Sunday, March 15, 2015

In the final throes of his fitful making this beast knits and binds the surface myths and metaphors over powerful bones and sinew of fear and truth.

As I usher him through the black portal of doubt and suspicion, enough of his form is there for onlookers to cobble together a faint fore-image of the beast's significance. I'm brought to silent sighs and mask my frustration with patient grins as they, the onlookers, try to name him and castigate him even as a vague idea. They seek to christen him and in so doing christianize me. They in their safety and distance from any blame try to define this lumbering manchild animated by fever dreams and drunken epithets.

I suppose in some way he is their child too. Their fear and discomfort feed the black world beyond our own as much as my fear feeds it. He is their beast too, whether they lay claim to him or not. He does not come by all his vexing contradictions lightly. I for one know I could not bear the heat of so much hate and pain that warm the lightless fires of the world he struggles to free himself from now.

As I do the little I can do to bind him to this physical world it taxes me. He haunts my sleep and stalks through my brain like a large thing groping for an exit in the dark. I wake weary and ragged, beleaguered. Unrelenting, he tears at the gummy unseen fibers of the curtains between worlds desperate for the air of our own world that is so solid and firm, where we are so sure things either are or aren't. That will give him surety that he in fact is.

The bits of surety I use to bind his form together are of little significance or meaning. They hold no metaphor or quality of art. I chose them to render and tether him here because they are expeditious. In the end he will be no more permanent than you or I. He will be animated by our belief in his existence. He will persist and thrive as we collectively allow him. He will burn or rot or swing from a tree as we do if we wish him to, his form no more angelic once he is here than we are.