marox_pass_copellos_presence fyn gula "immediate recognition is not always by face," maylay said, running a calloused hand across his own. anton had pointed out the appearance of copello and nimbia questioned why, for he was not visible in the flesh. "sometimes we see a part of ourselves in what others create. sometimes others are who we want to be." "my God..." nabiscus said, blinking back the kind of tears when one discovers a beauty akin to self-realization. "he has truly outdone himself this time." and isn't this what we want from our mentors? the inspiration to excel? to go beyond our personal expectations and produce the type of art that has us reaching? yes it is. for what rolled behind nylem's palanquin in this twisted form of salutation made everything the guests observed seem white belly up in comparison. to kemulyan eyes, or anyone actually who desires to see the hidden treasure, that which is made with the turning of the hands, the shaping of the fingers, the cutting od wood, pounding of nails, the sewing of cloth, the composition of music, the chiseling of ornamentation, the generous painting of colour, that is to say what is constructed from nothing, whether it is as simple as black word on white paper, spoken verse on blank tape, captured image on a roll of negatives, all of this is first luxuriously imagined, and then patiently, ass offed worked and with utter artistic exhaustion, proved. nascency. and so, when copello's "teatro de art" silently rode past the four startled onlookers, an eight by eight oak planked stage, festoons of mandevilla hanging like a necklace on the bodice of monica bellucci, heavy burgundy brocade curtains shut tight against the impending wonder, resting level on the flat backs of twenty-six iron-shelled carrier-turtles from the everalwayslands, they were sorely amazed and utterly speechless. not only had they found what they were searching for, but the discovery was worth far more than the journey and this is rare for it is usually the other way around. it was a cut to the soul and the blood of happiness ran down their arms and they did not wipe it clean for they wanted everyone to see the joy of reunion, of beholding the undeniable pleasure when one of your own acheives greatness. it was like seeing the colour red for the first time, a beauty one remembers into old age, writes lyrics to the song that swells the heart, recites the verse that others copy down and quote, dream about in perfect slumber. and then the parade stopped. 010617 ... log burning fire becoming maturing 060222 what's it to you? who go blather from