September 6th, with the moon in Taurus and Venus entering Leo, accountants in gamblers’ suits wait in line outside a temple with the sound of blaring, chthonic drumbeats coming from the inside. It’s as if they’ve been kidnapped by a mob wanting to indulge the seedy temptations, initiating those dry, wiry number-crunchers into the glory of life’s joys that aren’t so orderly.
The temple reveals itself as a nightclub with seductive performers of the first degree. As the accountants we yearn to feed our starved souls the attention infused with the theatrical breath of life; we yearn for those in our souls who demand to claim their birthright of dancing while everyone’s watching to be free from the shackles of criticism. We exchange massages, elixirs, substances, and when the check arrives at the table, we almost faint, thinking we’ve gone too far. But the dancers cover our eyes and shut us up, and in the touch that resembles the pull of an old lover or a beloved deity-teacher, we’re ready to overdraft the bank account.
We give it all up in an act of surrender to the burning soul that demands to be seen and celebrated—once in a nightclub smelling of stale beer and bodily fluids; in the next instant, on top of a pair of luminous god’s hands showing us all of our daily dealings as in a masterpiece flip book. The stinky nightclub is also a temple, and within every uninitiated cerebral critic is a voluptuous dancer demanding rightful worship.