October 23rd, a knight appears, leaning back on his steed, showing us an uphill road lined with electricity and fires. He has a message for us about traveling up the hill, but it’s hard to hear today: we’re bombarded by a bottleneck of other messages, transmitting themselves in the tone of early millennial instant messaging, but all with their thoughts cut off at the end. Sentences cease to reach completion; the messages’ essences are obscured because they represent uncomfortable jolts to the system.
Our boxes, beds and temples reveal a habitual determination to remain the same in structure—the go-to objects for our daily activities assume a pattern of chronically recurring symptoms. Numbness and tingling shoot down our kneecaps, yet another electric indication of fresh shift, departing from the enduring sameness to which we cling. Our bed frames and mattresses collapse on heaps of tangled wires. Shocks feel inevitable.
To the past facets of self, all of this feels like descent and regression. But it’s not for nothing we’ve walked down a road with grim reapers nuzzling pigs at the sides, meeting that knight with the necessary teaching: “you’re coming from the underworld today into a place of higher reckoning—not as in judgment, but more having your ducks in a row, moving up the road to discover more road and not staying stuck.” His horse goes “neigh!” and we mustn’t say nay, but go forth through the turbulent static.