A Matter of Life and Death

The pastures we roamed were threadbare. Cows that once signified the bringing together of families could now hardly keep one alive. The land, destitute. On the question of how to reconcile the dead and the living: I know only that it is a matter of urgency.

But this cannot be done outside the cards we were dealt. True creativity requires realism, a punch of sensibility in the gut everyday before beginning the desperate commute down under. That is the only way we are assured that we will once again come up for air. Even the Master used soil, breath, and when it came to the exhibitions that were not tacile, speech. It is for this that the work beckons.

However burdensome humanity's weight, hollowing ourselves out to carry it and feeling our faculties be pulled down to the unrighteous pit is how we are able to take on form. The problem, then, is the context. They - whoever they are - bothered. We were then left with the work.

To hurry up with the prescription:

1. Sing.

2. Cry and swallow the morsels.

3. [a meditative state]

4. Make an order; prioritizing the smallest child or the most frail and if that is the same child, hold your breath and theirs until it arrives.

5. Dust out the mat, past the gate but not too close to the driveway front-opposite. The abyss would cease to be an abyss if it were as cramped as our homes.

You must maintain cleanliness. Sacred things can only exist in sterile spaces. Afterall, the Great Physician too, is a guest.

(This is the posture we take on when we plead.)

He cannot inspect my wounds without me being exposed.

(This is why Job stripped.)

I recognize only His hands. He does not know me from a bar of soap.

(He reduces my truths to mere theory everytime.)

The thing that causes the work of resurrection to go discarded is that the stance one takes up to live is too similar to dying. It is all portraying the same unmoving act. The boulders fall on our heads at speeds which we do not have the architecture to address. Pinching the spawn by tail, irrigating, coughing out the clouds of dirt and worrying about them seeping into the tight weaves of your oiled cornrows - in movies the pigeons flutter chaotically close to the screen in a short span of time. In real life, the door falls off the hinge. It becomes imperative to loosen the knot in your stomach.

The pursuit of putting together a masterpiece sends one down a journey that causes one to scatter. To watch our outlines become particles on screens and then come together again into a solid cube of memory in each other's minds. All is not well with us.

The show will continue to be bleak until you reach out from the absurdity of the front row and take your place in it. Then it becomes a practice and you will learn your boundlessness in ways you would not know how to access, you wil adopt vigour. To mimic the Blacksmith is to recognize that He is not at His own mercy. You have been forged and hammered, without pity. Now you must reference.

It is for this that we do the work.