October 28th, the urge to move forward into unconquered places attacks the body. Ironically it’s more like a block or a clench: the squeezing of sphincters, the lip-biting when we can’t peel the hard-boiled eggs fast enough, the muttering, growling curses that bruise our voices. It seems it’s always the desire to ‘go on’ that creates obstructions; clenching tensions that hold us back.
We’re today the geologist and the mummy in the tunnel we must enter, the claustrophobic encasement filled with hundreds of thousands of corpses and goblets—the only way forward into discovering the treasure, no map with an alternate route. A booming voice, an amalgamation of dead, preserved wounds made specially for the souls of pioneers, commands us to strip down. We throw our pants to the ghouls and re-feel the bloody gash we got on our knee when we were seven years old. The chorus of ancestral stings laughs in celebration as we surrender to the flowing blood.
Our double mummy self, the resilient one with humor, knows this is all okay. We laugh along with the banshees in the corpse-tunnel, knowing that wounds can be damn funny when we’re aware that even when the body doesn’t go on, we do. Hearing that mummy voice tell us to wear that skin-pain and soul-pain like decorations, we cartwheel through the charnel ground with pus and golden cups dangling from our laughing body-suits.