Today, with a T-Square to the moon and Saturn, cock-combed warriors with bulging eyes twist their faces into perverse rage. Those of us lustful for blazing uncharted territory wear the wrathful enchantment like a cosmic gown too big to fit into. The raging impulses of our hunger for singularly creative experience double back, encircling the patches of ground they’ve just plundered, confronted with figurines of alliances, love affairs, betrayals. Who has been born from these alliances; these treaties uttered with two tongues? The figures symbolizing the union shatter through the roar and spit of the soldiers, red in their appetite for destruction, in an attempt to uncover what was underneath the agreements’ falsities.
We are the warriors, the newborns and the representations of consummated agreements altogether. Curled up, half in the womb and half born into a cold world, seeking nourishment, it seems we live in a double existence, constantly circumambulating the territory appearing freshly before us. The womb feels blistery; callous, and we’re not sure if we need to purely meet physical needs or to leave the frigid cocoon to find blessings for our individuality elsewhere.
A mummy appears—one of the oldest mummies, they say, also wounded by the red rage that doubles back on itself after double-crossed alliances. He lets the sun crack open the ground, revealing a descending stairway down to a swirling murder of crows. They tell us that no matter what messages of doom appear in worldly news, it’s always possible to dance. Points of connection, they say, will lead us away from the tyrant’s womb and indifferent world, into the den of the nurturing goat who will bless us for our whims. Flying up and ahead, they celebrate the revelation of a goat’s carcass, and sing of how when we blush, scream and double back, though we think we’re regressing, we’re really spiraling toward the great animal embrace of kinesthetic vitality and liberated flight.
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