Late start to the evening, but went out dancing. My old club, where I’d always felt most comfortable, most ecstatic, had since closed and re-opened and changed format. So I dress, not goth per-se, but more or less to blend. Say some prayers before going in, to dedicate my dancing to Dionysos and the Dionysian Kings.
The fact that it’s a gay club on most nights means little to me since I’m only there to dance. The music, however, fluctuates from some pretty hideous pop to some nearly decent stuff. I nearly regret my impetuous promise to dance for the spirits and god, given the environment.
Yet I do. And I don’t trance out so much, as I think about the idea of feeling like an outsider in a space that I had previously claimed.
And I think, is this part of the lesson of the Kings? Always outsider in their own territory, always alone while surrounded? Or am I reading too much into this? And yet, what madness and what bravery to rule with a lonely heart, knowing that even the greatest empires are bound to crumble.
I think, too, about previous ecstatic experiences here. And about whether the promises that the gods make to us are out of time. In retrospect, what Dionysos has given me, what he has promised me, seems suddenly disproportionate. I didn’t understand the gravity of it. No doubt the gravity is just barely tumbling down the full significance like so many stones. Yet the gods are not linear. Do we negotiate with the gods, pray to the gods, in our limited perspective while the gods themselves laugh and say, “Yes, my love. You can have this now, because I know you will earn it later…” So in a way, I may always be catching up with my past.
I had made the mistake of going back and reading my old blog posts the night before, and the dissonance of the me-of-years-past with the me-now seriously disturbed me. I’m not sure why. My blog is only four years old.
That’s part of what makes me break down into tears as I drive home. The madness I keep close, crashing in. The full reality of life, that it may truly be all as connected as I hope and fear, every single detail and moment like a grand spiderweb. Seeing the connections but not the meaning. So many synchronicities lately. The life and the inevitability of death. Like I’m a piece of ocean put into a tea kettle. It’s all heat and stress and steam, and my primal source and fate and the why’s of it all are distance concepts I can only try to grasp while I bubble over.
At home, I set out a colorful feast of fresh fruits and cheese and wine. Dragonfruit, figs, grapes, apricots. Ginger preserves and graham crackers. Dance a bit more. Songs on shuffle. Those are always telling.
There will be more. I think this is a good month for the dead.