The Peaks of the Troubadour

Journeys of Eros : IV

The Himalayas is the source of two of the longest rivers in the world. The Indus, where it all began and then the Ganges where it moved to improve itself. However the inhabitants below the roof of the world will not nurture the source of their impulses with the milk of innocence. Preferring instead to substitute it with a knowing tale, an imaginative vision or a song and dance. Anything but the naked naivety of a true impulse.

A customer to the auto mechanic complaining of a faulty valve in the front right wheel may find later that the mechanic has changed the valve on the front left wheel. When inquiring, the mechanic is likely to answer, ' the last time you had said it was the right wheel but it was the left, so this time I thought you might have made the same mistake.' Such is the life away from relating to true impulses.

A reliance on the Eros quality, at the originating impulse brings a person to the child and the literal way that the child interprets every event he encounters. Its an experience of being born in the swamps and grow up at random with the fascination of discovery. This would appear tedious to some who prefer the view of the peaks and then make do as they go along.

As a consequence, they say nothing at all on the occasions when they speak. They'll look but will not see. Its an art. They worship the Goddess who loves with adoration, the experience of true love. They respond to her mysterious call in the passions but will avoid any commitment to do the same. They respond instead in songs and riddles.

The troubadour's songs, the product of an imaginative epic of life is handed down from generation to generation, bringing the man to the gratuitous gates of bliss from which he swears he'll never return to the physically conditioning wheel of life. He will only return kicking and biting when the hordes of Siva drag him on chains back to life's reality.

An ascetic's song asks, ' Why did you call me back to life, my aspiring love? When your body is in the flames, that's liberation my love.'

It refers to the claims of life's futile ambitions, marked by a distinguishing failure at some point in the memories. It then speaks of the awesome difficulties in raising oneself up again to chase. But they keep trying and they are still writing their songs.