Monday November 4th to Sunday November 10th
-Tuesday 11/5/19: 5am: Mars square Pluto
-Friday November 8th: noon: Sun sextile Saturn
1pm: Sun trine Neptune
6pm: Saturn sextile Neptune
-Saturday November 9th: 5pm: Venus into Sag 2
9pm: MercuryRX sextile Pluto
There is a place close to the center of the room, but back along the spine of the floor toward the wall, but its not a hard wall, instead a bay of curtains, constantly lifting and pulling apart, to reveal more fabric beneath. On it he stands, rugged but elegantly dressed, disheveled but handsome in a slept in suit, fragrant with last weeks debauch like the memory of night lost in the capsize of twilight. The red ladder painted upon the floor that extends toward the doors ajar, a thin sheer curtain and a balcony. The floor, strewn with coarse salt, pink and red flecked, dense with minerals, like Arizona canyons, like the terrain of Mars. Iron oxide, and old mine shafts gaping and yawning. Black and white checkerboard tiles, a red ladder rendered with fingers and rusty ochre, leading to a balcony and beyond that an almost black void. Vacuated firearms and crossbows seperated from their arrows strewn about the place along with half drank glasses of champagne and fallen bottles, tobacco and end papers, marble and chipped statuary, flies buzzing gently over plates of figs and cheese and fruit no longer fresh. The air is perfumed, nostalgic, calm, peaceful and flaccid. What about action? What about ignition? What about catalyst? What about spark. The memories are moistened, the heart is busy with blood, the loins are lubricated, but the fact of the matter is despite the party having expired, the energy remains, although there is nothing left to do but leave. But to where? Out on the Balcony there is no view. Just an ashen expanse with no definition. Lead. Black lead. No shape save vacuum. And in that emptiness there are only your own projections that you must face and slay. In last nights party clothes. Without weapons. Hungover and still half drunk. Songs stuck in your head. There is the murmuring of other guests but he is still alone. Keys in his pocket that he doesn't know what door they belong to or what they unlock. Messages scrawled from the night before describing things without fixed meanings. He wipes the cheese off a butterknife with a handkerchief and slips it into his coat. It'll have to do if things get weird.
Out on the balcony the murmuring is muffled and distant; a memory, an old recording. He pauses to glance one last time at a few photographs which lay at his feet, rustling around like leaves, and then climbs up onto the railing and leaps into the abyss, knowing his comrades must be out there somewhere on the other side. But immediately this idea seems insane. The other side of what? Without any definition he ceases to even have a body, or any sense of self. It's all some kind of story, and at the point that he is at the narrative has come to be punctuated by a period, and into the dark retina he has fallen, knowing only the purity of potential that could become the next sentence to be written. Nothing else.
In an opposite eternity, upon the parapets of an endless fortress he strolls as sunlight crests over vast barrens and uninhabitable buttes. A world of formidable articulation; distinct and cold. This place has always been here. He's happy to have something to stand on, rails to hold on to, shapes to give meaning to distance. He can work with this. He feels for the butterknife but it is no longer there. Here he wears hides, a heavy cloak and some chain male. If he must engage in combat, there are stones and branches around. The fear forms that unfurled as invisible dragons within the void have given way to a harmony with the azure oceans that fill deep channels carved into the bedrock by time, the dragging and scrapping of massive glaciers. In that oceanic churn creatures team, mutating and morphing, fluctuating and ever changing. He looks down from stony safety and can see the splayed open waters revealing multiplicitous entities that seem to be reflections of our diabolical entrails, the things that howl and scream within our bowels. The voices of grief and throttling ecstasy alike. The face of our demons. He feels moved to freely flowing tears by the symphony of phantasmagoric shapes in vivified, and hums along a moanful melody. This develops quickly into fugues and cannons, now etching ligature upon the rocks. Modes topple over modes, chordal shapes and tonic gestures perspire out of the stones and mortar like the miracle of stigmata. The statue weeps, and its song is thus preserved by the flow in which the water carves, and only because you were there to witness it, it was received, it did not happen in a void.
We'll have to rethink it all. What does this all mean? What songs do our bellies sing if we could plant an ear against our abdomen and listen to the darkness beneath the flesh, and the rawness of our shifting and reorganizing cellular structures. The squirming of capillaries trafficking blood. The chatter of nerves distributing spark. The mixing of bile in the cauldrons of our deeps, behind putrid curtains and shark flesh flaps. The colloidal colloquy burbling with soma and almost venom that streams in the safety of being utterly unrestricted, chemicals cascading down random channels and everything working out alright, as radio splashback pulverizes our plasma and gnome like things scurry along our interconnected fascia. "How many of you are down in there?!" One might holler into their navel. More than you can count in your lifetime, and changing moment to moment. And around the treasure a dragon circles and never sleeps, in a cavern strewn with corpses and piled with secrets. In the rawest end, the ultimate depth, the pinnacle of serpent infestation. This is where the music comes from. Not the tapping of feet or the wagging of heads. This harp is the lacerator of hearts, that we meet upside down and inside out. We should learn its language well, or at least take good notes whenever we get a chance listen.