October 20th, a sky-dome service center, full of nurses popping pills behind patient curtains, tries to give us a cleansing view of what we need and what we can afford to keep more empty. The lurking health workers in stained white coats step behind the veils to the rhythm of a relapse: an addiction to the seductive jaws of physical sensation and numbness themselves. Intoxication takes its toll on our organs and our livers feel eaten, eternal Prometheans of the day.
The missing insight involves the continual return to an oh-so-good painful habit, the gouged liver the price we pay for stealing the fire of pollyannaish perspectives. The nurses guzzling intoxicants, moody menders, treat the comatose rulers of empire who fear the body, no longer able to cling to pie-in-the-sky expanse alone.
It’s when a crow’s beak with two red eyes appears, letting us dangle by a rope descending from its mouth, that we’re able to clear ourselves of habit and mind. It offers a moment of choice: either consuming regurgitated nutrients oozing along that rope, or rejecting them. Seeing the crow vomit as the same habit in another goo, we keep our mouth closed, hanging from the rope, glimpsing the vast sky of a clear, strong mind.
After a moment of stillness free from addictive self-torture, the crow’s beak and red eyes light up the sky with many flashing colors, and we dance with glowsticks as kings & queens of disco—not having conquered, but rather having cleared out, wisely accepted and rejected.