What is it about, this mess?
Surely it’s the ground of our being, the ground to which we return as rotting meat or ashes.
There’s that other phrase: the return of the repressed.
Sleep might be seen as a preparation, a daily practice of dying. A letting go into . . . what exactly – the bizarre chaos of dreams – consciousness continues in free form – in a free fall that’s also a working through, a re-working of psychic elements.
A dissolving – a dissolution – disillusion – from which we emerge into the new day barely knowing what we are or what we may become, but we have to become something, we have to make choices and the habits of yesterday are generally felt to be a possible place to start.
Is there terror at the heart of the “Western” project? Our hypermanic efforts to protect what we’ve got.
Every few days ‘I must go down to the sea again’ to bear witness to the dissolution. Every night I must return to the sea (mare) of our nights and after a certain number of years I must return to the dissolution of death.
And for some reason I am infused with the joy of celebration. A celebration that gets to the point of it all. A bottle of champagne plus plus plus!