A Lark-Becoming

Oil Pop and the Friendly Frak Family

Returning from my southern sojourn exploring the verdant wilderness of the Dust Bowl, I find my fervor for object creation has only grown from a subtle warmth behind my eyes into the raging grass fires belching thick victory from my nostrils.

How many have succumbed to the acrid Siren call of Middle Class aspirations? Mythical Main Street lies before us and flickers. Arlington shadows, effigial whispers - nothing more than frightful phantasms of Sorel's elegy.

I have reached into the abyss and felt up hope. Local producers, fervent organizers protesting into the walls of commerce:
"To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you...To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."(Roy)
I return refreshed and eager for the laurels of fallen empire.

When dissent is globalized and the indignant rise to spite the Rapture, I clutch that glory that is our last pillar - the central road of action. Our Momentum faces the mountebank of Sisyphus yet the paths of animal-human-becomings reach out to us. Indeed the journey of a thousand kilos begins with a single movement.

Karl Shale Caldicott