In silence, in mystery, in between music notes, buried within
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed
underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,
wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each
personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter
if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,
the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,
the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story
of you and me, lives forever.
C.A. MacConnell
