and meanwhile, more words

Is it possible to speak without uttering judgement? Language differentiates, separates me from thee and us from all.

In the nonverbal realm, things merely are; the cosmos merely is. Images and feeling - un-contained, unconstrained by definition.

Hence, perhaps, the silence of meditators, monks and mystics.


Crystallization and dissolution.

Shake Your Booty Santa

Now that all the witches and vampires have been put away (tucked into broom closets, crammed back into the basement crypts), the flashing, rattling, Xmas merchandise is out. Trees in store windows, racks of plastic Santas and gaudy red reindeer dusted with glitter.

Last week, I passed a little store in New Preston, CT where the tree was hanging from the CEILING; the base had been glued where a light ordinarily would be attached. The tree top ended about 3 feet above the floor, giving mice and renegade rug rats lots of crawling room. This tree, 100% artificial, was hot pink, perfect for the next money-making holiday (Valentines day), and still without ornaments. Perhaps the Yuletide angels or V-Day cupids didn't like posing for weeks with their heads down and all the blood rushing to their brains.

That was the best piece of Xmas decoration I've seen since encountering the "Shake Your Booty" Santa last year - Push button; gadget screeches some ditty as Santa lifts his butt in the air and his ass jiggles in time to the music.

Performance Art of Yogis

In an email, a friend wrote about Tai Chi: "When I heard that one position was called "Lady at the Shuttle" I naturally assumed it was the shuttle bus she was waving to. However...tai chi is about two thousand years old, so on closer thought, I figured it probably meant the shuttle on a loom..."

My reply: Well, maybe you could do the moves while waiting for the shuttle as well. You could wear a sandwich board (made of light weight foam core) saying "Crazy Lady in Motion", wear a traditional fool's cap, and turn your exercise routine into a kind of performance art......just in case some "do gooder" calls the leering men-in-white-coats to "rescue" the bus stop lady whose strange movements are overturning comfortable definitions of "what is normal"

You know how they (the nameless "They") like to assign days special meanings and labels? National Breast Cancer Awareness Day, National Literacy Day, Earth Day, and so on? Imagine a National Yoga Day or a National Tai Chi Day, when every practitioner or bumbling student does the movements while waiting for the bus, the train, or even that cup of Starbucks ultra-yummy cappuccino? While in line at the supermarket or the post office? For one day, every sidewalk in every city would be the stage for performance art. Maybe even some of the cops would join in.

And maybe this fragment from an email correspondence will have entertainment value for anyone who stumbles onto this blog.

Sparkling dahlias and tie-dyed daisies

The lilacs are blooming; sniff me, inhale a whiff of hope, their fragrances invite, The lilies-of-the valley dangle, dainty white bells ready to chime in harmony with the music of the spheres. Yellow butterflies flit, as befits their species, and red-tailed hawks soar. Dragonflies hop across invisible bands of air. Lacy fern fronds unfurl from nesting fiddleheads. Buttercups blossom in a constellation of gold and dandelion seeds waft up, furry tufts on their journey of haphazard exploration. All's well among the flora and fauna, until one steps inside the supermarket.

Beside the check-out line, they tempt you with candy bars and magazines offering instant sex appeal.. They sell batteries, packaged razors, so many "Oops, I forgot about that; good thing they have it here" and "She'll kill me if I don't bring that home" items. Among the merchandise offered for impulse or last-second-thought sale are flowers. Roses factory-made from thin balsa sheets painted scarlet. Cut real flowers, presented as proper bouquets held in place by shiny silver paper spattered with candy-pink hearts. Mere flowers aren't good enough; they can be found in any garden and thus are too ordinary for the customer waiting behind a cart of potatoes, toilet paper and Friskies. Flowers, if intended for someone or something special, must be made special. The merchandising experts have special-ordered especially sparkly blooms.

Daisies dipped in vats of dye until the petals glow neon orange, lipstick-magenta, hot chartreuse and screamingly bright turquoise. Dahlias sprinkled with glitter until every petal glistens like a brand-new Hallmark card. Some glitter rubs off at the touch, drops onto the clothes like dandruff; the dyed daisies, if held too long, stain the fingers blue, but this is a small price to pay for a message of love or condolence or respect at that special sometime or someplace.

Spring time is a good time for the flora and fauna. At Christmas, when all the flora are hibernating, they sell live poinsettias varnished in several layers of glitter next to plastic reindeer that dance unembarrassed next to a Santa who shakes his booty at the press of a button.

Kvetching Cats

I listen to the joke about the partly deaf but extremely articulate dog who mishears "fetch" as "kvetch", and promptly starts complaining. "Hysterica!"; I laugh.

Meanwhile, my cats fuss at their food and meow "I send you out to hunt for real food, and what do you bring back? No delicious mousebacks. No filets of vole. No grilled toads. You do what's easiest and bring back some factory's left-overs pickled in chemicals, so-called preservatives which are really poisons. You bring back unnamables that someone's labeled 'grilled mackerel' or 'salmon feast', but the unnamable shreds stick between my dainty teeth and sink like balls of elephant dung in my gut. You, you're lazy and cheap and insensitive. My luck to have a lazy, cheap, and callous jailer. Step aside, you stingy lame-brained wretch, and let me taste what you take for yourself!

And so, Tessa the girl-cat nibbles tiny morsels of avocado from my salad and even laps up a bit of the italian salad dressing. The cat who mistook herself for a bunny? But then Marti, the polka-dotted and often comic, master-of-escape, hellraising Houdini cat licks the cottage cheese and smiles a Cheshire grin.

Cat's Paw - an art show

When her own cat decided to use an architectural model as a cat bed, interfering with the artist's work plans, Jacqueline C.MacKenzie deftly turned frustration into opportunity and found inspiration in her pet's pestiness. The giant sculpture of a cat's paw, which protrudes from and totally blocks the entrance to Joker's Child Gallery, features steel claws and white mink covering fiberglass. "When your cat won't let you work, you have to work around your cat", says the artist in a moment of unexpected profundity; viewers crowd the corridors outside the gallery and trip over the claws as they clamor to touch the gargantuan kitty, while critics shout their acclaim:

"Brilliant!" writes Felix O'Pause of New Barker Magazine. "Anything featuring cats is always popular. Combining this knowledge with understanding of the fact that bigger is always better, MacKenzie has created a sure-fire crowd pleaser. Truly American in its extravagance and size, this cat colossus is sure to put money in the kitty and mammoth smiles on the most stoic faces"

Further information on the exhibition and artist can be found at www.the jokerschild.com and www.tail_of_two_kitties.com. The websites also feature new Art Star Marti, the cat who scratched his way to fame to become a giant among his peers, resting snug as a bug in a rug inside the architectural model he mistook for a mere box.

Download the poster:

Allergic to Art?

Strange article about a weird art exhibit:
New Eldorado, New Mexico - May 20, 2008

Fort Neukem, closed for nearly two decades, has become the site of a new public controversy.
Behind barbed wire fences and abandoned sentry posts, ten Artists, calling their group "Screeching Canaries of the New Millennium" or SCNM. hosted an art show as potentially hazardous as military weapons. The show, titled "I'm Allergic To My Art" featured sculptures and flat work made exclusively from materials to which many are now allergic.

P.U.Nod of Cartersville TN wove a vest from unshelled peanuts and gloves from cat fur. "My house is carpeted with shed cat hairs and I always need to keep tissues on hand for the guests who sneeze" says the artist. who needed six months to vacuum up the ingredients of her wearable piece. J.P. Reynolds of Greensboro. NC created gas masks made from lobster claws, unshelled shrimp, fish eyes, live tendrils of poison ivy and moldy cheese. Noting that bees housed in differently shaped containers hum at different pitches, U.G. Craft of Harmonium, CA staged "The Honeybee Jamboree", a short concert in which trained bees hummed "God Bless America"; several bees escaped during the show, making this more dangerous and more memorable than her earlier performance piece, "The Squeaky Toy Jamboree".
Instead of the usual cheese, crackers and wine. visitors to the opening reception were offered antihistamine tablets in a bowl, a plate of syringes pre-loaded with epinephrine, brandy snifters of Nyquil and tablespoons of anti-itch cream. Tissues replaced the customary napkins.
Officials from the CDC, FBI and Homeland Security were called when John Buck, allergic to peanuts, collapsed in anaphylactic shock and was heliported to the nearest hospital. "I survived, thanks to an immediate shot of epinephrine," says Buck, "The artists were prepared for emergencies, but it was still irresponsible to expose the public to such dangers." Many share this sentiment and several visitors to the show are threatening to sue, despite suffering only runny noses and rashes.
Twenty FBI officers in Hazmat suits stormed the show just three hours after its opening, evacuating participants and seizing the art, as evidence and for testing. Homeland Security has barricaded Fort Neukem indefinitely as a biohazard zone. The artists face possible fines, imprisonment and litigation.
"Let them sue us," counters Nod. "My net worth is $300."
"We're the squealing canaries," says Reynolds. "So many more people have allergies today, and more serious ones, maybe because they've been sensitized by all the pollution and food additives. People with allergies are canaries in the mine, warning us what could happen to everyone. Our art is a wake-up call - listen to the canaries!"
Although the original art remains in federal custody, the artists are selling meticulously photographed posters of select pieces through their new website, artallergy.com.

I.M. Noone - WACK-E News

http://axgallery.freeyellow.com/fake1.html

The Dump at the End of the Universe

Where is the Soul Recycling Center? Do souls of corrugated cardboard wait together in a specially labeled dumpster, separate from fragile ones made of glass? Are sturdy but time-rusted ones unloaded into a spiritual scrap-metal heap? Do those radioactive or toxic with rage come pre-packaged in orange bags stamped with "danger!" signs? And when are they relegated to the Cosmic Landfill, being unsuited to further recycling?

According to rumor, the Soul Landfill near Andromeda is nearly full, and due to close soon. The whole universe knows that used-up souls must be dumped somewhere, but the NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) Syndrome keeps any galaxy from taking on the responsibility. Heaps of used-up souls grow higher and wider; clearly, the universe will stink for a long time.

inspiration

Clatter. Tinkle. Hum. The buzz as a million thoughts flee the skulls that had imprisoned them; they squeeze through pores and wriggle out nostrils. Those with glittering wings recognize other dragonfly-thoughts and rush forward, swarming upward in a silver cloud. Firefly thoughts meet firefly thoughts in a convocation of fireflies - a firefly-concept of blinking gold.

One of the humans feels a thought squeeze out his nose, then sees it hop and alight on his finger before it scampers away towards others of its kind. "I wasn't the only person with grasshopper thoughts," he mutters in amazement to himself. "I believed that I was the only one with such ideas and feelings, and that only one thought of such appearance and character existed. But....there were hundreds, thousands of thoughts just like mine; my thought was just one in a common species."

Another human inhales deeply, sucking pollen, oxygen atoms and tiny dragonfly thoughts deeply into his lungs. "What a wonderful, fantastical idea!", he thinks, and prides himself on his brilliance. He has breathed deeply, and is enthralled by inspiration.

Crock pot of love

Some people fall in love with humans. Some fall in love with dogs and cats. Some fall in love with the flowers that symbolize love. I fell in love with a pile of peppers.

They were miniature peppers, each creased and walnut-sized, in a tumble of delicate yellow, ember orange, luxuriating crimson and fragile green on a dark turquoise cloth. I could paint them, honor them by trying to preserve their beauty forever on canvas, but my work could never approach the artistry of nature; my colors would never vibrate with such inner radiance, my shapes wouldn't twist and turn with such intricate elegance. To try duplicating their beauty so lamely seemed like sacrilege.

I could eat them; they were on sale as food. But eating them would require biting into their glowing skin, destroying and desecrating their beauty; to eat them seemed like sacrilege.

I couldn't keep them forever. I needed to eat; eventually, they'd rot. At home, I threw my beloveds into the pot and watched them boil.

Prodigious

Prodigious
(as told by "Steve", a genetically-modified, super-smart monkey)

While the double-wide was parked just outside Dallas, Mark took Arabella to see Dr. Elmore Wonder, the greatest neurologist in Texas. Outside his office, Arabella jabbed my side with a fountain pen and kicked me with the shiny red shoes bought especially for the appointment. Mark hissed for her to "Behave!", then pointed to the brass plaque on the door: M.D., Ph.D. in neuroscience, PhD. in Psychology, Ph.D. in Xenobiology, Diplomate of the American board of Neurology, licensed therapist and clinical counselor, Professor Emeritus of exotic neurodegenerative diseases, certified developmental specialist, Fellow of the Transatlantic Academy of Neuropsychologists; the plaque was almost as tall as me and the string of small letters, capitals, commas and periods after his name advertised his expertise.

"She used to be smart, an infant Leonardo," Mark explained to the doctor, "Now she's not even average, not even ordinary."

Arabella stared blankly at the two men; I shrieked, clapped and bounced up and down on my tip-toes.

"Oh, we don't usually allow pets in here." The doctor scowled at me.

"Oh Steve?," Mark hastened to explain. "He's not a pet, he's Arabella's special companion. She doesn't go anywhere without him."

Arabella reached for a magazine and tried to hurl it at me; i dodged aside and it landed, pages crumbled, on the floor behind the doctor's desk. I darted behind her and pinched her butt while she wailed "Smart ass monkey, smart as monkey, smart ass monkey!" until the doctor silenced her with a lollipop jammed in her mouth.

"So she used to be special? But is no longer extraordinary?" The doctor flicked pages in the open textbook on his desk, leafing past pictures of sliced brain and swollen neurons. "In here,' he mused, nodding towards his book, "We have pictures of tragedy, extraordinary tragedy. Children with rare genetic diseases whose neurons started swelling with fat and exploding before they were six. Children who met the wrong virus and had brains full of holes, like sponges, by age eight. But your daughter?" The doctor shrugged, then raised both palms by his upper arms in an "oh, well!" gesture.

"My daughter's a unique case,"Mark protested, and began tugging out the photographs and news clippings he'd stashed in his pockets.

"Of course," the doctor soothed in the voice of a trained peace-keeper. "She's unique, I'm unique, the ape's unique; we're all genetically different, and so, unique. You'd be surprised how many mothers come in here, convinced that their kids are geniuses, there's an epidemic of misunderstood geniuses in the world today. If the kid turns out average, the mother claims that he used to be brilliant, a prodigy traumatized by the environment, and wants me to restore the kid to his old state. Maybe your daughter's a little slow at reading or has trouble with her times tables; maybe you, being a proud father, thought she was brighter than this. Those are just little glitches. I deal only with exceptional cases; you'd be better off spending your money and time elsewhere."

Arabella, finished with her lollipop, spat the tacky white stick onto the floor and glared.

"Steve's not an ape, he's a monkey," Mark snapped, then dumped a pile of cut-out, yellowed news articles on the doctor's desk. One drifted to the floor; I snatched it up before Arabella could crush it under her grimy soles. "You want proof, here's proof!"

The doctor picked up the clipping closest to him, leaned back, and began to nonchalantly read aloud:

"Arabella Gorman, daughter of Mark Merlin-the-Magnificent Gorman, is only one, but she's no mere pretty babe; when she recited the English, Greek, hebrew and Cyrillic alphabets before an astonished full house at our very own Theater on the Green, she showed all the makings of a future scholar. 'She just sucks up knowledge, sticks her nose in a book and sniffs in information,' her father, a professional magician, commented, 'I don't know how she got the gift; neither of her parents even like to read. I forget everything a minute after I finish the book, so why bother? But she's already reading magazines and can recite a few poems by Longfellow; she didn't do that tonight, because she has stage fright'. When asked about the prodigy's mother, Mark said that she had 'vanished, done another disappearing act, was probably spending his money somewhere in Mexico.' "

The doctor pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the clipping.

"The photo doesn't look much like her," he observed. "Those rows of ribbons and those puffs of lace are hardly slimming. But, even taking the dress into account, this is the fattest baby I've ever seen."

Mark nodded.

"We tried putting her on diets, but nothing worked. She ate more than a sumo wrestler, and always figured out how to open the locks on the refrigerator." Mark sighed. "She lost the weight at the same time as she lost her smarts. Maybe, all along, the fat in her belly was thinking, not her brain."

"Things don't work that way, Mr. Gorman; fat cells don't think." The doctor smiled wryly. "You're a circus man, aren't you?"

Mark nodded. Not just a circus man, he was a magician. Modern magicians had lost many of the powers taught in the secret schools of the alchemists, but they retained the ancients' reverence for mystery. The world was not always how it seemed; sometimes, we saw only facades and reflections of our own delusions. Sometimes, lead was not merely lead; sometimes, fat cells were not merely storage sacks for lard. If a Celtic sorcerer could talk the trees into mid-winter blooming, if an old world witch could convince a prince to transform into a frog, maybe ordinary fat cells could fuse into a lumpy, pulsating mass greater than all its ingredients - an organism that thought and remembered and wondered; a mouthless, limbless organism that communicated its thoughts to its host, who had a mouth to speak and arms with which to implement the ideas in the real world.

Wasn't the brain composed largely of fat? Maybe Americans were wrong to revile fat; perhaps, instead, they should view it with awe, set up societies for the protection of cogitating blubber.

Cupid's Heart Attack

Like a heavy boot stomping his chest. Like a boulder crushing his flesh. Not the shrill, focused pain of an arrowhead this time; this time, the pain throbbed in duller but more insistent waves of destruction. Cupid, at least 2000 years old but with the perpetual grin and body of a three year old, wondered if cherubs could suffer myocardial infarctions and if he, himself, could die of a broken heart.

Does a Brick Shit-House Protect You Against the Fall-Out from Blonde Bomb-shells?

"She's built like a brick shit house."

I've never seen a brick shit house, have no idea how one's constructed. I've glimpsed fertilizer silos, stinking of manure, but these have been wooden or concrete - shit houses, perhaps, but not brick. I've seen other storage facilities - large windowless buildings with electrified steel fences, to keep intruders out or keep the inventory (usually dusty boxes with factory-stamped labels) from bolting for freedom; sometimes, old windows are boarded-up and barred, to keep burglars out and escape-artists in.

Perhaps, a brick shit-house refers to an outhouse, more sturdily constructed than the average. The usual outhouse is a shoddily built shed - made from planks of left-over wood held together by rusty nails, or plastic that dents, then cracks, when enough falling twigs have thumped against it. A hurricane would tear away the planks, suck apart the plastic fragments, and the shit would go flying; a brick shit-house could better withstand the storm.

So how would a woman who's "built like a brick shit house" look? She'd be of large girth, voluminous to contain all the precious wares; she'd show an imposing facade of impenetrability. Barbed wire gouges flesh; protective brick walls crash only when attacked by a crew of demolition experts. To know her innards, one must destroy her and endanger oneself. The curious know to move on; they will burgle another, less formidable, building to explore its heart and soul.

Or maybe, she'd stand alone, a strong independent exiled due to the stench emanating from her core. Flies are drawn to her, as they are to carrion and rot and all that humans would deny; people approach warily and only when they must, gagging and creasing their noses in disgust.

The brick shit house of lusty dreams would be an armored Valkyrie, enigmatic and controlling, or a rural isolate, avoided because she reminds all of that which they'd rather forget.

Next: The devastation wrought when a blond bombshell is detonated and explodes.

To My Drear Sweatheart

We all know of letters that begin "Drear Mary" or "To My Sweatheart", giving deeper (perhaps truer) meaning to terms of affection. And so:


Misspelling For Poets

Sometimes creative misspelling
Can be literally compelling -
Then new coinages come to light
Because a word's not writ quite right......

For example, without intention,
I typed in place of mere "detection"
The more specialized "dirtection":
Or "To spot all dust upon inspection".

So, for hands that tremble in true terror
Of committing one more doltish error -
Recall, despite persistent perspiration,
That mistakes can stimulate inspiration;
The letter, like the person, which doesn't fit
Sometimes gives birth to great wit.

from the land of the gray

Every dog has his day
And in the dark, all cats are gray.
If the cat and mouse both are gray
How tell hunter from the prey?

By smell, of course. Mice smell musty, cats smell like rain-cleansed woods. And sound: When was the last time you heard a mouse purr? In the dark, in the night, in the land of the gray, present and future are defined by a squeak and a whiff.

subspecies: broccoli artificialis (& nanotechnology trout)

Overheard comment: "In my daughter's kindergarten class the kids had an argument about whether there were two kinds of tomatoes, the ones that farmers grew and the kind that were manufactured in plastic boxes".

Tomato naturalis versus Tomato artificialis.



Ode to Health Food:

Give me soy bean burgers, unsalted rice cakes,
Tangy spinach for my midnight snacks;
Crunchy vitamin pill, when will power breaks,
Prized for the calories that it lacks....

Oh it's yummy, yummy, yummy
For a medi-coated tongue and tummy
Broccoli gurgles gaily in my guts-
Oh joy, oh rapture, I'm no blithering rummy;
I resist butter, beer and butts.

Surgeon General Warning: Eating Babes is Bad for Your Health

modest proposal.....

Nowadays, we're too health conscious to eat infants; all that baby fat would surely raise cholesterol levels. And, if we take a lesson from our ancestors, we could surely make use of the kids after only a few years of being drained by them - as menial labor in factories, screwing caps on bottles, or as house cleaners for working couples. Two, three, four houses per day, let them work from sun-up to moon-down. And when they keel over, kaput, dead, batteries drained, at age 10 - we can say that we've metaphorically eaten one child a thousand times, sucked all the juice from his flesh and soul until be could be no more.

Better yet, we could eat our golden oldies, a.k.a. golden moldies, a.k.a. senior citizens, a.k.a. social security leeches, a.k.a. Medicare moochers. Scientists would have to develop an especially strong tenderizer, to be applied before packaging, if their deltoids, biceps, trapezius muscles and untender-loins are to be sold as grade A steak to humans of discerning palate. If such a tenderizer isn't developed, the meat, gristle, osteoporotic bones and degenerate cartilage can be pulverized and served to cattle with the usual swill of manure peppered with antibiotics; prime cuts might be added to Alpo stew, with its "variety of meats for a canine's variety of nutritional needs". Then, in answer to the question "Whatever happened to Granny?", one can honestly answer "Granny, she turned into a real cow", or "She went to the dogs in the end". About the stocky grandfather, one may exclaim proudly "Yes, he was a real hunk" - as in "a hunk of meat".

Merchants and dieters might retort "Haven't you seen the latest version of Atkins? It's all the rage. One can gobble all the fat one wants, just stay away from that nasty pasta", followed by the jingle:

Baby toes, dipped in cheese -
Yummmm, they're finger-lickin' good;
Tender, more bound to please
Than greased chicken ever could.

When the price of beef begins to soar
And you must serve as host -
Lure kiddie to your kitchen door
And serve guests toddler roast.

dream Dad

from a dream:
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.

"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."

I stared back, speechless.

"It's a letter. From your father."

I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.

"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."

I paused a long time, thinking.

"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."

I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.

"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."

The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?

"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."

"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."

"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."

longing

And when the royals are feeling stressed
By popparazi and the press,
They long to be like average Joe
Who can freely come and go.
That Joe breathes sooty factory air
And strains in pain to pay the fare
The royals would not want to know.
For if the mundane doesn't glow
Where could blue royals long to go?

Soul Jam

"I promise not to hide my face, if you promise not to suck up my soul."

But the inside of this camera is already filled with too many souls - souls packed too closely together to writhe and wriggle; souls sweaty and gagging from the stink of so much perspiration, souls deaf from one another's screams. You couldn't squeeze another soul in, unless you let one of the prisoners out. But that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Not when the freed soul is also deaf and mad. Not when its muscles are cramped from such long crowding and its hot wet skin is overgrown with mold; such a soul might seek vengence, punitive damages from any photographer for the years of freedom it can never reclaim. Best, then, to let rotting souls rot; best to keep trapped souls in their cages.

Photography will be safe as long as imprisoned souls stay shut in, and picture takers don't buy new cameras.