The light of a cell; the intention of a horizon to define either end of a day, a sign painter cleaning brushes before visiting a side street cafe.
When you picture Magdalene she is without clothing or just back from her naughty errand of washing the feet of Jesus. Her inner world, how she thinks of herself, goes unexplored by your agenda of righting the tyranny of the world.
Your cohort is well stocked with stones and throwers, on which side of the rock will you be, in which ditch will you be found, later when the saints arrive?
Should, they ever come.
Memory, the stock and trade of a story repeats until sequels exhaust themselves like runners at a marathon, or by the time you remember your mothers voice singing you child songs, late one night before sleep.
Which monster are you on your way to trade tricks with, can you stop yourself from falling, or is your capitulation thought to be inevitable?
Each of us contends with the abysmal misplacement of our keys…Each of us forgets a hundred histories to make sense of the present…Each of us tethers spirits to believable mythologys; whether castaways, sinners or priests- our ears slowly closing to the lustful song of the earth, her invitation to re-energize as humans arrives but remains unopened.