It was June in Georgia.
I had never been to a revival, but I heard there was one brewing down by the forked creek.
Word was they served biscuits spread thick with sweat and ribs slathered in paint.
They preached through paper scratched with words, hit with paint, and dotted with bits of trash that told their story.
As I passed through the blackberry patch, I heard the steady beat of their music and I knew I was on the right path.
I stood on the top of the hill, hidden in the brush and watched.
Quite sure they must be intoxicated by the fumes of their paint, I saw them throw balls covered in ink, intricately stack what seemed to be yard sale leftovers, and scrawl images of their idols.
The rumors were true.
Curiosity was leading my soul to salvation and I needed the healing.
I decided to approach.
This is what I found.
Southern Art Revival
AUG 3 @ The Whitespace