The night is dark, but the moon is white.
Fortune Lobo is dead, and so the love of
Monkey, who once was a Wallyeean beauty.
She was the daughter of a farmer, with
humorous utility to the commune where
they were living. Monkey was a bonny swan.
The darkness over Volterra is absolute. The
memory of love is always hardest to exorcise.
‘Oh father, oh daddy, here swims a swan…’
Monkey sings a song from old times, he
looks at the absolute stillness of the white
washed tower-city leering over the cloud murk.
Haunted, desperate, Monkey holds the Auryn
talisman in his hand, looking back across the
flatlands toward the interior of the land. He
knows that his soul is in prison, the Medici
have a fortress to hold all reason and all desire.
Volterra is famous for the temples, and the
voices of the wind, and for the whispers of the
dead. The Etruscans are no more. Monkey
is mourning the death of her innocence. She
lost her virginity in the park, and now she
traces the footsteps back to the temple where
Athena’s honour has been desecrated. Monkey
is full of sorrow, and beats his dead hand
against the stone, and the city responds with
a groan. Cecco and Gawain have arrived,
Desert Storm with them. They are sleeping
at the monastery. That is a place where
writers and vampires alike have found
solace and solstice, and the light of the star
has found them even in decaying dreams.
There is just not enough space for Monkey’s
sense of guilt and wonder. The water-ammonia
ocean on planet Poseidon expands and the
GuiltTripper dragon grows into the archenemy
of Thor. He has grown so large that if he lets
go of his tail, which he is holding in his jaw,
the world will come to an end. Ironic, for
Monkey stares at the image of Miðgarðsormr,
he knows that the ubiverse is coming to an end.
The ouroboros has dawn-significance for the
human psyche, but the eternal recurrence may
not awake Thor from the slumber of Ragnarok.
It is not time yet. Volterra is asleep, and so our
characters. The painters are assembled in the
hall, waiting for the inspiration of Grendel.
Michael Ende predicted in his days in Rome,
the turtle and the street sweeper, and Momo.
Men in grey suits are stealing time. In the
story of Bastian, the sword was drawn, and
the unending force of drowning nothingness
is swallowing every dream and myth, every
gesture of kindness, any hope and emotion.
Monkey knows that his actions also fuel the
expansion of the domain of nothingness, and
the advancing of the white plague. Sleep,
Monkey! Rest your weary mind. You may
not grow big and small any longer. You
may have lost your ability to cloud somer
sault, but you are a living being, a creature
of the spirit. You’re very like a gentle woman.
There is no rest for victims of the GuiltTripper.
Circling around the peaks of the abode of the
snows, the Him Alaya. The abode of light
is the place that Monkey is reaching for, if
only he closes his eyes, he can see that small
balcony, and small black ants scurrying along,
looking for food and shelter. The joy of waiting
for the summer to start, or the spring flowers
suddenly appearing at the corner of the street.
Then the early snows of autumn, carrying all
the hope of of the dawn-life, the new cycle of
the cockroach’s existence, so much to look for
ward to. John C is dead, long live his memory!
Monkey feels dead inside, but with eyes closed
he sees images of past life, of joyous life, his
life, other people’s life, he sees all, and he can
almost reach the awakening, the words of Blake
scattered like wild fire in the night’s shadow,
out of the window of the train on which you are
travelling at full speed toward the essence of the
chromoflower, and more songs of experience.
Monkey refuses to go to sleep, and refuses to give
in to shame, and fear, and guilt. He knows that even
if his soul is rotten, even if he is past forgiveness, he
knows that Heaven is compassion, here. Thus, he weeps.