her feet never touch the soil, she lives beneath it. Moist and rooted. She coos in my ear to follow her here.
Yma Sumac, hear her voice? She is a slight potential manifest. And look at how she blows us out of capacity. Such power in the frame of femininity. The vocal range does not hover at falsetto. The pleasure of a woman bellows deeper than the beast inside her. We are soprano unto the storm. That power is not found in the things we do, or in the people we know...
It is found in submergence again beneath these dark waters. It is the abandon of shame in letting one's voice drop deeper than volcanic terrain. To let go and yell out, rejoice again in me!