From certain (obvious and easily ascertainable) vantages, this Timberwolves Season has been a disaster.
Now is a good time of year to realize that even our worst imaginings in Timberwolv-idom are but sprite sprigs on the fair bouquet of Living, Breathing, and Trying. The cries of well-meaning, yet unfulfilled Armies sing out through the sonorous passages of History's weaving. We are but one of them..
Basking in our conundrum will not bring us further -- and both we, and our 'enemies', can describe the light of a bitter day. Where do we go in such adverse weather?
The only solution, at such a Late point, is to give in and embrace the formative heat of the Blast Furnace. At times like this, we may as well give thanks for the intensity of the difficult life -- and give full freight to our ecstatic grievances. That's the least the Universe can allow.
But what then? How does one move on into a real life, or season, from such a set of mis-treatments? How can an entity honestly move forward into a new shape? Is there a reliable way to cultivate the desirable aspects of our condition, while rooting out rot and excess?
Be careful where we Dwell.
Joy moves from Unmarked Box to Unmarked Box,
from Cell to Cell. As Rainwater, down into the Flowerbed.
As Roses, up from the Ground.
Now it looks like a plate of Rice and Fish,
now a Cliff covered with Vines,
now a Horse being Saddled.
It hides within these,
til one day it cracks them open.
Part of the Self leaves the Body when we Sleep
and changes shape. You might say, "Last night
I was a Cypress Tree, a small bed of Tulips,
a field of Grapevines." Then it goes away.
You're back in the room.
I don't want to make anyone fearful.
Here's what's behind what I say:
Ta Dum Dum, Taaaa Dum, Ta Ta Dum.
There's the light Gold of Wheat in the Sun
and the Gold of Bread made from that Wheat.
I have neither. I'm only talking about them,
as a town in the desert looks Up
at stars on a clear night.