July 24, a blazing comet falls out of the sky, appearing to us as a flaming ghost who invites us in for tea. They tell us about Vesta, goddess of the fire in the hearth, at the far midpoint of Jupiter and Pluto. Flames crackle and pop, recalling nostalgic memories of campfires and bonfires, but also knowledge of danger: we can’t move too close to this guiding brilliance today or it’ll burn us.
Government police vomit out the zealous advocates of a better world, swords and pitchforks clash, stomach settlers are gulped down in kitchens, and we perceive each of these within the nanoseconds in which these flames of life crackle and flail.
The goddess, in the first place, was barfed out because such a rigid structure couldn’t hold this dazzling light. Rejuvenated temples—bodies, gods, governments—are needed, and today we glimpse an awareness of this need through the intimate devotion to what matters most.