How does one paint social structures? They are so complex, so beyond anyone's understanding. Disparate forces pushing and pulling in different directions, independent of each other, not working together, mostly oblivious of the others existence until they meet in this reality, this common medium in which we all exist. The pleasure or pain derived from an event in this common medium is seldom the same for all players.

This work, painted in layers, one layer on top of another, the top layers covering and obscuring the layers beneath, forms a kind of narrative receding in time that can be peered into. Two main narratives form, in the layers. One that seems to speak of nature, and the other about a grid or artificiality. They seem to intertwine and contend, through time, as they emerge out of the dark forgotten depths.

The difficult relationship we have with the symbolic order, the exterior, the rules of society. Positioned against the inner self, the real inner self, the true inner self. Here I am. Do I lack? Do I need something I don't have? Shall I go and get it? Is God all I need? Love is its own reward. To love is the highest reward. God is love. Love in order to love. Love needs nothing exterior to it, it is its own purpose, it is complete in itself, it lacks nothing. God is love. We are on our journey.

I sometimes see the pervasive vertical pattern as speaking of obscure background systems. If the top layer represents the present and each of the preceding layers represent the past, how far back in time can I see? Each successive receding layer becomes harder to perceive as it fades back in time. If the preceding layers represent the background systems upon which my present rests, how much of this accumulated vision can I really perceive? I cannot view history from my moment in the same way as those that came before me. The background systems, upon which my present life is racked, are to a large extent irretrievable because of their inherent subjectivity. These background systems, upon which my existence is often awkwardly stretched out, are difficult to detect and to describe.

Carefully, cautiously handling something precious, the exquisite object, the valuable object: my relationship with God. Each repetition like music, like a variation on a theme, healing, consoling, gentle, like growth on a dry place. Each repetition different, with its own character and mood, developing the narrative, describing the relationship. Each difference revealing more and by degrees making it possible to see.

When I look at this image I see water, and layers of paint. The effect of seeing these two things simultaneously is magical. I look at the water, the distortions of the waves, the large movements and the small movements upon the large movements. I see the primal movements upon which the smaller movements move. How far in can I see? How many layers can I penetrate? How much of the deep layers can I sense, or see, or think? I wonder about the mysterious deep layers, and the obscure large movements.

If presently we have learnt to see in pixels, and our ancestors perceived differently, say in waves, then all of history to us is seen in pixels, and not as our ancestors perceived in waves. It is sublime to lose something so important as history, irretrievably. It is sublime to live at the end of an age, with a metaphorical comet hurtling overhead, through the atmosphere, a big fireball to bring in a new age. The metaphorical impact, marking the transition from one age to another, would take place over decades, or centuries. It would be incredibly sublime and decentralising to humans if the impact stretched out over millennia, since we would then be a very small blip on the timeline. Below the pixels, in this painting, are waves. The pixels float upon the waves, slowly moving up and down as the waves dictate. The accumulated vision of the waves slowly make their large movements, like ancient metaphorical giants. It is sublime to live upon a giant.

The flowers in this painting anthropomorphise in my perception and appear as faces. They look startled, scared, fearful, helpless, powerless, bound. Some of their mouths form an 'o' as they express these feelings. Some seem brash, brutish, spoilt, with bulging eyes, giggling, stupid and silly. This makes me think of the famous painting by Hieronymus Bosch, 'The garden of earthly delights' (1490-1510). Little creatures with big eyes and teeth giggle, laughing at me as if to say, 'What are you looking for? Did you think you would find it here?', the o's of their mouths now in mocking awe.

You may look at me, for as long as you need to, until you feel that you understand me better, my purpose, and what I do for you, and for everyone. When I look at you, or anyone, I see a part of God. When you look at me, you see a part of God. When I look at you and when you look at me, we see something of God. It may not be what we expected. Can we tell where we end and God begins? We have to regress before anyone can understand us, we have to go back. In this painting, the light areas envelop the dark areas, perhaps trapping them like fossils in time. Can we go like archaeologists, and sift through history, actual history, as opposed to perceived history? Is that possible?

Your words touch me so profoundly they make me want to live, they are so full of life they make me feel like I want to live, like I don't want to miss out on life, on you. In this painting the light is like moonlight - equal, reflected, luminous, coruscating light. There are no deep dark forgotten depths. Everything is built on the light, on the eternal present with all time apparent at once, simultaneously presented to my consciousness, to my mind, to my being, within the great sea of simultaneous eternal light without time, like being in water, no gravity, no up, no down ... this suddenly grows traumatic, painful and disorienting. Did I take it too far ... am I not suited for this ... am I not made to experience the full light without time? Do I require slices of time, that I can understand? Will I be like this forever?

You are weaving a chamber for joy, that can hold joy, that is capable of holding joy and happiness, and love. You are reworking the threads, repairing the damaged ones, the damaged weave, the interwoven threads, intertwined with the world, extracting the foreign matter, reworking the foreign matter for good, making a strong weave, creating a tough weave, but yet a silky smooth soft weave too. Here I am, do I lack? I exist in your completeness, I exist in your fullness, I exist in your love.
Translation, transformation, formation, form, reality. From one reality to another, from one world to another, from one being to another, the ecstasy of translation, transformation.
Technology is indistinguishable from magic. Advanced technology is becoming more and more indistinguishable from old magic, it is, or is becoming the same thing, a becoming, an ecstatic becoming. A consciousness beyond the body, a being contained electronically in data, ones and zeros, electrical impulses, a being contained in a vessel of electrical impulses, chemically balanced, a chemical situation, is a balanced being of electrical pulses. Does a screen live? In what do the chemical electrical pulses move, through what channels? To shine, shining, to be sensed by an eye and translated into a vision by an organ of electrical pulses, to be acknowledged by a being, a sentient being, a spirit, a soul. One body makes a shining that is acknowledged by another body, from one organ of electrical impulses to another.
Signals or signs indicate or imply a sentient being, a living form. They would be completely meaningless to something else, unnoticed. Machines mostly do not make signs that we can understand, the signs they make are not for us, they are for them. Machines make signs for other machines.
Emanations or signs that mean something, signs that make love, are the only meaningful sign, the only sign that is not vain. An artwork can be seen as a sign that makes meaning for a human.
The post-human is not for humans, this world reaffirms the existence of a reality that was made for humans, the 'fittingness' of this reality for human beings is not coincidental but designed, and is awesome when one realises how easily the minutest change or contingency could have lead to a reality not for humans. It reaffirms a benevolent creator.
This is a painting as a machine that creates emanations or meaningful signs that can be acknowledged and decoded by a human being, and thus it is a sign that makes love.

The smell of the inside of my nose is, thankfully, pleasant to me. The feel of my touch on my skin is pleasant to me. The air just hits me right, here. The fit of my environment to my existence. Here I am, I feel. It feels pleasant, it fits, 'fittingness', there is a word for this, the compatibility of my being to reality, suggests intelligent design. I can breathe air and my body converts it into energy. Can I feel the energy going through my body? Yes, I can, it feels good. It may just as well have felt bad, or painful, but it feels good. There is design in that. It could so easily and so completely become overwhelmingly painful, by the slightest change in the arrangement. Everything has to be just so.

I am struck by this one's beauty, the unassuming atmosphere it creates, the world this patch of field creates, what it suggests and what it suggests beyond the frame. It seems like a fragment of another world. The flowers keep me tenuously toward this patch of field and this reality, but the dots start to speak of galaxies and space, out there, never experienced. All this I can see, but only by my scale. I cannot escape my view, my scale. I cannot escape my allotted existence and my allotted perception. I am made for this perception, this perception fits me, anything else would probably cause insanity, pain, torture or oblivion. If I could experience the perception of God, would it destroy me? In this painting, I do not try to hide the brush marks, or construction marks. I inevitably and unconsciously edit them out in my perception, though, to create a unified and acceptable image. So I imagine, that perhaps, even if I had the apparatus of God, I would unconsciously edit out things that opposed my preconceived notions about what makes a unified and acceptable image, and thus my perception, at any point in time, would be limited by me and my development up to that point.

A drop of water falling from the sky, hits a flower. The flower winces. The stalk bends. The raindrop deforms and wraps itself around the flower. The flower loses a petal or two. The raindrop divides into smaller drops that splatter outward in all directions. The raindrop transforms into splatter, the full moment of its glory, of its impact. The raindrop disintegrates, spends itself, spends its force. Some of it runs gently down, now caressing the stalk, some of it falls down to the ground, where it makes another strike, less potent this time. The flower rises again as the stalk recovers. It oscillates up and down, then hovers, and glistens with water beads, as if it were now wearing jewellery.

The forgotten realm, the things we have forgotten and cannot understand anymore, but that we once were able to. The edge, the boundary between the remembered and forgotten. The things unattainable now, but that we once did understand, things we are capable of understanding, but that we now don't, because we need to remember a series of other things first, before we can understand that which was forgotten. What monsters live in the deep forgotten depths? What did we forget there, and were we meant to forget?
A thought and the feeling that accompanies it. I write something when I get a certain feeling with the thought. I allow my feelings to guide the writing. I should just write the thought that I have, whether I feel a certain good feeling or not, go beyond feeling. Or does feeling form part of an inbuilt guidance system that will lead me to where I need to go?
In the small white flowers I detect some rudeness in some of the dots that show dicks and middle fingers, grinning, giggling, grimacing, their naughtiness, their fun, juvenile, immature, unfiltered nature. The humanness of these dots, the sublime humanness, so distinguishable from machine dots, a different kind of pattern that humans make, a recognisable difference that can be identified when looked at.
Can I possibly think anything new about this image on this fifteenth repetition?
A stream running through, adorned with beautiful small white flowers. The sublime in a prosaic patch of field. A small patch of ground, rain falling, little puddles forming, that is all. Then why does it give such a sublime experience?

This artwork has a right to determinate existence only in so far as it exists for the human mind. It does not exist for itself independently. This artwork is a shadow, and together with other artworks, composes a shadow-world, mere schemata, that secures, for us, satisfaction for higher and more spiritual interests. It summons an echo and response in the human spirit. The sensuous is spiritualised in art, or in other words, the life of 'spirit' comes to dwell in it under a sensuous guise. This artwork originates from a productive activity of mind and has undergone a passage through 'mind'. This content is only able to come to knowledge, to us, under this sensuous garb. (from Hegel's philosophy of fine art)

This is my first repetition of this image. How does a soul disintegrate? What would the disintegrated soul look like? How would it manifest, appear, or come to knowledge? Motivated by lack, else, why move? Motivated by love, or lack of love. How would the disintegrated soul experience love? How would it experience beauty? Repeat the creation of one's being into what it was supposed to be. Recreate one's being. Does it need to be recreated; taken down, scraped back, or painted over, and repeated?

God is weird. The meaning of 'weird' is 'spiritual'; to indicate something supernatural, uncanny, unearthly, strange. God has an element of strangeness. A relative term, 'strange', a construct that requires a context of the 'normal'. God's being is eccentric to normal, to our idea of normal. These painted flowers emerge from a rigidly patterned surface. They erupt, or obtrude, surprisingly, maybe even with an element of unwelcomeness. They resemble flowers enough to be recognised as such, but not enough to substituted for real flowers. If one were to see these painted forms growing in the garden, they would certainly be strange. Their painted quality keeps them in the realm of painting, which is a space that is often weird and uncanny.

In one of the Star Wars films, there is a scene where the senate, seated in an immense stadium, hundreds of levels high, are being entertained by glowing and floating ethereal forms, beautiful, alluring and mesmerising. The forms were moving gracefully, fluidly, in a dance, caressing and touching, performing to a warm and appreciative audience. This painting reminds me of that scene. I saw it long ago, but I remember that scene.

This is my fourth repetition of this image. Two painted flowers float on water. They must be basking in a bright hot sun, reflected in the petals. The coruscating water moves around them, as they move, rhythmically, up and down, making waves, rippling out, to mingle with the other waves. The movers move, causing waves, that interact with the waves of other movers. Ennui inhabit their dark centres, that form enquiring eyes filled with tears and sadness, and fallen imperfection. They solicit each other for something good, for a righteous path, that would allow this pair of sad weary souls a righteous desire.

This is my fifth repetition of this image. Bright sunshine streams down on these two water lilies, which obligingly reflect it back, warm, dazzling, blinding, bright light. They blaze in a pool of water, making waves as they move up and down, in a dance with each other, making ripples, making little waves, just shining and bobbing up and down. They seem so happy. They display themselves, they put themselves out for display, they manifest beauty and happiness in the bright hot sun.

These flowers are glowing rather brightly, they evoke the experience of looking into headlights, approaching at night, blinding, attention grabbing. The petals, radiating outward from a centre point, nudging the eye towards the centre, dazzling, hypnotising.
Glowing at the height of love, ecstasy, happiness, joy; in a turquoise pool. Life-giving water, all around, a marriage, a consummation, falling in love, floating in love, drifting in love, feeling love, all around. Transformed, changed at the moment of this climax, forever, becoming one spiritually, being with the Father, as one, joining and becoming one, consummating, becoming whole, finding the missing piece, filling the gaping hole.
The moment of climax, the transient moment of ecstasy, short-lived, momentary, temporary, temporal, in time; able to be assumed by the cognitive faculty in a split-second; the whole complex experience assimilated, effortlessly, in a split-second, a pop, a repeating pop, experienced only fully when inter-spaced by intervals of normal time, not sustainable over a long period, an instant pop. The shallows and depths of Pop.
The flower, TS Eliot's symbol for the experience of sex; pure sex, sex as it was intended, as lovemaking. It evokes the loss, the lost pure experience, and the bitter-sweet longing for paradise, before the corruption, before the fall, into this world.

Discovering what these local objects manifest, imbuing them with significant meaning. Why are they here? Science and naturalists would perhaps suggest that they are inured in the dynamics of accruing and expending energy, that this plant has pushed the boat out , as it were, producing these flowers, for reproduction, in the hope of achieving its continuation. The fear of dying. The survival instinct.
Dusk or dawn, the light is fading away, or starting to stream in, who can tell?
Ecstasy wanes. A recalibration, a calibration, periods of melancholy are needed to calibrate the threshold of appreciation.
A cold pair of lover's awkward moment. The intensity has diminished, just a little, but it feels like they have jumped off a cliff and lie crushed at the bottom; or drowned in the sea, so cold, so hard, so loveless, so sad; the moment after climax, a moment of abyssal ice. A yawning abyss opens up between them; was this wrong? Have we disintegrated slightly? Have we come a hair undone?
Pearly opalescence.
What kind of insect am I that looks down upon these two flowers on the pond at dusk? What fairy am I? What wisp? Who am I here in this world? what am I?; ... and why am I looking at these white flowers, in the gloomy dusk, with the light fading away? What lover has pricked my heart? ... and why do i look on in envy? What grief has passed?
Will our child be happy? Were we happy? Was this wrong? Were we slaves to something else's desire? ... to something else's will? Our sweet child, evil, will stumble through this world like we did. What will change for it? Will it not be worse? What have we done?
If I could see my reflection in the water, what would I see? What would I be?
Water-lilies by moonlight on a warm summers night, buzzing with insects and chirping with frogs, opening for the moon.
The spooky atmosphere in this one. Flowers of the dead: the ghostly midnight water-lilies. Do I see you?

Hypnotic eyes, a pair of big yellow snake eyes. Petrifying, becoming petrified, unable to take action. Holding the gaze, being looked at, being recognised, becoming known, becoming aware of the 'Big Other'.
Strange flowers from another nature, a different nature to this common one. Are they a presentation of the imagination? This painting snows and flickers, questioning its authenticity, its appearance is like a digital screen. There is a sense of loss of the real, the real replaced with the image on a digital screen, evoking the sadness inherent in that.
Two souls, two lovers, union, communion, in an artificial field of pixels.
Are they real? Do they exist in some reality? Is this a projection of me in some different form or realm? What could this mean? What are all the meanings? Searching for all the meanings. There are so many, a plethora. There seems to be an infinity in this one, it is open, multivalent, all meanings condensed onto this presentation, or representation, its manifold meanings there all at once - Art.
Striving, the attempt at being, the failure, or the limited glory, at the false attempt. The imperfection and stunted being, fallen from grace, living in grace, being in grace, within a field of grace.
Being transformed, realising potential growth, preparation, the manifestation and physical appearance of that, and something about you. Striving for ascension, and the moments of transformation.
Impatience. Beam me up Scottie.

Autumn burnt field warmer colours coming through cooler ones fading away. What would happen if I took each of those marks as frames for an animation, what would we see? What would manifest. Describe. Two flowers, green blue, imperfect, mechanical printed quality, yet hand painted, dark centers, complicated complex array irregular array of black red and white pixels, determination, aggressiveness, anger, ambition, mysterious, deep, universe-containing. They float or sway on their unseen stalks, above a burnt, recently burnt, field, spring, or autumn, field, winter-spring. Unearthly, unusual, spiritual, another realm reality. The animation would seem like someone just walking, merely walking, animated, living, just walking, with a background, with a blue figure in it, that is sometimes separate, sometimes within the white figure, a hooded Eskimo, jumping hopping skipping, changing into different people, chatting, to a crowd. The flowers float, or sway, on their unseen stalks, above the great nothing-nothingness, the never ending story. They don't make me think of water drops, they are not round enough, liquid enough, they have too much structure to be water droplets. Beam me up Scottie, the moment of transportation, of transformation, the disintegration and the reintegration, rebuilding, destruction, rebuilding, a never ending cycle, up down, down up, overall trajectory, what is the overall trajectory? What is being built? what is being destroyed? The great nothingness is taking over, there they stand, can't you see them? in their neat untidy little rows, all in a grid, all next to each other, chatting, walking, hopping, skipping, changing into different people. Why not? it has no meaning. Godless. God, you are the source of meaning. The creeping great nothingness, over this world, this reality, the minds in the minds of your lost children. Winter-spring, alien different cold crisp beautiful hard suffering hard-won endurance, requiring endurance, hope, glimpse of the world beyond our experience, reach for it, transcend, the glimpse that keeps me going, the only thing that keeps me going, I need it so much now, I lose track of why so quickly, when I am out there the great nothingness creeps in so quickly. Nothing-for-nothing exchanges in nothing for nothing exchanging nothing for nothing trading in nothing. The unconscious substrata, play, intuition, within the unconscious substrata, ho, how do you manifest? how to bring your thoughts to the surface? the unconscious substrata, play, the imagination, with its intuition, has free play within the unconscious substrata, that raises the unformed pre-concept, proto-concept, out from the substrata, to the surface, the intelligence becoming aware of something there, but not knowing exactly what. Interrelationship, imagination, and intelligence, to create concepts, never before come to knowledge, having determination, 'de'-termination, termination, that have difference from other, a determined, 'de'-from, deduction, determined, terminated, termination, difference, deferred, deduction, from the material, raised up by the imagination, from the subconscious subtrata, the pool of memories, and thought, and mind.

snow and flicker
nebulous flowers made of fairy wings
they make me think of love
they are the key to love thinking
dim, uncertain, in flux, in development
I am writing songs about my life now, and singing songs about my life a year ago -- Billie Eilish
Lies, there will always be an audience for lies, the flesh attracted to whatever is a lie, avoiding the truth, the latent flesh, avoiding the judgement, avoid the judgement, be free to do whatever I will.
I will? What makes me will? Where do my desires come from?
Desire: 'de' - from, 'sire' - the father
A little boy, just kicking a can, being lead to wherever the can goes; aimlessly, hopelessly, listlessly.
'List' is a synonym for 'desire'.
Hectic scenes of things slathered in semen, sex, over the top, perverted, pointless, beyond the pleasure of the orgasm, just the avoidance of judgement. Feeling better with testosterone. The visual manifestation of the sex drive; adolescent, primitive, stupid, playful.
Swimming in water,
at a waterfall,
waterfall,
falling water,
a waterfall breeze.
CMYK colours, dots endless people swimming in water drowning in a flood
Stalling, not thinking anything new, thinking the same things over, in repetition, repetition, a circle of thoughts, a pool in which I swim around. New water enters, and the old waters are forgotten. What have I forgotten? Playing in the pool, playing in the pool.
I don't want to think of sex, these flowers need to be something else.
I don't want to think of sex, what is driving me? Where does my will come from? Is it ok with you for me to have these sex-stuff thoughts? Where does it begin to seem like something good? That you would approve of?
I don't want to think about sex, when I am trying to think about you.
Can these flowers mean something else?
Or is there something that needs fixing? I should be able to speak about sex without feeling this avalanche of shame, and going red in the face.
the eitch the witch cast a spell on me
can it be deprogrammed dispelled deprogrammed ho?
how? repeat repetition is involved here, somewhere the repetition of what? what do I need to repeat?
how could she do this to me? it would seem so weird, disgusting, awkward to be around, to be constantly distracted, ignoring the elephant in the room.
I feel trapped here
I want out, I am not feeling well, I am not going to go anywhere now, best to focus on someone else's train of thought. Is it simple? that loving feeling? sex and love? love and sex appropriation, pull push ho? How ho? Show me love ho. despicable whore shameful whore abomination
within that whore, there is a being
At the very most profound reaches of her, there is the part of me that is in her, and that is the part I need you to love for me.
I think I have been distracted from love-swimming
drowning in the baseness of something, the absence of love
I find the part of you that is in them/me
and I see them/me
I do not know what savage blossom only under the pitting hail
Of your inclement season could have prospered?
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Between any two points there is an infinity.
What would you like me to do? Drone of an aeroplane The plaintive voices of old people The schlep of shoes over the floor The male pleasure of testosterone fuelled anger "Hoekom sleep jy jou pantoffels so?"
I want to explore and enquire my continuous lived experience.
The sundew plant, a carnivorous plant, with beads of sticky fluid, to which insects get ensnared. The plant folds slowly around the insect, and digests it.
Disintegration under your inclement season What savage blossom could bloom in your inclement weather?
The end, the bottom of the pool, the same experience repeated, repeated, the limited capacity of thought, the minuscule difference in thought patterns.
Two flowers floating, disembodied spirits, lovers, floating, disintegrating flowers, in a field of teal. Blue, rain, dawn or twilight? dim fading light. Rustle of water, rain drops, wet existence in inclement weather, in a trying universe. "It's the bloom, despite the grid, that makes it beautiful to me", I thought. The crushed existence, the awkwardly stretched, in a digital storm.
A discrete storm of compartmentalised, determined concepts Anomalies within the field of determined concepts Formation formation creation creation
Out of the undifferentiated amorphous mass, the grey gloop, the teal water, the pool of the unconscious, rising to the surface, as vague intuition, and then piercing the surface, rising out, and then floating; gaining a determined existence, apart, a partitive particle, a conscious thought.
Why? Why determine? If everything was one, was everything not happy, content, satisfied? Was there some kind of lack, to motivate a change, an effort?
A fiercely intense burning eye, or star; a consciousness, a determined personality, with its own free will, fluttering on fairy wings.
My home, the other, inside, outside, me, not me. Intricate lace-work, a network of nerves, through which current, light, electricity, electrons, electro-magnetic waves, coarse, pulse, impulse. God, creator, beings, creatures Nurturing, caring, presiding over, taking care Electronic circuits, gel conductors, transparent organic matter, flesh, eyes, insect eyes. The entire flower, a floating magic.

Endurance and decline, the tension of two things simultaneously at work. That is beautiful somehow. They look so different from their original referents, which no longer exist. Have they transformed into fairies, and are they living here now?
Ghostly ancestors, other mind, other voice? The speaking of myself, but also the other. The ancestor, the ghost, the spirit? The manifestation of a ghost or spirit, its appearance, in its sensuous disguise. My body.
It impresses upon me that the flowers in this painting are flying forwards, with the background passing by, seemingly, as vertical stripes. The flowers are inured in an atmosphere, travelling through the air, the wind, the storm, the inclement weather. What savage bloom, under your inclement weather, could prosper? And that is how I feel about us sometimes. We are all savage blooms, beautiful sublime savage blooms, crushed, awkwardly stretched, but not destroyed.
I have forgotten how I painted this exactly; was this the one where the turquoise pooled too much? No, its the next one; I made the centres too bold in this one; corrected that in the next one. Walking on a path determined by my aesthetic sensibilities, intuitive feeling of 'this is beautiful' and 'this is not', and striving for the beauty. When everything becomes all-beautiful, it collapses, and I am nauseated. Can I not handle all that beauty? Why does it not resonate? It seems too fake, and then it becomes kitsch, and no longer beautiful.
The viewing position of the viewer is voyeuristic, the protagonists are oblivious to viewer's existence, the viewer is a spectator, looking in on the drama of two souls, a couple, enduring and declining, through life, being, existence; like seeing game in the park. Witnessing the existence of another existence, other, different, mysterious.
Redetermining the extreme boundaries, recalibrates inner boundaries.
The vertical pattern in the background, in this one, evokes the idea of ancestors, a stadium of passed soul's, looking on, witnessing, spectating. It implies the same role for the viewer. It identifies the viewer as an entity in the act of looking into another realm, another reality; and encountering, and experiencing the ecstasy of encountering, another realm. How would they move, how would they be?
I create, you sustain, and you want me to do this.

World earth tension
striving push pull open close
positive symbioses
higher fuller glory
take each other to a higher fuller glory
Temple space for the god
space for you
your will
me guided by you
Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling
Not finished, too much in the way, blocking entry into the presence, or not a space, not a world, not a temple.
Endurance and decline, two souls, travelling through life, moving forward, fast!
Oh! My tomb, my chamber of death. Am I a mummy, a dessicated skeleton, the dust of my cells, the dust of my flesh, my disintegrated husk. Oh! Incomplete expression, half built temple, thou hast a crack through thy middle, a lamentable crack which cannot be overlooked. Blast! Oh! How sweet it was yesterday, your colour glows wrong, somehow. You deny me entry. I am sorry, it is all my fault. But I shall fix thee, and you shall shine, and oh! what a lovely light you will be. You were forming well, it was but the last glaze, that caused your demise, that brought about your demise. Oh! Failure! How it stings my heart, how keenly it stings my heart. My tomb, watching from my tomb, my burial place, watching from my state of death.
Children, memories, lovers, continuity, my immortality in you, recreated, rebirthed, rebirth.
Two souls entering the trial, the combined souls, enduring and declining, blessing and curse, doomed to repeat, mortal men doomed to repeat, doomed to fail, doomed to repeat.
Cracked through the middle, my darling child. Yet, there is something ordained about your form.