(A short intro: You may have seen this backhoe on the perimeter of the new The Little Farm House Pre-School grounds.)

Iron sauropod
with outstretched neck and head bowed
lies still feigning death

Back broken from hours
of toiling upturning soil
now it rests to rust

It dreams, having moved
the earth for planting the seeds
of little children

Posted in: Exit Stage Write, Photo Gallery | Comments(1) | November 2008

Myrrh and dust.

The journey is almost at end. We pause for rest, trying to rid ourselves of nervous exhaustion. The journey is almost at end. There will be tomorrow, but tonight we sleep. Only He remains awake.

Wine and poison.

In the garden above us, while we sleep, They meet. Nothing can be changed, that was clear. It had to be the way it was foretold. By His death. By His life. He understands and accepts. By His life we see, by His death we live.

Swords and spears.

A kiss, and the soldiers come for Him. We try to fight, but He would have no one hurt. He goes with them. A kiss is all it takes.

Whips and thorns.

Let us go in His place, please. We cry inside but before the cock crows, we forget, we deny. We give Him more pain that all the lashes He receives.

Wood and nails.

The long march to the hill is through. He falls along the way but here on the hill He is raised up high. For all to see. Or pretend not to see.

The journey is at end. He is tired. He thirsts. For us, for our love. Despite the pain, He cries to His Father to forgive us, for we are ignorant of what we have done.

He dies. For we have killed Him. So we may live. By His life we see, by His death we live. By His resurrection, we are freed.

But this is just a story, or so it’s been said. A story for those who believe.

Posted in: Exit Stage Write, Photo Gallery | Comments(0) | March 2008

Unquiet reigns in NoTimeAtAll. Encased in their Memory Shrouds, the Nomads laugh, wail, cackle, weep, scream, giggle and sob. The cacophony rarely subsides, but the Keeper does not mind. Truth to tell, she feels gratified by the noise of unrestrained emotions filling the air. This eerie music strengthens her.

It is for the silent ones, the handful of Nomads who fail to join the din, she cares most about. The Keeper goes over to each of them, disturbed by the stillness. She wonders if she has not wrapped the Shroud properly, removes it, and takes even greater care in putting it back on the Nomad. If the Nomad remains soundless, the Keeper takes a knife, slices off a tiny flap of cloth from the Shroud and like the most pliant clay imaginable, stretches it out, kneading and molding it into a Mask of Joy/Sorrow which she affixes to the Nomad’s face. Before long, the Nomad utters its first cry of delight or anguish and the Mask quickly dissolves, its task done.

The Keeper then proceeds to the next unyielding Nomad and repeats the process. She cannot stand indifference to her handiwork. As long as they dwell in her world, the Nomads are her people, her immediate audience. The Keeper bids them heed her one commandment: Let me hear you laugh and weep.

(This post is part of The Keeper of Memories series, which started with The Keeper of Memories made in November 2007, followed by The Hands of the Keeper of Memories (I) written in January 2008, and The Memory Shrouds of the Keeper done last month. Original ink drawing by Riana and digital colorized collage by e.s.)

Posted in: Illustrart, Exit Stage Write | Comments(0) | March 2008