It’s cold outside and the wind is fierce,
Even the sun burns our skin.
We gather up the scraps and the clothing
That generations past have walked in.
We protect ourselves with well worn characters.
We wear them like fashion well out of date
We fight back the feeling of desperate isolation
of being outside the bourgeoisie which we hate.
We grasp onto survival by waiting,
Holding out for the affirmation of ‘retro’
Worse still we cling to these dying idols
Straining to point out their elusive echoes.
We are so thirsty for self,
So parched for identity,
So mind numbingly, blind hungry for static,
Certain understanding of what the fuck is going on
That we sell ourselves to the highest bidder.
Humility, it has been said,
Is not thinking less of yourself,
But thinking of yourself less.
This is neat and catchy, sure,
But one man tried it and found that he was dead.
But this man is remembered because he also said,
He was the revealed character of God, that’s why he bled.
Now if this is true,
And it may not be,
And God strips his masks
Then so should we.
If this is the character
Written in our DNA,
Before the world began.
Then this is the way
For a character to never go out of fashion
Because it’s not even about fashion
But about freedom and compassion
To enjoy others with love and with passion
Free from the identities given in rations.
Hang them to die.
Follow the character who defied.
Release them and sigh.
Written for a Burning Fences on Wednesday 12th March 2014 as an introduction to a discussion on Peter Rollins ideas (Crucified Identities)