Backstage, dressed as Hamlet
I made the art I wanted to make. I went home at the end of the night when there was a home to go to. There were hours and days for making love, but I spend my mornings happy and alone. My voice, the imaginings I tend, ideas wrestling to be articulate — these are the demons keeping me up at night shifting stones, divining numbers, picking apart the sticky matter which is life. Bread digests and leaves me empty again.
Once upon a time I was a farmer. Each day I rose at 4 am and swam in the ocean alone. Naked and salty I watched the sun rise and headed back to less solitary land in time to take fistfuls of dirt and a hoe in hand. This soil we stand upon is made from our bodies. Matter of our existence, dark Earth we return to. It is our burden to share, and our only task is the whispered word, “tend”.
My worth was measured in string lengths given to the God of Stories. What right I have to speak is the same as yours, the breath of having become. Chosen temple, My Stage, I offer all that I have: Word and Action. Until I crumble into dirt once more I will mutter in tongues foreign to unnatural law. This is my dedication and my oath. The body is meant for war, a heart placed center anchors our need for peace, and my head navigates human’s unearthly tradition of spitting lies in order to control, teaching folly, and profiting off harm to a universal law.
I am no holy, no clean minister walking one town to the next. I am complex rhythms. Mosaic of worms and light, terrible genius, struggling and eternally short. I will be gone in a moment, remembered or not, so I offer this now: it matters not, my intent. What nurtured or destroyed all the other worms-in-light was my “doing”. I skipped ugly. I danced fevered with soul. I fell times, tripping others in the tangle of my angled limbs. I vow to rise each time though, salty and naked, knowing more deeply the many faced force of Grace.
I made the art I wanted to make. I went home at the end of the night when there was a home to go to. There were hours and days for making love, but I spend my mornings happy and alone. My voice, these imaginings I tend, ideas wrestling to be articulate — these are the demons keeping me up at night shifting stones, divining numbers, picking apart the sticky matter which is life. Bread digests and leaves me empty again.
Play On My Friends,
~ Creature
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~Thank you.