UN / RE TOLD
Senior Show
The Garden of Transient Immortality pen and ink 6 ft x 3 ft
I, crosslegged and moored to reality, sit at the crossroad between a dream I once saw and a history I once heard. Together, they become a myth, a story which springs from my lips and pours with ink from my hands. I am Pythia, and I know the folly of man. The cold ocean spits out the names of the mighty heroes that sailed on its surface and weeps at my feet for the forgotten that sank to its floor. The purple echinacea, inviting with its many butterflies, I know will wilt in a month’s time. And yet, I wait in a crumbling temple for the spring fawn and a bastard son to grow. They, the weak and new will become gods and heroes and again grow old and fall. A mountain of bodies they will form, and with each of their dying breaths they whisper their story. So the bastard son writes each down and climbs the mountain. When he falls, the daughter of Demeter picks up his scroll and continues to climb her mother’s flowering back, speaking peace to each corpse. I watch and it fills my mind with wonder, the tragedy, the transience of life and happiness and yet.. and yet humanity is immortal and God shall never die. I, Pythia, watch as the temple turns to sand under my feet.