In the beginning he was a baby just like any other baby, my little son, Foecke.
Who would have known, in the beginning, looking at his tiny unprotected frame, that one day he would grow into the large, granitine form. The primordial eye-of-the-elephant through which humanity would send their anger out, through as many languages as there are languages, through the primordial eye-of-the-elephant out into the universe.
A baby like any other baby.
A child like any other child.
A boy like any other boy.
Until about grade three. And then things began to change. My little Foecke. It began in the schoolyard. Small outrages building up into larger outrages in the childish systems. But these children were too young to pull down the words that they needed to send their inarticulateness out into the greater schoolyard. Then, in one collective moment, they noticed my son, Foecke. And they nicknamed him F*ck.
And so began the story of F*ck. And with each intonation of his nickname, my little son, Foecke, (F*ck) generated into a larger more generous being. His muscles became more defined. His eye became stronger and more constant. And his back grew wide like a stairway to heaven. And with every F*ck! that reached his labyrinthine ears his giantness extended into lumbering and constancy and tank-like purpose.
And as their childish rage grew into men's rage they gravitated towards my son, F*ck. Clambering to be lifted up and to have their anger harmlessly sent out into the universe through his great primordial eye-of-the-elephant. And Foecke, (F*ck), that slow-moving son of mine, the gentle giant, obliged them all. He never said no. He allowed their inarticulate rage to be exhumed in his name, their impotence pressed against the comfort of his broad and constant back. And as the ever-expanding distortions of wisdom and truth triggered even more rage throughout the world, throughout as many languages as there are languages, the Word spread like wildfire. F*ck would accept everyone. None would be turned away. All could send out their most important message just by calling upon his name. He would only grunt gently as he bent to take you on. And people came from far and wide and they were not necessarily healed but they were not killed either.
In the beginning there was Foecke
Jane Siberry - Foecke Lyrics
Jane Siberry - Foecke Lyrics
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In the beginning he was a baby just like any other baby, my little son, Foecke.
Who would have known, in the beginning, looking at his tiny unprotected frame, that one day he would grow into the large, granitine form. The primordial eye-of-the-elephant through which humanity would send their anger out, through as many languages as there are languages, through the primordial eye-of-the-elephant out into the universe.
A baby like any other baby.
A child like any other child.
A boy like any other boy.
Until about grade three. And then things began to change. My little Foecke. It began in the schoolyard. Small outrages building up into larger outrages in the childish systems. But these children were too young to pull down the words that they needed to send their inarticulateness out into the greater schoolyard. Then, in one collective moment, they noticed my son, Foecke. And they nicknamed him F*ck.
And so began the story of F*ck. And with each intonation of his nickname, my little son, Foecke, (F*ck) generated into a larger more generous being. His muscles became more defined. His eye became stronger and more constant. And his back grew wide like a stairway to heaven. And with every F*ck! that reached his labyrinthine ears his giantness extended into lumbering and constancy and tank-like purpose.
And as their childish rage grew into men's rage they gravitated towards my son, F*ck. Clambering to be lifted up and to have their anger harmlessly sent out into the universe through his great primordial eye-of-the-elephant. And Foecke, (F*ck), that slow-moving son of mine, the gentle giant, obliged them all. He never said no. He allowed their inarticulate rage to be exhumed in his name, their impotence pressed against the comfort of his broad and constant back. And as the ever-expanding distortions of wisdom and truth triggered even more rage throughout the world, throughout as many languages as there are languages, the Word spread like wildfire. F*ck would accept everyone. None would be turned away. All could send out their most important message just by calling upon his name. He would only grunt gently as he bent to take you on. And people came from far and wide and they were not necessarily healed but they were not killed either.
In the beginning there was Foecke
Who would have known, in the beginning, looking at his tiny unprotected frame, that one day he would grow into the large, granitine form. The primordial eye-of-the-elephant through which humanity would send their anger out, through as many languages as there are languages, through the primordial eye-of-the-elephant out into the universe.
A baby like any other baby.
A child like any other child.
A boy like any other boy.
Until about grade three. And then things began to change. My little Foecke. It began in the schoolyard. Small outrages building up into larger outrages in the childish systems. But these children were too young to pull down the words that they needed to send their inarticulateness out into the greater schoolyard. Then, in one collective moment, they noticed my son, Foecke. And they nicknamed him F*ck.
And so began the story of F*ck. And with each intonation of his nickname, my little son, Foecke, (F*ck) generated into a larger more generous being. His muscles became more defined. His eye became stronger and more constant. And his back grew wide like a stairway to heaven. And with every F*ck! that reached his labyrinthine ears his giantness extended into lumbering and constancy and tank-like purpose.
And as their childish rage grew into men's rage they gravitated towards my son, F*ck. Clambering to be lifted up and to have their anger harmlessly sent out into the universe through his great primordial eye-of-the-elephant. And Foecke, (F*ck), that slow-moving son of mine, the gentle giant, obliged them all. He never said no. He allowed their inarticulate rage to be exhumed in his name, their impotence pressed against the comfort of his broad and constant back. And as the ever-expanding distortions of wisdom and truth triggered even more rage throughout the world, throughout as many languages as there are languages, the Word spread like wildfire. F*ck would accept everyone. None would be turned away. All could send out their most important message just by calling upon his name. He would only grunt gently as he bent to take you on. And people came from far and wide and they were not necessarily healed but they were not killed either.
In the beginning there was Foecke