The Wanderers (Part II)

A short one: next week I will go to the park. I will hike and trek in what approximates the wilderness. I hope it isa bleak day. I hope by that point the wind has ripped the leavges from all the deciduous trees. I hope they coat the ground in slick compact messes. I hope they freeze and make crinkling noises mixed with the squooshing of suction as boots lift from mud. I hope a bitter north wind blows and rustles my overcoat, flaying my goosebumped skin. I hope to mortify that flesh too weak from days in warm climes that has feasted on mead and taken too much for granted. I hope to huddle with my fire and watch the imperturbable deeps again, to fathom the abode of the nymphs, to hear the pizzicato huddling of violins from, of course, Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Crackling and rose-cheeked, watching breath hang in the air, feeling my face crush under the onslaught. But inside I am warm and whole and dry. Nobody said healing was flowers and sunshine in a madala lotus garden. No, healing is the narrow alleyways of Liverpool with its unlikely sages, the pubs with their islands of gold on the pool table, the foggy crags with arrogant lords' wills to power.

Consider: "The struggle of humanity against power is the struggle of remembering against forgetting."