Harnett-Hargrove

 Sometimes art isn’t the sort you can see from a cross the room.

 Sometimes you need to get closeup to understand.

This was a different type of day.

Prophecies will pass; as for waging tongues, they will cease; as for notorious knowledge, it will fade.

There were garments everywhere. Where did all this come from? i’ve not entered the Cave of Lost Children; these clothes all too large. All i can make out are the elongated Botticelli figures looking as though crumpled at the bottom of a canvas. Sandro was certainly a frustrated fashion illustrator. Who owns that arm? Whose leg is sticking out over there? Which has that unnaturally long neck? i divert more than stare, wanting to know just enough to ponder the questions. Shall i ask for a line-up? Would everyone begrudgingly amuse me? Not likely. Elbows + knees pointing like Burma-shave signs, mimicking the way out. There are enough faded ghost signs here reminding them of the middle world above. Damn, i forgot the popcorn. Journeys are always a better film w/ concessions, but not a stand in sight.

i’ve come searching for someone in particular. For some one specific. In the stream of consciousness the ‘I’ is the thing relevant. i really hate that. i; again.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will be pissed away.

Proactivity is not working so to have a sit. Dropping into the fetal/futile position, i form the ‘O’ in hope, or in pOssibility. The hole for them to jump through + escape into. Hoping the sought soul will recognize a hero + leap at the chance to be saved. Hoping goes nowhere. Empty handed doesn’t pay. Returning empty handed is half a defeat. However + alas, this quest will remain unfinished. Mute souls scatter by to ask questions for unidentified reasons. Not enough to pay a visit, just borrowing? 

Don't they recognize me? A glimpse of news from the war overhead. A torn piece that fluttered down the small shaft. Perhaps they are unaware i am a broken off bit of the thundering, catastrophic, never decisive conflict. From down here the Megiddo battle playing out above ground is a soft roar that rocks + comforts + lulls, like hearing a far off tide slushing + bruising the sand.

When I was a child, I spoke like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

Strap onto my back + you can be recovered. Which soul dares?

Soul retrieval isn’t what it used to be. So many in the lost-to-be-found, so little time.

Go find yourselves. Ha! i should have worn that T-Shirt. i give you reasons when you ask for a yes-no.

i’m cold + dampish in this work. My garments wait along w/ my power animal, back at the entrance. Unless he has retreated. Perhaps humility is good for something.

Okay, someone steps up to the plate. ID is affirmed.

We see though a glass, darkly; the mirror dimly, but then face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully un/known.

Hey Willi, what ya got there? (Power animals can be annoying. If omniscient, why ask?)

What i came for. Have a look-see, no don’t look. i got it. Just lead the way.

Everyone’s thin neck has its own kilter.

Meaning?

Everyone has a unique point of view.

Soul retrieval has become soul searching. i guess it always has been.

 So now? Faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the great test of these is love.

 - Corinthians

(Note to myself; as i sit here editing these from pages nearly12 years on, i'm reminded that art really + honestly records the moment — because i read back on this page, this thing i wrote down + i say, where was i? what the fuc was i trying to say?)