October 22nd, our cottages ominously shake, making our parents and security guards stand up and take notice. We had never realized it before, but window shades upon window shades have piled on top of each other in our houses, rendering us blind to the many rainbows and colorful fanfare outside.
It’s no longer sustainable: this day and evening, the colors burst through, the whole prism & spectrum announcing itself first by way of a girthy ghost who crashes our living space and belches. When he leaves, other ghouls descend through the cracking roof on a diagonal, silently announcing the capacity of the dead to let beauty in.
It’s an insight we almost miss as we’re shaken by the jets of black smoke running comet-like through the air—missiles? Fireworks? Spoiled melancholy accelerated out of a resentful body into an unreceptive sky? The noise settles, giving way to the appearance of a paternal face made of light. Breathing red smoke out of his mouth, he invites us to see the artistic masterpieces we’ve created, visibly held in the womb of his breath.
The parental instinct to prevent the collapse of the house and the scattered streams of black fire are today transformed into an initiatory model of nurturing: smoky terrors are sometimes the necessary catalysts toward glimpsing the beauty of what we’ve created and our power to continue creating. It’s the dead themselves who never fail to show us this truth.