There is a man with his arms outspread, balancing in the time-space continuum, his deeds emanating from his outspread wings, an ocean on one side, an excrescence of ejected missiles on the other. These bombs fall into a vortex of vanishing cultures, the last girls dancing into oblivion.
He is hurtling into the arms of his mother, his lover, his child. His own self wounded and ragged within, an unknown child, a little Palestinian boy dreaming of freedom. Christ and his mother; the eternal Sun.
The feminine principle stands on the brink of it all, guarding and welcoming, holding the future. She is the necessary balance, without her he will fall. The alchemical marriage playing out in consciousness and the unconscious, all around us.
The vast majority of casualties in war are civilians. I think of the spilled blood we do not see, the grief we do not feel, the broken boughs of the trees in the olive orchard. Picnickers in smoking pieces on the ground, pushchairs splintered with little bones.
And I think of the lies and the complex war machine that is eating us all alive, the greedy thrust for profit, expansion and power; the screaming deceit at the heart of so many smashed lives.
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