Lockdown 21 (Asemic call)
by Cheryl Penn
A Painting in 21 layers
Somehow it seems relevant in an unprecedented time such as this, to use words which have no shape we know, no sound we find familiar. If we write ‘death’, it is usual. If we write ‘virus’, the word robs the experience of infection. What is ‘infection’? It’s a word way out there, an utterance which cannot bring to bear the horror of people suffering all over the world. To use a script to speak of personal experience, inner perplexity and the unknown, calls for text which is unreadable and unfamiliar. Each alien day, never known in my lifetime has no English or Afrikaans words I know – I just understand a faster beating heart, a sense of foreboding and an acknowledgement that this world is in the hands of a Creator who intimately knows each heart, and Who alone knows where all this will end. These ‘words’ are shapes and emotive colours, they are reams of feelings and questions. Each ‘paragraph’ asks bewildering questions and ‘sentences’ plead for creation to halt its groaning and reveal the Sons of Morning.
There are no full stops or commas, for thoughts do not need such things. The light days of respite are tha: white and pale, gentle with gratitude. The days move on and blue conversations make their presence, sometimes rigid, most times organic, but mostly with a corona centre. Corona: therein lies confusion: Nimbus/aura/radiance/crown/circle of light – how extra-ordinary, how bewildering is that word for current experience – see what I mean?
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