( ( Into the Fire ) )
It's friday nite and here I am at the friendly neighborhood Winter Solstice party. Here at the ass-end of this inexplicably glorious year, this year of bleeding profusely. Behind me shitloads of sweat and pain, the bottom dropping out of the life I had so meticulously constructed.
So here I am blowing into the embers of a budding fire fashioned by eager yet tenuous loving hands. Before my eyes now the fire is blazing, and I am given to leave behind this year of blood and toil, as the Persian's brother beckons, "into the fire, all of my sickness, all of my weakness, into the fire". The hand drum begins to beat out a rhythm, that of something new and wonderful.
And there he is, the one who marked the auspicious moment, barely one month hence. The drunk Persian salesman, the angelic fool who prophesied this new beginning before my very eyes. What could I do but thank him profusely and marvel at the rightness of this moment? Then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.
Once more I came upon my treasure, and we drank chilled vodka with freshly spilled pomegranate seeds, an offering made together on this longest night of the year. Then we danced, intoxicated with joy and desire, all the more ecstatic in its falling upon us as true gift.