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Medium: ink/oil wash Size: 17" x 14" Title: Falaise |
| In silent sounds, held only in the mind, distant, but clearly heard, the rapt audience, enthralled; scripture's words enticed by Church Dogma; the distortions, the reverence, the purpose, clouded by anti-Christ notions? The congregation is inert, mentally excluded, swept away, there, but not present. The Gospel's power enhanced; the mind transfers down, never up; each instance reaches its level, the lines are fixed; the mood sits on itself, incalculable, in its opaqueness; taken away, point on point; awareness is inconstant, wavering like a blinking star in the firmament. It reveals itself only momentarily, gone and there, having that rare moment where ecstasy overcomes good sense. Where do we go? You hear that pitiful cry! It is the suffocation of the soul; that slow, relentless, process; and: "Christ's body?" "He dies for you." "It is his blood." "It is his sharing." How the burning fire of sacrifice knows no bounds, and the heart believes what it is not; there is no hope in this, and the sedative removes, sharply, the essence of self; there, in its place, is reverence to a vision; the sophistry of intellect; and yes, Plato's plea for practical assessment falls on deaf ears. It is just anachronistic echoes of a fabled past; with no meaning; revered mostly in a didactic way; ignored in its central truth; it is like this with all meaning: transitory in substance; and the mind is a racing brilliance, always, you see, seeking new levels, but tradition prevails, and the result is a wall standing; insensitive to change, which is truth's fantasy, bound in elegant leather, to sit handsomely on the bookshelf. |