Hello, fabulous human.  I certainly hope you’re well!  Thank you greatly for stopping by.

     It’s likely we’ve been historically acquainted and may’ve even, at one time, been conceivably friendly.  If this is the case, then “it’s so good to see you once again,” and if not, then it’s wonderful to meet you!

     My name is Matthew Bell and welcome to Beltchat.com.  Here you’ll find only the finest historiographical discourse regarding biblically-fashioned waist accessories.  Not really, but the Bible Belt is whence spawned my anthropological perception of our species, which largely perpetuates my compositional frivolities.  It is thus subliminally relevant.  But what is this so provocative realm?

     Well, the Bible Belt’s fantastical with magical perceptions of the Universe and other things miraculously around it: like “shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—“like Dorudontinae and Australopithecus.  The Planet’s also very young and has seen a mighty flood.  Our ancestors have scarcely changed, but are rather dust and ribly.  Here is where I’ve dwelt so long—beyond a quarter century—that I think and look a lot like all those humans all around me—‘Merica!

And now, a story . . .

 

     The tumultuous reality of 69 is that, which any historian can confirm, focusing strength on either end is occupationally tricky.  So, to minimally convolute our cerebratory potential, we’ll abandon Rome, but just for now, and hang out in Alaska . . . well, Arizona.  This is:

 

Keepsake part one:

Kaga’s Achak

 

     “The wise hear them and grow in wisdom; those with understanding gain guidance.”

– Proverbs 1:5

     “Take the breath of the new dawn and make it part of you.  It will give you strength.

– Hopi saying

     “Love to his soul gave eyes; he knew things are not as they seem.  The dream is his real life; the world around him is the dream.”

-Michel de Montaigne

 

     Prologue: The Anasazi aulos was a treasured memento of Paleontologist Howard Hood, which was whimsically unearthed amid a Kayentan Dilophosaurus dig.  No flute of its kind had evidently ever been produced by the Ancestral Pre-Puebloan peoples.  Nevertheless, he kept the artifact displayed aloft his mantle.  There it remained until one day it astonishingly vanished.

.               .               .

     Kaga was a storyteller, which nobody could see, since he slaved away on end each day, chipping bits of rock.  He was reasonably strapping, of medial proportions, and fashioned heads of stone for spears to use with the atlatle.  So superb with this device was he that the elders never cared to let him chance a chronicle for all the tribe to hear.  Kaga waned dispassionate, but kept his crafty charge, hoping for the moment to exemplify his art.  Perhaps his opportunity was nearer than he’d thought.

     Kaga’s home was a sufficiently aesthetic combination of cave and clay with a wooden interior and small fire pit.  Unfortunately, however, his door dislodged so regularly that the boy conceded to resting it closed at night.  But one night, an exhausted Kaga neglected this nuisance and slogged straight to bed whereupon he satisfyingly submerged into so swift a slumber that dreamy elations were upon him in fervorous haste.

     And so night meandered merrily along Kaga’s illusions, his home comfortably chilled by evening’s efflation.  But soon, as if by magic, a sweet sound rolled upon the breeze, which stimulated Kaga into a curious stir.  A soft humming of flutes, which he weakened before, tickled with wisps of vanilla and jasmine, danced around his head, enticing autonomous euphoric responses no whispering playmate could ever produce.  And so on hummed the flutes, gentle and fragrant:

     hmmmnn hmmmnn . . . just kidding.  “I love you, and I miss you . . . hmmmnn.”  Ok, seriously.

     Anyway, Kaga lumbered from his home into waves of audible, heavenly delight, beckoned to attention by overwhelming aromatic qualities.  Further, the boy clambered, beyond the hill outside his village, venturing amid the nightly desert.  Now miles from home, Kaga kept his lustled course.

     Finally, he stopped short.  There, perched aloft a distant saguaro, nestled the moonlit profile of a lovely woman, whence harmonized the rousiest melodies, exciting Kaga’s approach.  But, as he drew near, the siren leapt from her plant.  She had not even touched the earth before backwards over hills she flew, melodically captivating the fatigued boy.

     This vixen was swift.  Kaga gave chase but could hardly hear her harmonious rhythms or catch her pleasing drift.  Alas, amid a barren clearing, nothing could be seen . . . nothing could be heard . . .  nothing could be smelled.  It would seem our foolhardy lad was alone.  Now, Kaga was a very learned chap and thus grieved:

     “Foul, this manifestory-Kokopellian, succubic aulete hath deceived me.”

     Note:  The absent Ancestral-Puebloan writing system scarcely elaborates the characteristics necessary to sufficiently decipher whatever Southwestern, Pre-historic Native American, geographically-refined linguistic manifestations these individuals potentially employed and so we’ve taken certain compositionally-Antonianesque liberties—how bittersweet a return to Rome is that!

To be continued . . .

     Once again, thank you so much.  I absolutely appreciate your time!

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Intro quotation by Tool.