The Styx is my each and every day fellow witness. While I occasionally bathe in the midst of Acheron. Radamath is my companion....Minos my dinner guest.
Pluto...and I live in a place where there are neither flat earths, nor any P.athetic H.oodwinked D.umbells.
Where I live, others dream of going to when on holiday!
While others worry themselves blind in an illusory hodgepodge screaming hatred revenge with blood streaming from their dry salivating gums, here, a fox might go by, unheard and unseen : here...The Very Special Ignorance of Man plays itself down into deafness and whatever it might wish to say, approximately, washes away into the bowelless fathoms where I was once, many years ago, the lucky onlooker to the decomposing corpse of that which had been the carnal reliquary of my difficult Mother's soul.
And my Mom laughed from the other side of the pretenscious mirror making wall of concrete and very healthy trees beyond, way beyond the city outskirts of Madrid's loathesome cemetery!
Acheron is my home. This is where I must assist those whom I knew, before they become otherwise in some other place in some other world where Bodisattvas pray,....becoming something that I could no longer even recognise.
My Mother died. And many many years ago, when I buried her in linen, like in olden days, rapped up in bandages just like an "infant Jesus" in the manger, I saw with my interior eyes, my Mother dancing in the starry night sky the Dance of the Seven Veils and I knew that she couldn't give a damn for all those little petty squabbles making men think outwardly, that They Were Precious.
My Mother was like the fox. She danced into the arms of True Freedom where God condemns no true Man.
Men of the World love Hell. They dream of going to all the horrible hangouts which inhabit its circles. They love its misery, they love its infernal ideals. They want to stay and keep watching the funny strange creatures suffering in the cages of their republican circuses.
The dark earth that had fallen off from her white enameled bones, smelled of roses, truly the odor of saintliness. But she was no saint. She was a mad eccentric and dramatic woman. Perhaps that is why God loved her at the opening of her coffin.
I made her cross the Acheron.
My name is Charon. Et à Dieu seul la Gloire.
