There are some moments when I feel taken care of, so taken care of.
I preached via performance art piece this past Sunday.
In many ways there was a sense of impending sabotage as the minutes grew closer to that morning.
For what reason, well it’s not an issue of ‘what’, but how many reasons I have to sink a slightly floating ship.
Water begins to slosh in and why not help further it?
I spoke and performed on the Psalms.
Walter Brueggeman speaks of the Psalms in 3 ways:
Orientation, Disorientation, Reorientation.
The first one is equated to equilibrium, but not only stability.
Stability unto death, boredom, one-dimensional thinking.
It merely reports on the already existing things.
It is deeply enmeshed with reality, to the point of madness.
At least to those around you.
I’m fine. You’re fine.
We’re fine.
The second is where magic and cognizant madness happen.
Scream, wail, demand for change and justice, use descriptive, evocative language.
Hyperbolize the experience, make it reflect the well that is terribly troubled.
And thirsty.
And allow your imagination to go through the anger.
Through the tears.
Through the betrayal and heartache.
Through the reality of what is and purports only what is in sight.
May the pit you find yourself in, echo your powerlessness.
Bellowing shouts.
Creative Curses to your enemies.
Creative Curses to this unknown God.
Creative Curses to your old orientation.
Your old self that was, in part, untrue.
Fig leaves.
Shred them.
Eat them.
And then spit them out.
Like a defiant 4 year old who detests their brocoli.
But more so detests being forced by bigger, apathetic powers.
(Silence)
Sweat splattering to the ground.
Dizzy from fervor.
Dizzy from how honest and brutal the declarations.
Even in the aloneness.
All was let out.
Seen.
Gritting teeth still.
Grinding for an answer.
(Silence)
A sudden damn collapsed.
Fetus form.
The stone ground cold.
It would be better to return to your mother’s womb.
Than be here.
Water begins to trickle in.
Wet and chill.
An inflatable raft wafts down.
With California poppies dropping like Revolution.
Like the most noble, imaginative ones.
In our blood thirsty, oft boring history.
(Now what?)
Rise above the stone cold ground.
Not from pulling and climbing and stretching.
Towards the opening.
But from spontaneous, pooling water.
Plastic raft.
Beautiful orange flowers.
Delusion or reality.
And.
Does it matter in a time like this?
Be raised out of the miry pit.
Be intoxicated by the provisions made.
Whether fantasy or not.
Hyperbolize this moment with naked dancing.
Naked mantras and maxims.
To Divinity other than yourself.
Without apathy and stone, but with tears and embrace.
I felt taken care of today, so taken care of.
Despite the fumble, I let loose the wails of uncertainty.
I was met by nouns of many colors.
And blessed.
Sabotage will always distract and dismiss.
But my voice and my pit will engage and engross.
And will wildly gesture for Someone to take notice.
To take sight.
To take dizzy.
To take love.
To take all of my innards.
And say, “Yes, I have heard and I have felt and I will do.”
DearHeatherMarie 