Ariadne sits up, emotion’d, eager to speak.
“I remember Dionysus’s kisses, still burning
on my skin. No. If I’m honest, I don’t. Not
right now. For a short while, I felt a purpose.
Not an important cause, not a revelation,
but the midnight curse of Finnegan’s wake.
I was summoned to appear before Death, I
made a plea for forgiveness, and I lost.”
Then Chubby tells the story of the download
and the infotechnician who had merged with
his own data. In this tale, there once was a
young cadet whose heroism was cut short
by the jaws of a whale: he was dismembered.
Chubby makes a mental note about Fortune
Lobo. His death by digestion was, by Zeus, most
El-Greco-esque, and yet his spirit lingered.
Ariadne is aching to tell the story of
her revelation, and yet dry words fail her.
Every moment she thinks herself to be
steady, to have finally coped with the
idea of having walked the tight-rope walk,
her mind starts to wander, and the continuity
of karma is discontinuous and inaccessible
to memory. She is wrestling with her own
Rebirth. We are all able, at least potentially,
to remember the facts of previous lives, and
the rites of transformation. Young Fortune Lobo
was dismembered; yet, like Osiris-Dionysus, he
came back as a field of green wheat. “Truly, the
blessed gods have proclaimed a most beautiful truth:
Death comes not as a curse, but as a blessing.” We
are surrounded by Big Mind, the mother of all facts.
Ariadne’s revelation is asleep. An idle lover,
here and there, looks inside the s’elf; but for
all the rest, the multi-verse, unfathomably
fair, is a darkened cave; chained, barking dogs
outside. Ariadne is now sober, and at peace
with herself. The star cluster she’s looking
at in the palm of her hand is exceptionally
bright. Lightlets at the bar, glowing irises.
The numen, satellite of Mind, holds its
course. No deviations in sight. Smaller,
sapphirite starlets trick’o’treat in the
void, and the voices of ancestors shout.
Ariadne is resolute in her choice of
enduring whatever is coming. With edge
in desire she lunges into the mythical
space where Archives and galaxies merge.
For every ritual of rebirth, Fortune Lobo’s
rising from the astro-gases, transcendent
as a green man, innocently wet in the well
of eternity, has a mystic value, it is the
action in which, you reader, and I, writer,
as spectators become involved – Bastian-like –
though our natures are not necessarily changed.
It is a dream in which the dreamer may be trans
formed. Ariadne’s deficit in the balance
of Pacioli is her own waterflea robbery. She
lost her soul at low barometer reading, and
that is a presage of bad weather. One became
two. She was born as human, turned into a Goddess,
and yet fell. She walked the tightrope walk in a
moment of deadliest peril, and without realizing
it, she forgot. And then she forgot that she
had forgotten. On the self-same tree, two birds
perched, watching with invisible eyes the forces
of revelation at work. Chubby drinks from the
misty gases of Titan, Fortune Lobo sways as green
fuse in the winds of Planet Carnuntum. Ariadne
is deep in her own stew, cygnus-like, floating
in the drink she drank. The bar is empty. Outside,
a Philosophical Cat is about to embark on a mission.