What is freedom without discipline? A sloppy mess, like a Warhol painting. Piss with a little bit o’ oils. “Ooh, the quintessent frame of culture. Your urine streak there across the titanium white looks like a vice lord sitting legs crossed in a pew, twirling his thumbs while the priest breaks the communion bread. Then the drunk walks into the confessional and calls to the guy next to him if there’s any paper in that one.” Art at its most flamboyant. Ribald. A big bang of a moment which then fades into one of a billion free radicals across the expanding expanse of space. One need only to chew on the word ‘free’ like a ginseng root for a while to know it and ‘discipline’ are inextricably bound as, in this case, ‘ginseng’ and ‘root’.
At the acupuncture clinic I lead BC down the hall as she tells me about the newest book she is reading, ‘Seeing Through Heaven’s Eyes.’ “It’s about how God loves us and when we learn to love Him we can love everyone else as He does.” Her eyes radiant as she shares this with me, and the wrinkles around them form smiles. As a little girl I never trusted anyone who didn’t wear any wrinkles, and having grown up a bit, my mind stays firm with a few folds of its own: I can also entrust loving animals with the tonic for the human condition, and not just Chinese Shar-peis.
© 2012, Amaya Engleking