zensolo’s e-mailed chronicles posted by morituri.

hebdo.amStrand: thin edge, new moon

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still, quiet center of midweek, Mercredi, honoring mercury/hermes/eleggua:
trickster-messenger of th gods (coyote, too, then?)
inhabitant of twilight, thresholds, transitions-
communicator, transformer in constant motion…
be patient & gentle in yr lessons- too easily I divine abstruse, esoteric abstractions
while th commonsense rules for human companionship elude me…
show me th right path, th doorway you hold open on th edge of shadow & light…

a postscript to last week’s installment:
klaus-heiner prodded th smoldering mound of ashes th day after our bonfire & checked it out again a
few more times before departure, finding embers that would spark to life at th slightest provocation. we
had lit
th bonfire on Saturday night & after th ‘band of deutschers’ left on Tuesday I turned my attention to
reorganizing stuff & reterritorialising th house…
what wouldn’t be my surprise when exactly a week from our evening light-up, after a few days of dry
weather & rising mercury, I get a whiff of smoke & look out th window to see th pile of ashes has burst
into full flame, with no outside assistance, as far as I could figure! signs & portents…

I made garden work my priority for these two weeks as th moon began to wane- popular wisdom has it
this is th right time for pruning, planting & transplanting. th last few days, however, I’ve experienced a
serious drop in energy, motivation & momentum…not sure yet how much of it is physical tiredness, how
much emotional fallout…as if i could trace a clear border between th two…

sonnabend into Sonntag…
ah what’s th use, what’s th use of living in this material world-
this densely rational, consistently sensuous illusion?
what’s th use of all this barely contained flesh & blood, th sad
sack of our skin pulling & stretching its wrinkles
to make believe we can fulfill one another-
flesh achy-breaking in lust after flesh, blood knocking
on blood’s echo only to spill it…
why not yield & surrender to th safely controlled
matrix of pure image & th pleasures of virtuality?
what’s th use? if we cannot lose & recover our selves
in each other, among th ten thousand objects of this world
but join their number in sinking isolation or desperately
feeding off & on one another like ever-dissatisfied hungry ghosts-
what’s th use?


Written by morituri

April 23rd, 2001 at 12:00 am

Posted in Uncategorized

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