I imagine. I imagine I am hovering just below heaven, looking down on the earth lying quietly in the darkness of its own shadow. Looking down, hidden from the sun, to witness man discontent with the darkness, and his inventing of light. His fires, created or stolen from nature, the consequence of lightning and dryness, the divine manifestation of that singular holiness in the sky, broken off and fallen to earth as power and control, kept and reverently stoked, smoldering slowly in a sacred lacquered box, full of more problems than Pandora's.
I watch as man's fires flicker and expand into the darkness of the unknown, within which community is forged both to survive and enlighten, where language and, through language, art become the accidental occurrences of community, art then a consequence of survival. Watching as those fires are slowly tamed, flattened and thinned, poured like liquid lightning into tin containers and aluminum boxes, and flickers to life again in imit