WORD of the day XV, by Samuel Bostick.
Haunt n. 1) To visit often. To continually seek company of. 2) To have a disquieting or harmful effect on. To recur constantly and spontaneously to. To reappear continually in. 3) To visit or inhabit as a ghost. | v. 1) To stay around or persist. 2) To appear habitually as a ghost.
WORD of the Day: Haunt [Part II]
A pensive mind, passionate, in search of answers. Heavy Shadows. Never can satisfy that one prompt; why –> Why –> WHY…it goes on and on. Still I digg, whether the digging is into a grave or an escape there from is uncertain. That, only time will tell. It is the hunt that gives me the courage to persevere, the strength to endure.
Compelling to the point of frightful exclaim. Revisiting; pulling pulling pulling in opposition to the times. Birthed of darkness; A seed of the misunderstood, the feared. Those eyes speak unforgettable terrors. No comfort, empty hearts, cold shoulders—heavy with chips inherited from our parents (or lack thereof), and our parents’ parents, on and on. Generational curses. Attempts to ward off with proverbs, prayers and purple smoke. Numb to the ills, hyperactive youth, rebellious souls, sophisticated transgression.
Understood that understanding is not the framework of the visit, nonetheless there must be reason, some cause to this affect. Living yet not alive. A matter of time and space infiltrated by unbreakable will. That which understands oh too well that sleep be the closest kin to death and has refused to accept it both in this life and thereafter.
The wandering waves of apparition, frightening fantasies of time turned back. Late. With grave sensitivity if I may interject—I must repeat, Late. Dreams, ambitions, kindness, anger, that revolutionary will to live, the lust for life that keeps expired eyes ablaze…All Late. Let it be as is, may it pass. Let go. For the tighter the grip the more it must be pronounced…L-A-T-E. The more desperate the cling, the greater the denial, the more power time has, the greater its rule. Has it not already become the master of precarious life? The preoccupation of that final chapter; a tale past its prime. Death the peacemaker, what a grim truth indeed, still it is and has always been. The equalizer, that weighty sentence of that very first sin.
Never more glorious a fall, never an exile of such epic proportion…Paradise Lost and furthermore to be determined. A scale set for that of the soul caliber. Choose wisely and understand your character, develop that to the fullest. Play toward your strengths, take mind to liquidate any weakness.
Cold mallets clapp, hammering down the rustic rhythm, beating out the Fearful sounds. The icey chill off the warped amusement of sonnets never quite heard before nor reproduced. No, this place has a sound of its own. An eerie mystique—smoldering, foraging about where peace once was. That sly devil, oh that crafty harlot. It has been told No Church in the Wild, this on the other hand is a sanctuary, a place of darkness. Breathtaking. The soar of unsettled minds, demons abound, rage un-cooped, yes freed of pious subscription. A mysterious sort of orchestration; Dark enchantment, how wonderful the allure.
How it comes alive, whizzing round and bout, lifeless spirits thriving on only a strong disdain for death and that has become almost life in itself, again precarious in situations, nonetheless life. Parasitic life. The air thick, smoldering, suffocating bombardment, pushing invasively the heavy stench upon the tongues pallet summoning up bitter bile held back only by tightly sealed lips. No breathing rather heavy seething death gulped down to the lungs. Grasping at the throat, tighter a cling as the seconds pass…The ecstasy irreplaceable, euphoric captivation of the spirit, the numbing to deaths grip, soon realizing that it is not longer the hand of grimace upon your neck, rather your own. How peculiar…How oddly removed. Has it not always been? No real answers not here…each a captive to own ills…to those character flaws and murderous claws of demons within…those haunts never spoken of. Shhhhh, silence! It may hear you…it may show up…don’t call it! Do not wake the beast!
All an illusion; a drama enacted, to hope, to feel, to despair that there is some authority, that somehow control is ours. Don’t sleep then. That is my only advice. I have been there once before. Darling do not sleep. My dearest friend fast from slumber! Brother, sister of mine hold out on sleep, stay woke!
Heavy eyelids. Inevitable hope. There it. Woke again. Fighting fright. Is that? No don’t. Come Back. Far Gone. Death ushered. Night spell. Stay strong. Arm yourself.
In this hour, that of the haunting, do not fall ill to weakness.
Reflection and Response.
the LIFESTYLE’s role is to create collective space for active Reflection and Response through the arts. This space is built around dialogue, expression, collaboration, and artistic (ex)change involving international craftspeople and their realities. The Porch Swing series opens up a Reflection and Response residency where we feature a Collective member’s ongoing project through weekly installations.