• What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who only has eyes, if he is a painter, or ears if he is a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he is a poet, or even, if he is a boxer, just his muscles? Far from it: at the same time he is also a political being, constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly? No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war. Pablo Picasso

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Other Blogs

  • CowOfGold Moving
    An update on my previous post: Cow of Gold will have a new home here when the maintainer has a chance to put up the site again (with some revisions, apparently).
  • Minor Call for Nerdy Action
    I know I’ve been profoundly absent for a while – my research stuff has gone a bit by the wayside – but I wanted to bring something to people’s attention: The Egyptian mythology/symbology resource “Cow of Gold is hosted on Wikispaces, which is Going Away. Not all of the pages of Cow of Gold are […]
  • Unsettled Time
    We are living in unsettled time. Wp Rnpt has ended the time between time, the Days Upon the Year in which time is upended and unordered, but time is still not aligned fully. We have space in which action exists, in which we can uphold the world, set ma’at in its place, the leverage to […]
  • Hills of the Horizon: The Past is Another Country
    The problem with extrapolation from history is that nothing is testable. The evolution of a religion over time is not a predictable and easily comprehensible thing, where we can look at a point in time and say, "It was like this then, so it would be like that now." The process of deciding what needs […]

Original Sinlessness

The moment of creation was and is perfect. The first light kindled in darkness was light, not some sort of bastardised version of it.

Everything that is emerges, in all its complexity, from that perfection. The perfection, that correctness, is at the heart of all things; there is always a way to reach it.

Even under whatever filth may be in the way.

Even behind whatever damage may be in the way.

It is possible to be clean.

It is possible to be aligned.

It is possible to celebrate that original wholeness that is the essential nature of the universe. It has to be there, under everything else, because that is the point from which everything emerged.

That reaching for putting things right lurks in the heart, trying to find a way back towards the original purity of the first moment, the first occasion, the place where time came into being. Time spirals out from there; differentiation and the development of diversity spiral out from there; the universe is fractally complicated, but that first moment was the correct moment, and that which came into being is, in its deepest recesses, pure.