© 2010 Gregory MacAvoy

100


Cyclone

44 x 30 inches.
Oil, ink and oil and chalk pastels on paper.

You look at them hard as if they were not more than some animated object driven from some alien source, and you’re not listening to what they’re saying any longer, because at some point it doesn’t matter any more. Their eyes slowly blink as they conjure up the next word. The hands help the verbalization. It seems absurd. You’ve risen above, or something. You’re trying so hard to understand, not the words, but what and how to love this thing. What is there in their essence that you love, that you need to love-because they are made of the same thing as you? The words come back and the bile rises, but you swallow it trying to remember how to love them and why you cannot and why you’ve loved so many others so easily and how. Then you hit a wall, and you realize that the issue it is not within them at all. That they may not even exist, or you, and that you are just energy in motion that has become all balled up at some point and stopped. Somewhere in your psyche, which is just as physical as you, just as powerful an element of the universe, there is suspended animation-absolute zero-ice 9. And it becomes shockingly apparent that the only thing that you have to worry about any more is tearing down that wall, subtly, but quickly-or violently-it doesn’t matter, as long as you tear down that wall that is damning you from the liberty and burden of unity.

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