i had just watched this girl and her friends climb down from the immense rock face where the lighthouse is situated, and navigate the natural and difficult structure of the shore. near the water, all three of them paused at their destination and clung for a moment to a small rock, this girl spontaneously slipping four feet or more to the craggy surf beneath them, as i sat safely on a distant rock taking photographs, pausing to gasp in disbelief at what i was witnessing and in fear as to what the outcome might be. it could easily have been to her death that she slid, such a casual and simple gesture, such as slipping, ripe with the power to break the delicate transaction we make, moment by moment, with life.
but it was only a moment later, after proving to herself that she was still alive (by climbing back up the rocks near shore), that she moved again toward where the deep water meets the rocks.
art (not that this is art, but rather that this is a statement i choose to stand by) should be some form or reflection on agony
and living too
and if living is not agony (ecstasy), a new agony is born in the place of nothingness (spiritual bereavement)
either way, we are born of agony
and this we return to again and again, for nourishment
but it was only a moment later, after proving to herself that she was still alive (by climbing back up the rocks near shore), that she moved again toward where the deep water meets the rocks.
art (not that this is art, but rather that this is a statement i choose to stand by) should be some form or reflection on agony
and living too
and if living is not agony (ecstasy), a new agony is born in the place of nothingness (spiritual bereavement)
either way, we are born of agony
and this we return to again and again, for nourishment
