Suspend wisdom, and eliminate knowledge
for knowledge’s sale. Ahura Mazda has come
to visit Ariadne in the Archive of Myth. She
is not aware of his spirit looming in the room;
the dusty books and the olden memories speak
volumes from shelved moments, and the myths
are alone with themselves. The NeverEnder
archivist is on the road in Arizona, in a time
where the snakes are talking, and the hurricanes
are spinning stories. There is much love hidden
like a thread in a thread, a pattern in a pattern.
One cannot see it from the outside, though the
sound of passeridae in a small wooden patch
may bring about a resting place for the mind.
The memory of the Archive provides a similar
service. Ariadne has accepted the nature of her
woe. It is not likely to leave her, there is a wee
burden of feeling and thought which sits like
a sphinx on one’s stomach. Ariadne can see it,
she acknowledges its presence, and carries on.
A great ability is like awkwardness, the Tao
descends onto Ariadne, and the echoes are heard
by Desert Storm, but she constantly updates her
social network, and her neurosis is spaced across
a gap of three minutes’ worth. The waters of
autumn trace the freedom of intuition. Follow
the random mixing of the five colours. ‘But,
Krishna, if you consider the knowledge of
Brahman superior to any sort of action, why are
you telling me to do these terrible deeds?’ We
are entirely dependent on cooperation from
the unconscious. The very voices that Gawain
and Cecco are looking for, the songs of children
in the morning, or the dark purplish lights of
midnight in soft, warm nights before the rain.
Water flows continually into the ocean, but
the ocean is never disturbed. Ariadne takes
notes. She has faint memories of black sails,
and losing her way in a maze, and then the
swamps came in the form of concrete and steel.
“As to artistic and scientific creation, I hold
with Schopenhauer that the strongest motive
is the desire to leave the rawness and monotony
of every day life, so as to take refuge in a world
crowded with images of our own creation.”
The ancient mariner quotes Einstein. Ariadne
is reading about the mariner’s gestures on
planet Verne, and the rosy-fingered moon.