Isomalt, metal, satin, bjergkrystal, plastik, geode, bivoks, blæk
In 1348 the Black Death cloaked the continent of Europe spreading through fleas that sucked the
blood of rats and consequently, of course, humans infecting and killing somewhere from 30% –
60% of the world’s population.I read in a socialist magazine somewhere that this was a time of
great devastation but also great failure of the earlycapitalist system of economy called feudalism.
With so many dead, most of which were serfs (the earliest victims of another plague, slave labour)
the Medieval tables turned as the Lords found themselves left with little to no workers. Out of
necessity, the Lords struggled to maintain their Bourgeois lifestylesand the serfs, once the poorest
of people, were able to charge upwards of 3x their common pay. They would work for one day and
make enough to feed a village, however it is believed they spent most of their time in the local
pubs drinking ale and singing songs of yore. It was an accidental, cosmic revolution.
There is a book written only 5 years after the onset of the bubonic plague entitled
The Decameron.The story follows 10 inhabitants of a village in Italy, somewhere on the
outskirts of Florence, 7 women and 3 men, who, in seeing the devastation brought on by the plague,
shelter themselves in a secluded Villa not far from their town.They settle into their new luxurious
mansion, 10 rooms for each of them, and develop a system of community that today
may be called a “commune.”
Everybody has a job, and everybody must work for the livelihood of their fellow man.
There is a garden there, it is a utopia unaffected by changing seasons and consumed by
ever-growing greenery. This is where the book becomes framed in structure, meaning stories within
the story — each member of the commune, as a duty set amongst them, must tell a tale. 100 stories
are told, 10 days and 10 tellers. In the Villa they seek refuge from the outside world’s violence
while in the garden, as refugees, they weave connections to one another and grow strong like the
ever-growing greenery that surrounds them.
Pain becomes their beautiful thing.
Did you know that Herodotus, one of my favorite figures in Ancient Greece, is known as the Father
of History? He is also commonly referred to as the Father of Lies. Personally, I see no distinction
between the two. History is always determinant upon the absorber’s understanding of the material.
It is comforting to accept one truth, but it is uncomfortably true that multitudes of truth exist.
This is why interpersonal struggle occurs, two people experience the same event in different ways.
Myths are the ultimate lies, it was the first time humans made sense of nature, the first science, so
to speak. The Greeks saw the world around them and made sense of it all through the creation of
beings called Gods and stories that loosely explained nature. Herodotus thought he was defying
mythology in creating history, but he was unknowingly creative as well.
Even nature is creative. Darwinism shows us this.
Trial and error weeds out the weak, the fuckability of the bird accounts for a higher rate of
survival. Nature fails often, it is just hard to see in our lifetimes. The butterfly is one of nature’s
most beautiful creations. Through innumerable failures, She brought to life a vibrant being so
unbelievably imaginative that its life cycle has become one of the most classic metaphors in
modern day literature and is the rubrik for what we call character development.
In the chrysalis, caterpillars melt into ectoplasmic goo, did you know this? Cells called “Imaginal
Discs” are activated and begin the process of transformation. I don’t know if this is painful for the
caterpillar, decomposing to live again, but I like to think it is. It’s not that I wish ill will on all
pupating beings, but rather I am, we are, also through trauma in a chrysalis, a garden, with goo
and activated cells pulling us apart and then back together only to live again.
Painful transition becomes a beautiful thing.
I love you,
p.s. – My grandmother died 3 days ago