shadow’s form

4/25/22

Every picture I see of
“Peter walking on water”
is a picture of a man
(a weak man so strong that his best friend nicknamed him “The Rock”)
failing
fearing
sinking
fumbling
drowning
struggling
grasping arms
needing rescue
calling out for help
and Jesus doing his Jesusy thing
in a robe so crisp and white it looks
like it just got picked up from the Galilean dry-clean.

(That dirt-stained thing… was fucking SOAKED.)

But what I’d really like to know is…

Where the FUCK
are the works of art
the point to anything other
than Peter’s lowest moment
in the ohhhh-so-true story
that took place that night
in that obscure neck of the
Roman Emporer’s woods?

where in the hell,
(and I mean that literally)
are the works of art
waiting in the wings to tell
the fullest truth of what happened to him on the waters that night?

so much shadow cast
onto culture’s canvases
by artists o’er the age…….
so adept at showing the sinking of The Rock,
his failing,
his falling,
his fearing,
his shouting,
his grasping,
his humbling,
his etc. etc. etc.

Ok. All fair and well. 

However…

If this part is True,
(or even, since this part is True)
where is it’s equal opposite?

If it’s True,
it has one.

Even Shadow has its gifts.

A Shadow exists because of the Form
that casts it when struck by the Light.
It points to something.
Like it, but opposite.


Do the artists not know this?

Do they not know he laughed?

Where is the foundational Form
of that fumbling fisherman
wild-eyed and wild-hearted
fireflies dancing in his eyes
moments BEFORE he dreamed about 
going back and telling all in Caperneum,
the seed turning into something that
swayed him from the present and thus
himself?

Sinkkkk…….

No wonder JC named him Cephas.

See,
judging by earth’s apparent
(and suspicious) lack of art
in regards to the above,
it would appear that, while
having ZERO shortages of
silly Jesus painters on the planet,
we humans are cross-culturally
(and suspiciously) shy on any artesian artifacts
– from Picassos to pinocchios to generic pieces of shit – 
showing the BEST moment of that night
where two backcountry Jews
laughed their asses off together
and made magic
as 10 others watched from the boat,
WATCHED (and remembered the rest of their lives)
when a grown-ass man pointed his bat and aimed
for high-up-and-over-the-center-field fence

as the wind and the waves howled on
as sea and the storm raged about them,
when he, a lone wolf and widowed man,
stood up just in order to step out and stand
over and upon that which threatened to end
his life if not respected as stronger than he. 

Remember the Shire…

Where is the portrayal of that
dyslexic hot-head with a heart of gold
bumbling after a “mentally-insane” and “demon-possessed” Nazarene guru
who stands on waves cheering like a goofy-ass parent sitting courtside at a
2nd-grade co-ed league game sitting courtside and losing his shit when the
kid so special to his heart finally gets his very own basket, all by himself?

Tears of laughter
tears of joy
tears of love
filling up the sea;
a somatic wonder;
bones dancing on water.

Where is the rendering of
the Spirit of wonder and worship
that cooed the hearts of the men in the boat night,
the ones who thought they were better,
more spiritual, more true, more worthy,
holding years-long grudges against
Simon the Unreliable?



Where is the oil on canvas revealing the
staying of awful angelic hands upon sword hilts,
hidden and present on the scene in the thousands,
eyeing the Son of Man like domesticated wolves
hungry and waiting for him to give the command
to protect, defend, carry, deliver, guide, and/or slay?


Where are the charcoal smudges
showing the spirits of Envy and Rage and Fear
swarming the boat and filling up every man inside it,
planting seeds of discord, jealousy, rivalry, and hate
in the wombs of even Zebedee’s very own sons?

Where is the fuller art
the fuller expression of truth
the fullest faithful representation
of the other side of that night and
that Truth? Where is the
hidden-half of the top’s tale,
the above and the below, of
what truly happened
that moonlit night? 


Where is the portrayal
of that wild stormy seance
where serenity surrenders
and a deeper peace from
Confidence arrives
with fear on the left
and faith on the right,
listening and following
the voice of the master
and trusting the heart
contained in his chest?

Does anyone know
how they laughed?

——–

Published by Charlie Young

A blog for my Soul by Luke Sammons

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