October 19th, icy winds sing in harmonic gusts, dominating the psychic landscape. We hang out in anticipation close to a frozen lake. In solitude, yet near a skeleton dressed in black garments, we’re told about the erotic value of aging. “The obsession with the skin layer is surface-level,” the skeleton says. “Look deeper together, if you can manage it right now.”
Apparitions of roach infestations, cyclops-in-miniature clinging to a rocky abyss while gazing at us from all directions, detached human organs and miscommunications about overdraft bank accounts bombard our awareness. Our obsessional devotion and sacred marriages are pulled down next to this ice and below it, and our faces are changed. The divine union that had worn a pleasant face to human eyes now reveals its two-facedness; its agony, betrayal, and deeper octaves of erotic union, deeper than the “pleasant.”
The greed to caution against is not in going toward the fear of ugliness and learning to love it, but in the step-by-step instructions to applying wicked facial cosmetics: the perfectly placed eyeliner, wrinkles, prosthetic noses and pink lips are us posing as a sinister emperor wanting manifest destiny, greedy to dominate all of nature in his flight from what he considers ugly limitation. We’re advised to hold these yearnings close to the ice and snowy barnacles, along with the buggy mortal mess, the detritus from what we’ve left unclean, from love turned on its head—and to merge with the feelings these fragments breathe into our life.