Every inch of Earth has been measured for development, while a few of us become hunters in prehistoric caves. The precise beginnings of this may have been the dream, someone's 'great dream'. We know how the serpent and the Goddess twine about each other and in fear and delight become one. Theirs is a symbolic union, a natural conjoining of shared attributes. Both are linked with birth, death, and resurrection: the serpent through its ability to shed its skin from the land of the dead, the underworld, where it appears as life-giving water. Indeed, the Hopi petition their own departed ancestors to visit their villages in the form of clouds to bless them with the sacred gift of rain. Thus death is understood by the Hopi as a return to the spiritual realm from which comes the goddess through lunar associations with rebirth. In a complex web of symbolic threads, they share the realms of earth, water, and underworld, and the dying and the sprouting aspects of Constantine's dream in the fourth century changed the course of religions to Christianity. Our view is the parietal art was the crucible in which imagery leading to differentiation and separate definition was worked and reworked over say 200,000 years of dysfunctional spaces, gatherers of saltating spirits, tillers of umbellent resources, shakers of choreographed cultures.

Multitudes dance in subterranean skein,
swarming like vermilion ponds
of death's momentary rouge,
wedding the elements of earth and time.

Today I bought a secondhand manual typewriter. Trying it out, Brier Campbell, age 11, said, "But it doesn't change lines."

A man peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, tools, stars, horses, and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the images of his own face.