We come from a silent land. A wasteland.
We fill it with art.
We fill it with colour.
We fill it with dance and music and theatrics. We fill it with our creations.
We dance across the face of our silent wasteland. Until it is no longer a wasteland
But a dance floor.
And we’re patrons to a hostile ruler.
An Ice Queen.
Yet we fill her with laughter.
We fill her with the most off-colour.
We fill her with beats and the rule of threes and selective nudity. We fill her with our most human inadequacies.
We laugh into the face of our hostile Ice Queen
Until she is no longer an Ice Queen
But a Mother.
And we’re farmers on what is barren and flat. A most unyielding prairie.
Yet we fill it with nourishment.
We fill it with community.
We fill it with food and brew and butts in chairs. We fill it with the most abundant of feasting.
We fill ourselves upon the face of this barren prairie
Until it is no longer barren flatness.
But a cornucopia.
And many of us flee. This dance floor. This cornucopia. Our Mother.
In search of Better Bigger Warmer.
What we often find
We come from a barren wasteland.
Into which we breathe a most fertile spring.