

Bitterly cold outside the car, a hoar frost painted the landscape a ghostly white. We descended off the high plain into a river valley, the Gavilanes, winding through the town of Sancti Spiritus; the valley shrouded in a thick fog. Each blade of grass, each twig, encased in a thick coating of ice, hung brushing the highway like translucent skeletal fingers seeking to ensnare the unwary. It was like the inside of a real Santa’s Grotto where the stage set of the decorators had sprung to life, the dry ice fog subservient to the white mist swirling around us, rising in voluminous clouds off steely grey waters.

I slowed the car to a crawl unable to see through the mist, dazzled by the ice sculptures marking at our passage. We passed through Sancti Spiritus with a church bell dully tolling the hour, the normally grubby dwellings cleansed by their coating of frost. On the outskirts of the village, in a clearing by the edge of the road, hung a pig suspended from the thick black branch of an ancient cork tree. A knife flashed in the silver light, splitting the beast’s stomach, and eager hands plunged into the folds easing intestines into a container as a cloud of steam from the body cavity and spilled guts, rose into the frosty air. The visage came upon us so quickly through the fog and yet played out in slow motion before our eyes. A scene repeated from before the Middle Ages, the ritual festive slaughter, we merely spectators from another time and place.

From an as yet uncompleted novel.

 

[inlovewithyourghost]

This reminds me of this:

Another time, many years later, I drove this way with Madeleine. It was winter, a few days before Christmas, we had a wild notion retracing our footsteps might open our eyes and had flown to Madrid, hiring a car to drive on into Portugal. We lay over-night in Salamanca taking the Ciudad Rodrigo road early the next morning. It is an isolated and barren region, vast walled estates bordering the road, a few cork or olives trees are the only relief in an empty landscape.

Bitterly cold outside the car, a hoar frost painted the landscape a ghostly white. We descended off the high plain into a river valley, the Gavilanes, winding through the town of Sancti Spiritus; the valley shrouded in a thick fog. Each blade of grass, each twig, encased in a thick coating of ice, hung brushing the highway like translucent skeletal fingers seeking to ensnare the unwary. It was like the inside of a real Santa’s Grotto where the stage set of the decorators had sprung to life, the dry ice fog subservient to the white mist swirling around us, rising in voluminous clouds off steely grey waters.

I slowed the car to a crawl unable to see through the mist, dazzled by the ice sculptures marking at our passage. We passed through Sancti Spiritus with a church bell dully tolling the hour, the normally grubby dwellings cleansed by their coating of frost. On the outskirts of the village, in a clearing by the edge of the road, hung a pig suspended from the thick black branch of an ancient cork tree. A knife flashed in the silver light, splitting the beast’s stomach, and eager hands plunged into the folds easing intestines into a container as a cloud of steam from the body cavity and spilled guts, rose into the frosty air. The visage came upon us so quickly through the fog and yet played out in slow motion before our eyes. A scene repeated from before the Middle Ages, the ritual festive slaughter, we merely spectators from another time and place.

From an as yet uncompleted novel.

That's beautiful... Thank you for sharing!

 

[inlovewithyourghost]

http://i66.photobucket.com/albums/h270/tummygrmbl/lava.jpg

This one is my new favorite...