The Brotherhood of Making Butter from Air

There are fast-food wrappers on the ground, their streaks of red and orange lettering attempt to capture the hunger triggers in this mushy substance. Grey buildings capture the acoustics of tapping horns, manifestations of taxi drivers and supped up caffeine addicts.

Click, the imprint of the sky against the towering rectangle, sheathed in reflective blue glass. Click, I snap that bit of trash, forever ingrained in strings of numbers and letters.
Code.

Captured and framed. The grass, towards the upper left hand side, the wrapper, crumpled like a misshapen origami piece dashes across the canvas of nothingness, leaning towards the lower right side of the space.
It is done. Soon, the wind will come. It’s journey is far from over. I have but recorded a moment in its existence, like the old snapshot of a girl blowing out the candles from a Barbie-shaped ice cream cake. Forever still.

Organized with intent, unified by movement, thought and action.
It is form.
It is a form.
A particular shape from an unorganized collection of debris and urban relics. Scattered by the winds of chaos, its shape is unified, forever lasting within another form.
And then there is more, more noise…wind, horns, laughter, shouting, a jackhammer. Shapes, an endless variety, unclassifiable. Torn bits of leaves, sparkling cars, a plump white woman in an orange dress. The bicycle chained to the stop sign, the man with a white beard that holds his Styrofoam cup out to unblinking passersby. Red bricks, plate windows. A girl, dressed in black from head to toe, her gold earrings wink as she turns to answer her phone.
Click.
Mouth open, seconds away from animated speech. Eyebrows furrowed, one slightly higher than the other, her red straight hair, practically a mile long dangles over her left shoulder as she cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear.

Code.

Form.

Unity.

Structure.

An endless moment, yet invisible to so many. To me, when I sleep. And it swirls. Boundless, stretching beyond the reaches of my comprehension…this chaos, which I am, which I come from. I will always be.

It Is.

But for moments, for stretches of time and space, another shape may emerge. Brought forth by the brotherhood of those with intention. Carried from the womb of scattered sounds and shapes. Licked into existence by the mouths of chanting girls and ravenous shamans. Unearthed and cherished.

You, sacred form.

You, sacred structure.

You, the memory of my intention.

May I always remember, may I always Work.