Nashville Skyline - Introduction by Michael Chavis_1270431056832

This is an archived text version of the author’s work.
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Storm.  Say it with me: sssstttooorrrmmm.  No, not like a child struggling with symbols whose meanings are barely apparent.  Like an epicurean savoring a meal or the slow purposed touch of a lover.  SSSStttooorrmmmmm.  Feel the “S” hiss like lightning; the “T” crack of thunder; the diphthong “OR” resonate into the harmonious chant that Buddhists associate with the genesis sound of the spheres, the rhythm of a long vernal rain, or the slow dance of gravity light snowflakes; and the “M” vibrate midthroat as rainfrogs low bemoan the desired.  Storm.


The culmination of an atmosphere in entropy, the natural laws equalizing, elemental karma, for every one, another.  Primary to physics, basic to meteorology, yet the mystery of her movement confounds even the most learned devotee.  Turns weatherpeople into gypsy crackbrained prognosticators. And hollow men into poets.

A storm excites and incites.  A fermentation, which typically would mature over the course of months, often precedes storms in a matter of seconds.  Firestorms, thunderstorms, duststorms.  Trains of destruction derail the path of least resistance, normal commerce and time itself.  Clocks lose meaning as primal instinct and blood rhythm measure the anticipation of mayhem’s arrival.


The constant chase of day and dark, the epic undercurrent hidden from the spectacle of outward struggle.  Storm forces the conflict to surface.  Storm puts an expression on the face in the mirror.  Howls the names of iniquities and failures, commands attention and demands resolution.  Inside, the tumult creates or destroys.  Nothing more, nothing less.  Its gorgeous violence belies this simplicity.  Storm cleans the misconceptions and declares a funeral truth.  We are all pall-bearers.

What was, at once granite, seeming infallible and constant companion to the morning sun, becomes malleable as clay, gone like yesterday, irrelevant as a spent, crimpled cigarette butt, as the last words of a raving Mammy, the winds of a hurricane, shame visited upon the bigot, movement crippled by decay.  The symphony of wonder speaks of loss and renewal in a language universal, becomes the horrific beauty of a now outside age and reason.  A now consummate, baptized by bedlam and elevated as purchase for our earnest enlightenment.  Storm.