Chiron's Ephemeris

This case is most dire, I confess, the Jungian trap I am snared in at the foot, little loose nets that should rip and tear with a proper tug, one I think I can out maneuver but just to tumble over as I see that foot totally tossing the blimey thing into wreckage (wrapped around the calves now), and yes it is a cold hearted watchmaker or sculptor with cold hands and a colder conscience if you dogmaticists should prefer: the chap who made this universe; I'm just the ninth hour to smooth out this little numerological joke, this little law that can't be breeched like for instance a pair of denim pants, a ship's sail open in a troubling storm (perfect or otherwise), it won't rip, tear, or shred according to the law of whatever it is that tells the universe everything most crumble at the cornerstone so why hasn't this hapless plague lifted that I thought, the subconscious as you are in all likely- hood scribbling into that little yellow pad, the cracked subconscious faltering a delusion piling out into perception�I know that game but you can't understand (nor would I expect you to, a comfortable chair, inspecting a colleague whom is mortally disturbed, jotting notes on your yellow pad), well that I thought was my salvation from the hereditary rubbish (because I am born, metaphorically speaking, a half goat man, overindulgence expressed through genetic patterns and social conditioning simply because my father was a drunkard, tattered grey suite and crooked tie, slumped over in the swampish afternight streets in Southwark and my mother was in all likelihood the woman clad in cheap black lingerie with little polyester bows on her bra and strutting across the street with the back line in her thong bouncing left and right hooked to black stockings and never between the two to give the street haggard a warm kiss to milk out any raw dough that might have been left over from the pub for a quick blow back an alley or someplace warm if the two of them could find it but god forbid the two talk and realize how rotten both of their lives are together and make babes just for self esteem, but speaking as a psychologist I know the whole bit to well, yes, I'm a b*****d son, a vagabond spawn, the sober centaur) but in fact was part of the whole plot by some pattern, some old set in the sky that I would get caught up in as a young man before I had my wits about me, maturity or something like that and now here I am: white uninteresting ceiling that I am staring at from a red cushioned sofa, you Carl (scribbling in hand earnestly writing away as your old friend talks himself to pieces in the name of science), I will stand by the window with my son (an evocation of the subject while I am merely trying to spend time with him, breaking through the back of my head like some poisoned arrow�you know the one I am talking about) where I have my scope and the thought of it in the back of my head somewhere looking through that metal tube�"up, here, let me see that scope but my god be careful with the thing it's quite fragile�yes that's the way (the delicate glass and the smartly polished black metal with gold knobs, a birthday present for being twenty-seven some time ago), smart of you but be more careful in the future because should that fall the lenses will shatter like that coffee cup I bumped yesterday when I was fixing Endeis some spaghetti (I was getting something, it might have been the sauce out of the pantry) but you can see it's fixed, or rather was before I had the thing moved, but turn it, no�turn it this way, a little more, now to the left of Ophiuchus is where it is, can you see it there curled around Corona Australis and below Scutum, think of it like cracks in pavement (oh, that didn't make any sense) can you get it yet or should I, well, here just let me find it again (I know from memory and precision where it is, hunting it day and night in this cobalt expanse like the map to El Dorado that the Spaniards imagined up, but more like you know where it hurts in your stomach, and you might even know the cause, that is the irony if my being conscious of this thing) because it is a red bookmark (Kaus Media, Kaus Australis, Ascella� the armpit, Kaus Borealis�the bow, Gamma-1, Nunki, Hecatebolus�the handle)", no, more of a flashing billboard that the self examined life has come to trip over and say "No, he couldn't have been right; damn Sigmund for thinking through these hopeless boxes to come to the conclusion that there is no small punctured hole for the light to flicker in, no escape, no escape�" (afterwards to pass out on the sofa from exhaustion and dear Sheri will sit down by me and rub a wet towel into my forehead to get me to come to and start kissing at my neck and then start to go down and I get rattled up because she is taking advantage of my very nature, the genetic structure, but to resist her is to comply with my complex and every time I quiver in fear and helplessness as I feel her tongue try to roll down into my breeches and I run for the door holding my pants together while she sobs on the couch for hours at a time) and I can't stop thinking, the whole paradox of the thing and the very act of going against my nature complies with my nature as an extreme, a bitter twist and now I am trapped within the confines of the inevitable, never able to relish a single pleasure from all the attempts my wife has made at making love to me, it always comes out as this awkward, loathed act that takes place just to ensure that the race be preserved, but for the love of knowledge I am trapped within the book nosed intellectual world to a point where I am unable to return to humanity, not a centaur but still a centaur, the conflicting conundrum of mind over matter evolving to this matter over mind, the subconscious jester tyrant, a ridiculous slave holding its master hostage, and the stars sit in the sky and must feel perfectly sure of themselves holding me in captivity like this, I could never have a glass of wine though I would like to try one, never could I get totally wasted and hunch myself up in the sewer and pay three pounds for a blow; never would those bloody books fall off my shelf and just lay there to rot as though they didn't matter, but what was that you mentioned just now when you squeaked out that little blurb, Foust was it, that depressed old scholar; I am a different sort of tempted, not being faced with dilemma of trying to get everything I ever wanted but yet, what good is it to possess something without the proper manner in which to make use of it because I have everything that I could possibly want and I am of the most nobleless breed yet here am I triumphant over my own body, but afraid, the very fear I possess is that thing I have conditioned myself to but, what is�, but they such an evil, or do you merely look at evil as an extreme, an acute obsession, excessive, what Mr. Jung did you say, that last thing: but please keep it soft and mild in such a way that a dropping feather would not be displaced�I am helplessly obsessive over these minor details, what is the solution to this riddle, the labyrinth, the hydra poisoned arrows, give them to me, do you hear me�I cannot cure myself, and Pholus you have but to be aware to drop that arrow�

Author's Note

Read with an astronomy booklet, the Essential Carl Jung, and a working understanding of the Zodiac.