catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs]

Pluto just went direct -- Last April when Pluto went retrograde I experienced my first a-fib death cycle, during which I'm in the frequency of Spirit disconnected from ground -- and the body feels a weighted stone -- and these events reoccurred until recently, when I found a way to manage these cycles from within and also from help my Doctors and Naturopath provided -- nevertheless you can divine the rest

 Retrograde makes it an inner event -- so many of us made this trip recently, it was very far inside, where deep calls to deep... so now Pluto moves forward and ...

"What does not kill me, makes me stronger." --  Friedrich Nietzsche

I chose for the topic of my first essay Will Eisner's, "The Origin of The Spirit," The Spirit, 13 January 1946, page 2. The density of  the imagery, the bold colouring of each panel and the way in which the panels are divided up whimsically, all moving the narrative along, grabbed my eye right away. I found myself flitting between each section hungry for the action I was anticipating there. Then I became mesmerized at each panels portrayal of 'The Spirits' catabasis. His personal descent into hell for remediation and his spirited return with a dark vengeance.

That's my Thesis: "Hallelujah Anyway" -- Comics can be a cathartic catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs] -- it's story telling 101 -- by keeping it simple it resonates with the reader and a nontrivial empathetic inner event occurs -- the reader becomes alive to his or her own process of individuation -- or at the very least they find a voice that speaks to their personal tragedy, the wounds they suffered for their individual remediation, the withering they endured on their dark descent, and that they almost died so that they'd be stronger for it.

We see farther standing on those truly-squared shoulders of our chosen Dark Super Spirit-Sleuth ... I feel a pleasure of ebullience as I imagine myself the protagonist of this well written and boldly presented story. 

Even so, this is only one page promulgating these many reflections, and I'm allured, like Narcissus fingering his self-aware pool of consciousness, while Echo diminutively stutters in an arcane self-referential mystery, over and over again.

As the symbol of Ouroboros attests, we repeat in these things, as if all of creation stuttered out of itself toward this pure sapient frisson, which we are, which our stories reflect, and from which we emerge somehow more whole...

I've noted that our stories can be like a romance, and I'm constantly returning, rounding another catabasis, in an urge-to-merge, and I'm inclined simply to exist in that kiss -- oh to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss, mingle mystery -- oh our hearts know this, Love attracts Love is the secret of this kiss --

Back to the story: I met a dangerous man in black at Starbucks this evening

'Fuk, she's still not answering the phone,' I curse under my breath as I slip the device into my jacket pocket while opening the glass door to the coffe-shop, stepping into a room with dark roast cloying in the still air, and look into the dim light, where I have a meeting with, 'fate.' 

I’ve seen Pluto, that old black and dangerous God, at least three times. Probably more, and HE scares the shit-outta’ me every time! Every time a frisson falls up my spine, every time I feel spent, and I’m usually left traumatized and trembling from the Power I just experienced … The ferryman, I call him. He’s pitch-black, glistens with the entropy fugues of Galaxies pouring into their stuttering black holes. He was, well he surely is, but can easily exist in many alternities and Kaliterations, but way more than that, more than any human fear imaginable, he’s a dark Knight who’s a bringer of death and other blood fatal events onto our mortal horizons.

He always stands there, at the edge of his marvelous imminence of missing matter, which roils and churns at his skin, making him shimmer in blackness and chaos; and we’re just an itch he may scratch, an unlikely event on his dark occurrence.

He's kind of like a Comics caricature of an unconflicted Super-Hero whose abilities are to take succour of lost souls, eat them, with a touch of the dark vengeful knight of passion and determination. Except that makes him more approachable than he really is. If you meet him, it may already be too late.

There’s no solace in these meeting places where his creative-destruction is all there is, and that meeting with ‘HIM” is of consequence to all of manifestation…

So, at a local Starbucks this evening, where I met this very dangerous man, a man who’d made an elixir, an elixir he exclaimed to be the 'Red Lion,' and went on to say that he imbibed it 973 years before in a Bohemian castle. He looks to be a healthy middle-aged man with eyes of steel-blue, wearing an Armani suit that ripples upon his animal physique, shimmers blackness; the Alchemist, I wrote in my Journal on my laptop. He collected and concocted in many fields.

He approached me through an acquaintance to request that I write about him, for what he later called, ‘a power that could change the rules of the game.’ and he continued brooding, 'a power over death.'

a laptop

illuminated letters

complete with words

black on white pixels

scattered

lines on a screen

layered

sentences vibrate cyclically;

we see them in ourselves

‘story’

until these things happen again.

-enter-

I break-up with you

-> breaks give direction <- p="">

I break-down alone

-back-space-

with i n t e n t i o n

both unknown and known -

our home, a period,

our motion, a verb,

an adjective,

shift-insert

candles burn, wax wanes,

drips down, drys up sputtering;

warm glow of screen

quote

it was devastating

for all of human kind

who conspired with the fire of war

burned at both ends

unquote