"I'm all alone, and I'm expecting you to lead me off in a cheerful dance."

~ Bob Dylan, "Workingman's Blues"

Earlier today I rested beneath a brick wall, on my way back from buying beer. My body is not behaving like an Iamblichean soul-vehicle. No: instead, it's breaking down, rigidly, with the ardor of a rotting oak. But somehow, day after day, I get my ass out of bed and look up shit like this:

If you think of its birth and death as ever-recurring, then too, Great Warrior, you have no cause to grieve

~ Bhagavad Gita, "The Second Teaching" 26.

I'm no warrior, but I am the greatest person I know, for I wake up with myself every morning and pass out drunk alone every night ... Unless, of course, I have a woman with me, and then it only exacerbates my monadic nature, demanding an almost Gnostic-like reversion to utter silence. Sige as the Coptic Gnostics called it: it meant the profound stare of the lone eye into boundless space, with no one with whom to speak, and nothing to hope for ... So why do I grieve? Because I need an aeonic partner. Someone out there knows what I mean. Someone ... I don't want to undergo the labor of birth again, nor the infantile mommy-cry of death, Bhagavad Gita be damned. It's a nice thought, but you know what's nicer? My beautiful lady, smiling at me at the end of a long day, kicking off her shoes, and telling me not to talk about Heidegger, but just to make love to her. And it says I have no cause to grieve!