About a week back (more or less), I was witness to one of those curious interchanges that occasionally leapfrogs its way across social media. This one was about art. Insults …
Oh. “Bring us a figgy pudding; Oh, bring US a figgy pudding; Oh, BRING US a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer”
The Solstice, the longest day of the year. In many places in the Northern Hemisphere, that means its blazing hot, sun beating down unreasonably though seasonably. Here, though, it’s a roll of the dice.
This is a city seeking to constantly be reborn, a city founded on initiation. Initiation can be described as nothing more or less than the attempt at renewal, an alchemical achievement, the desire to shed that what you were before and take on a new form. It’s shapeshifting for the soul. And it never ends.
There are some folks who need a touch more: a Mystery they can pray to, a sacred space they can hide all of their hopes and fears in, a ritual to share that feeling that out there, somewhere, something greater watches over them all. Like the followers of science, the worship of the Mystery is good enough for these folk, good enough for art to flourish and spring out into the world, overwhelming people with awe and emotion for just a time before moving on.