October 25th, undertows swallow our words and our emotions feel tucked away with their justifications inside of swimsuits lost in the deep, thrashing ocean waves. We feel swallowed by forces that could consume even the most seasoned sailor, and yet, we also suspect that there’s an insight to be seen or gained from all the violence of being taken by elemental powers.
In this conviction, we identify both with the shredded sea salt swimsuit and an upstanding innovative human—a humanoid, in fact, standing up with nervous energy, hyperventilating in a space suit. “The insight must be delivered to all the realms of our life!” we cry, as priestesses carrying skin cream try to tend to our bodies despite our layering of space armor. The awkward, unfitting puzzle pieces continue to thrash and insist on their notions of the essential messages of the day being delivered to the other in ways they’re not equipped to receive.
When in all that armor, behind the ocean, we see large spiders hanging from trees. The spiders show us there are two skies: one blasting with sunshine, the other of nighttime stars. The arachnids demonstrate how whatever insight is to be gained from the day, the brain will be the last to know. Suspended in the night sky, they trace the image of a giant urn, which they then climb up and break open, letting purple light expand everywhere. When the spiders shatter the urn’s foundations, millions of dice fall to the ground. “Don’t try to form; let it happen,” the spiders instruct. “Realize there are many forms of ‘letting it happen’ happening.” May we respectfully tread soil and sea, following the cubes of nocturnal, playful chance.