a Letter from Murry Eyeball: Just a Pile of Sticks?
The sacred fool-we clowns are forever- forever alive, aware of all the unawareness, oblivious to feigning the obvious, comforted in the uncomfortable occasion of existential debate with determined resistance amid our undying acceptance- constantly untying the knots in our hearts for a fresh start- a rinse and repeat, but never a delete. We clowns carry the essence of our abstracted spectrum of existence- we move to the tune of the instilled “soon” with the imprinted posturing of our lasting past in its physical proportions. All in relation to the ancestors that fraction up our presence to a whole being through their resounding resonance. We listen & in quest, learn to speak in translation to time.
Oh ancestors, may we live in lingering-questioning our destiny with our grip on the eternity of suckling from the transcendent teet of your sweet and sour milk.
It's not all days Eye remember of this divine existence- the plane of belonging, of carrying a song in humbling resistance to the persistence of apathy. Its not all funny, we grow up to realize. But it sort of is at the same time, if we can size it to the proportions of emotions as our alternative architecture for measurement. Laughter! Tears! Embodying our true selves through the exploration of fears and dreams as inspiration. Each in our own effort of conduction- we create our live-wire of current to power the collaborative atmosphere we are working with Here.
Down the rabbit hole we go & we find the reminder in the center of all we unEarth. Throughout the sphere of our contemplation & impulsive action we construct the bridge to our worlds, the Here and the Next and the So On & So Forth: the archetype is birthed!
& of it, we are served the conundrum of clowns as complex & simple! This is not an oxymoron, it is a bridge to ascend from the binary of “either, or.” The archetype acts as a bundling of diving rods would be perceived by the eyes of the cosmic collaborator or to the superstitiously sighted: when unleashed from their binding, the diving rods rise to action by way of symbolism—if received in the moment, their impulse is a message; if observed in their aftermath, their configuration is transformed back to just a pile of sticks.
As the veil thins between the Here reality and the spiritual realities, or so to speak, there is a crescendo in accessibility to alternative realms of conception and experience if we allow awareness, Eye observe the surfacing of curiosity of archetypes throughout our world. Having passed the eve of Halloween in New York City, Eye was enticed into deeper consideration of the clown archetype with every passing mask of the horrifically presented "It" personage: bloodied and frozen forever in maniacal form. "Lacking" in the emotive range of the true clown was my initial reaction to the mask. Yet with each subway car sighting, I found the undertone of character grow in truth- the simplicity of the clown is rooted in its upheaval our stationary opinions. What a simple access point for unquestioned fears to latch onto the archetype and declare "I'm afraid of clowns (BUT i'll dabble with the UnKnowing as the veil welcomes me into the caverns of my fear)." Whether we are aware of this, OR not, through our dabbling we embody the root of Halloween- derived from a more-recent Christian shift of Pagan calendars to concertize "hallow," or holy, sanctify, consecrate, with "een," or eve: an opening to an alternative portal of perception AKA an morphed evening suspending the reality of the taboos of society and welcoming these abstractions into common and accepted form.
No wonder Eye am ever so steadfast in declaring Halloween as the favorite of all hallow-days! What greater accessibility for the possibilities of experimentation & research for the clown that otherwise "sticks out like a sore thumb" amid the abundance of un-suspended imaginary times. In the lead up (as the veil thins) to this hallow-day, to unpack the potential of connection between the cosmic collaborators & the superstitiously sighted becomes the dance exploring the complexities of the archetype. The sacred fool, we the clowns, must always remember we do not exist without our audience, just as the old saying goes, "If a tree falls in the woods & no one is there to see it- does it just become a pile of sticks?"
How hallowed are these times as the possibilities of realities resurrect the sacredness of the fool and the questions that accompany its contorted reappearance into the mainstream flow of folly: complex & simple; simple & complex.
OH sticks and stones may break my bones, and fools they are oh so wordy! Down the rabbit hole we go... Oh, Eye hope this ladder's sturdy!
dededos
blakekathryn
areudirty
janainaart
snowghoul