It’s dawn, the morning star is in the sky and she is looking down at us. And whilst I may be hanging upside down from the Ogham tree right now, like Henry Miller listening to the world awake, but it’s ok, I have an ogham’s razor in my pocket and can cut myself down whenever I need to. Like ET I can use a speak and spell to phone home.
Like Odysseus I may be strapped to the mast, but I am a rhizomatic nodal Odysseus with the other Odyssean oarsmen and women out there with there stax of wax and their wild frontiers.
Like Merlin, like the Angel of History, I am living life backwards moving from Oedipus to Wodin and gaining an eye (the Morrigan still have the Other).
But I am tired, world weary, and whilst I may still be strapped to the mast, the helm is in my garden, the ship of Theseus is being dismantled, the pagan gods are doing some gardening with it. There is a heavy metal bird bath there, so the birds may come refresh with some Dewey in this winter, there is a bird house with seeds amongst the jasmine.
Once I reach 50 I won’t have to grow up. And I shall cut myself down. In our late middle ages, we shall have 2020 vision.