Did
I ever know this defiant woman who dared to taunt inevitable, though
premature, demise? Or did I simply dream her existence? Like some
mature anima which served her purpose only then to be cast aside by
the god of my own vanity? I wonder if she was possibly even that same
water nymph who haunted my dreams for decades? Or even my mother, so
desperate and full of fear; consumed by the over-riding sense of loss
and dislocation?
Was
it out of fear that for years she extolled the necessity of this
vengeful master? Yet my art is formed by her contradictions. Her
nature was to be subservient, compliant and nurturing while also
expressing a willingness to defy the universe of her formation. The
rage that dwells in her body bursts from every hardened cell. And
still I love her. That water nymph who beckoned me dive into the
depths with her and risk drowning or exposure is that same woman who
aged with me. Now defeated yet waiting to be raised from the ashes.
The
paradox is that once smitten, she now awakens as Spirit. And spirit
cannot be defeated. She reigns supreme; manifest in beauty; in the
eye of a beholding mortality; in the dream beyond illusions of
romantic being and noble artist. She visits and I enter her skin and
breathe the ether from her lungs and penetrate her dark caverns of
sexual imagination; shuddering with her orgasm; penetrated by the
steel of her gaze and the sting of her insight.
The
angel of death smugly imagines it has the power to control this
blaspheming woman of some dark art from the high lands of Jungian
shadow country. But she can't be controlled. Her slaughter only makes
her more powerful. Death is the most powerful of all actions. She is
already haunting the territory. I think the princes of the low lands
know their time is ending. Their reign is not supreme. Their angels
will soon be decrepit. The party is coming to an end as the lines on
their faces become deeper.
The
metaphorical world where ancient gods become inherited by mundane
people coming to grips with their own desires, disappointments and
mortality hasn't evaporated. The themes inspired by such realization
are the themes of life, existence and purpose. They lead us to
absurdity or profound recognition or perhaps a sense of both.
As
we become shadows of our dreams, the world becomes an imagined
entity as much fiction as fact. This fiction comprises our relations
with others; our commitment to ideologies, religions, memories,
cherished moments that fade and become objects of perpetual sadness.
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