For an ant this is a cathedral. The ant wants entry. Roots are comic, like religion. The confidence of soil, The ant wants entry. The sweetness of light, its seeds The ant wants entry. How well the roots fit into the soil – The ant wants entry. Death violates us, exposes orifices. Back to your roots:
It’s being treated as a pariah.
It waits for a sound –
religion is about overhearing.
Everything invisible is comic –
light, love, vapour, god, ghost.
And roots, hidden, like breath.
the openness of water,
the stubbornness of pebbles.
These the ant knows.
But all old knowledge is useless –
it only lights the street, not the house.
and scales, gives the soil chronology.
For anything outside light has nothing,
no skin, no appetite, and no history.
space as well-utilised as in a hotel room.
Its tightness, without excess, like a sentence.
There’s no centre, as if it were oil.
Roots shrivel, the soil releases its prisoner.
Ants rush to occupy the slum.
Converts, they treat roots as outcasts.
A new religion is born.
—
Image: Gustaf Broms makes images through performance and video, as a tool to explore the process of Being. This image from the video installation, ‘The Tree’, was an attempt to look at a civilisation in sync with the rhythm of seasons. To see the human drama as cyclical movements, breathing in, breathing out. orgchaosmik.org
