Is there a typology of the sacred that generates itself through the forces of torrent and outpouring (that which spills infinitely, bleeds everywhere), and then another that manifests only through processes of containment and drought (that which wastes nothing, overflows nowhere)?
And yet, far from all vertical meditations, we find ourselves confronted with a horizontal universe of black nets strung together as suspension bridges (there can be only unstable travelers/passengers here).
There can be only one, in the end. The rest, like the cobra used in ritual suicide by ancient Egyptian pharaohs, become nothing more than a serpentine sacrifice. The tangled martyrs of the frenzy.
The bog is a place of contradictions: it distorts and transforms that which enters its depths, yet also preserves it. While the bodies remain largely intact, they emerge from the bogs somewhat distorted—their skins shriveled and tanned.
The engravings are done by scratching the rock, then applying color in order to make silhouettes of moving images, flashing riders on animals we call camels, or dromedaries.
Beneath the lake, we slowly realize a psychic register stranger even than that of “the cellar.”
“As if the sky were beneath the cyclist’s feet and the laws of gravity had fallen asleep,” one says.
