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There is a calling in the clay, the raw potentiality, half-formed, clay drawn up from the edge of the Nun where possibility is close enough to reality to be moulded by the hands. That ancient flood is in me, in my calling, and it softens the earth that I work and shape.
I hear my Father humming as I work, as He works in his perpetual shaping of the clay; His wheel spins, and He hums, amiably, quietly, diligently, and he shapes forms. He makes souls, drawing up possibility and giving it form. I make images. Images of spirits, images of gods; when the clay I use is words, images of people. All drawn up from the edge of possibility where it still flows, in minds and hands and in the memories of endless oceans that the rivers still know.
The clay sits out to dry before firing, and slowly, possibility seeps away, the malleability of potentiality settling into the actual. Someone's form is there -- a person or a god or I know not what -- someone is remembered, someone is created.
I remember seeing once a belief expressed that the icon-makers have something they can offer the community of the fellow believers -- that power to embody Names once more, even Names that are not, tsst, commercially viable. To strengthen those Names, to make them remembered, to make them known.
Do the Names of Netjer recognize other Names and call them cousin?
Ma'at is in the remembering of names.
I make statues, because my Father makes men. I write lives, because my Father makes souls. Dua Khnemu! High of plumes, sharp of horns; Father of fathers, Mother of mothers! Dua Khnemu!
I hear my Father humming as I work, as He works in his perpetual shaping of the clay; His wheel spins, and He hums, amiably, quietly, diligently, and he shapes forms. He makes souls, drawing up possibility and giving it form. I make images. Images of spirits, images of gods; when the clay I use is words, images of people. All drawn up from the edge of possibility where it still flows, in minds and hands and in the memories of endless oceans that the rivers still know.
The clay sits out to dry before firing, and slowly, possibility seeps away, the malleability of potentiality settling into the actual. Someone's form is there -- a person or a god or I know not what -- someone is remembered, someone is created.
I remember seeing once a belief expressed that the icon-makers have something they can offer the community of the fellow believers -- that power to embody Names once more, even Names that are not, tsst, commercially viable. To strengthen those Names, to make them remembered, to make them known.
Do the Names of Netjer recognize other Names and call them cousin?
Ma'at is in the remembering of names.
I make statues, because my Father makes men. I write lives, because my Father makes souls. Dua Khnemu! High of plumes, sharp of horns; Father of fathers, Mother of mothers! Dua Khnemu!
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From: (Anonymous)
your poem
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Re: your poem
Yup, I'm on Per Ankh's boards and all. Same username. :)