|Elohim Creating Adam by William Blake|
"We are shimmering scales on a snake which flies
Which flies to the skies
With a sacred surprise.
We are feathers in wings
We are the song which sings
Of our common dream
Sacred and sublime
My breath is your breath
I Share it with you
Oh feathered snake
We are ready to BE
Aware of our divinity"
- excerpt from the feature “Meeting the feathered snake in the Cathedral of Nature” @ Lila.info a fantastic repository of Visionary Art, Contemporary Sacred Art and Outsider Art (permission granted for use)
I read signs, undeniable and in my immediate vision before me. The signs foretell an oncoming fate of humankind with regard to energy resources. The future is a grim façade of a past latching on through the thinly laid dreams of a survivalist upon a bed of bloody nails, a failed magic trick.
My vision clarifies with the acuity of a fish-eye optic nerve straightening over the bluff of a wide forest hill. The forest seems damaged, almost burnt, with an intense inbound potency of fear and isolation in every direction.
I am as in the middle of another world, drowned in the trauma of unbridled change, a natural force looms, ever pervading, with another history, another worldview. I seem to move under the low hovering gray of sky when the tantalizing drip of adrenaline stirs in me.
I feel a wolf near. This wolf seems more ferocious and starved than any I’ve imagined in the world before, this wolf eats human flesh. I move into a patch of dark grove, and with time edge my way off beyond the absolute wilderness of my strange, quiet surroundings.
Human song echoes across the abandoned suburban neighborhoods. The sounds are of the nature of prayer, chanted and primal. I begin to see smoke rising from a hut made from animal hide and forest wood.
As I approach, the scene quickly turns into an entirely new mode of experience outside the pale of a direct relationship with the bald face of nature, alone. Human interaction stirs a Medieval predilection.
As I near the inhabitants of the small family camp, two of my friends soon appear behind me. With swords in hand, we face off with the camp’s inhabitants. My friends are quick to be aggressive and violent, however I seem to be the most nimble with a sword and quickly disarm them so as not to harm the innocent people of the camp.
There is an air of blind unconcern for any solace in humanity, there is only bare personal need and pack mentality. I saunter off with my friends, who wonder about leaving me behind based on my insubordination, then to their ultimate liking accept me as one of the most skilled in the group. We walk through a completely emptied, silent suburban neighborhood. Once affluent, the residents have long since abandoned this obsolete way of life.
An outside view
abundant hovels of eastern North America
of a history that cowers with tragic hesitation
in a sick thirst for music
to transform the silent yawning of a near-frozen despair."
On the brink of waterless hours,
the people will their fasting into the deep,
alone night of elderly decay.
Before the horizon,
hill dwellers form their beliefs
by the norms of a faraway country.
Inside their habitations,
a strong light pulls warped wooden walls
and shrill metallic roofs
into sporadic gusts
Winds brew utter derangement
before the awe of a clear restitution.
- beginning excerpt from "A Fix in the Mourning"