An Iconic & Lofty Satire

Tales of Resemblances : XIV

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm not sure where I first heard the word loft in relation to Angels. It was intimated to me that they are working Angels. They come from a galaxy far, far away and yet it feels like the quality of the child a father may have raised. By the reputation of the legends we read about they are the Justice of the Peace. But the way these legends are lumped up with fairy tales and nursery rhymes it makes taking them seriously difficult.

 

The stories in the East places them in the loft of homes. Certainly a high place. In the West the story is that they originate in the High Canyon, a place that stays in contact with the loft by a mysterious handling of the high and lows of life.

 

Between the two of them they remind a person of what happens after the day of the ideal and then what happens after that. It is not a compromise of principles against the gigantic forces of life. It is a rediscovery of virtue.

 

A lady in Russia reported seeing a vision of Angels after a horrible plane crash in the country. They were reported as being white and they walked among the dead and injured on the ground. I had a vision of something similar. In this country, a person runs into the likes of Nile crocodiles on a bad day. I steel myself to express my individual rights and right to belief. But the anxiety rose like a storm from the qualities of children that lines the walls of my guts. Just then an Angel of the most high came and took out the children. I held my ground and the crocodile returned into the murky waters of the blue.

 

A short while back in our histories, we recorded the experiences of Saracens, Akkadians, Myrmidons, Dorians, Crusaders and Alvars. Some of the remnants of the experiences continue in a certain saturnine way today and we hear reports of them in schools, post office and movie theatres. A better managed supervision of these qualities in us finds its outlet in satire, literature, poems and the iconic resemblances of movie stars.

 

It may explain why oil paintings cost a fortune. Sandro Boticelli's ' The Birth of Venus,' does it for me. It stops me in the tracks when I remember pulling out the wings of butterflies when young.