Footfalls of Dionysus

At last, whenever my feet hit the scorching desert sand; feel the sand transformed into semi-muddiness; when my foot falls naked upon a cholla spine; when the floor of aspen leaves feel my feet tread upon them, welcomingly;  this chilly mountain torrent which sends shivers toward the topmost hairs of my head…With each footfall I find myself always somewhere, ‘y llega siempre,’ and I cannot help that I arrive in each instance more a pessimist than before.

No. Unlike those crusty old German men I will not assign this world as the worst of all possible worlds. My feet hate dirges, my ears the sound of the abacus!  For this world is the only one possible through which I may live! And I cannot count against this world, and thus my life, for any of the suffering inherent as ‘life.’

A strange pessimist I may have become in each and every footfall. I surprise myself. I love surprises; chance. While I can weigh my approval and disapproval of things, that I’m able to weigh at all becomes my delight and my frolic. That I’m able to meander through the tempests, some which might even kill me, or the lush mountain greenery where I pick berries and sustain myself, is my pessimism. I go where my feet may go and can take me; dancing, trudging, running, a shuffle…

Footfalls in a Dionysian pattern of desire. Where I arrive is who I’ve become, no matter the time of day, how dark the night. May I no longer curse my own arrival nor those horizons and glow-worm stars almost out of sight!

Come: let us thoroughly forget God in our gratitude, drown the philosophers’ monotonous praise of the over-worldly and scent the air with our joyous presto , and in our hedonism push every half-living shalt(not)-sayer from their lofty perches so in the very least their blood fertilizes the verdant ones remaining with wish and will to live! That through one’s naked feet upon the ground one may become ever more the ‘sense of the Earth!’

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