Behind the Man with the Butternut Squash head

Is it true that when you found your father they sat back and watched, waiting to hear what words would first make their way out of your vault? Tales only find their way across the world when they are true(or at least, part truth), is  what I’d like to believe. That somehow truth catches itself on the wings of a butterfly and causes tornados of magic that are further reported as mysterious.

But what’s mystery but that which has not yet been fully observed? And what’s to observe but to become for a moment? To look for that moment of comprehension, or perhaps that moment of curiosity. No one tells us about what happened to the cat post mortem. Was it cremated? Or did they hold a ceremony? More importantly, did they keep asking the question that was important enough for the cat to lose its life? Or was the question buried deep inside the recedes of the cat’s family, struggling to find an answer and instead learning a lyric that promised to, at least, provide a way to navigate the mess that is a world of stories, facts and art?

Art.

I’ve used the word. As if it would carry a weight behind it that can only be whispered in dark rooms. As if weights can only be carried by those who listen by the light of the moon. Does the moon wake you up at night with its pull? Do your thoughts rise and fall like the waves of the ocean? Do you stand at the edge of your boat, looking out to the seas and think “peace, be still?” Does it work?

I’m reminded of a street in the middle of the city. On one side of this street there is a line of men. The cracks underfoot have recently filled by the philosophies of forgotten poets. On the other side there is the world, lovers lost longing for a moment. There are little girls playing brikicho to the sound of bi Kidude. There is a lake by which stories are told. The line of men on one side of the street are basking under 1 million watts of lighting. The world continues to recharge by the waves of the moon.

Does the moon wake you up at night?

Kipling says the strength of the wolf is in the pack, and the pack in the wolf, but the moon still stands – no matter how many times the wolf tries to scare it away. Do you think the moon is afraid, or is it secure in knowing that no matter how hard it pulls the waves will not wet its highest peaks?

I ask about the moon as a metaphor to ask about the moon.

Do your metaphors give birth? Create cycles that come back in many forms, asking the same question again and again until it finds itself somehow warped into an answer? Does the beauty of truth still surprise you, or do you go to bed waiting for the moon to call that you may bless the earth with the waves once again?

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