©2022 Michael Raven
Today, for whatever reason, I have New Model Army’s Winter on repeat in my head. I actually haven’t listened to the album for a long while, but a number of songs are spontaneously playing in my head and getting me thinking about other things going on my head… Or maybe it’s the other things going on in my head that is prompting the auto-replay of the album. It probably is not asynchronous, but an ebb and flow of thoughts that feed each other in the synchronous manner of things.
It is quite just as likely the touch of fox fur on Saturday at the Expo, or the chill of the air reminding us that one can never be certain of summer in Minnesota, or the chiding of a murder of crows chasing each other from tree to tree in the neighborhood, or even the trill of a cat before it long-rubs my calf in a tease that means anything but “pick me up”. Or, perhaps it is contemplating the new tarot deck I received yesterday, The Wildwood Tarot, and the meanings that have been modified and moved around a bit from the classic Rider-Waite interpretations, but not so far as to be unrecognizable.
No — it is not the last. This has been building for a few days, maybe a week, culminating into an album stuck in my head like a Barry Manilow Best of collection. No, it isn’t the tarot deck, but the deck itself might be a reflection of whatever it is.
I’ve gone from dreamless, restless nights to a return of the dream-filled restless nights, and I am as exhausted as ever. Exhausted and uncertain why I live the way I live, but not seeing a pathway that changes everything to something more desirable. The dreams are both agonizing and beautiful in a way that can never be put into words. They are like the album that fill my head from beginning to end, on endless repeat with honey-coated promises of something that isn’t here, but may have been, or should become — just never now now now.
I’m going back to the Nature Gods, the only thing that’s realEcho November
Grind on, baby, grind on.
And so, I am doing this crazy thing that I don’t want to do anymore, this job that I’ve hated for most of the time I’ve worked there because of the security, living in a home that seems bent on driving me mad, eating recycled chemicals because that’s the only thing anyone around here can agree to eat, watching all kinds of identity politic meltdowns that serve no one, and coming down to the conclusion that we sold out souls for a pittance somewhere down the road, for something we don’t even really want. I know I did, I did, I did.
What I want to do is dig two hands deep into the loam and crawl down and make amends with the grubs, bugs and worms, replace my hair with long fronds of green and play the idiot wise sitting under the hillcock tree. I want to toughen up my soles and walk barefoot again and reject all there is to reject about this crazy celestial theater we are participating in while Shiva tries to fuck us with dancing, destructive knives this kalpa or, perhaps, longer.
I was hoping for summer, but as it progresses, I think I might be ready for a winter of sorts, something to cool the tempers and to cool the rising bile when I think of all the things that are onerous and painful. Something to chill the world quiet and let us crawl into cave dens, yawn and hibernate until the real summer comes by, something to wash away the sour taste of this false summer making its way into our heads so we can go back to the beginning where I woke up one spring morning and, instead of kissing you, I became the dream cascading like water into something beautiful instead of this wretched bleak wasteland that I am.