November 11, 2003


  • Abandonment swirl.  The struggle for green is losing out.


    Many ancients thought the concomitant cold of winter was the cause.


    Modern scientists proclaim it is the diminishment of light, the lengthening of night that trips the leaves into desertion.

    But I believe that the greening faeries, the plant-growth pixies, and the nature-nurturing nymphs are simply fucking off.  They be indulgently over-gobbling the fermenting grapes off the vine.  And what with this planet tilting, spinning, rotating, nutating, and wobbling, the faeries, nymphs and pixies eventually grow dizzy from all this commotion and start behaving like drunks staggering toward the bar’s (season’s) exit.

    “But”, you protest, “if such forces affect the sprites so forcefully, why aren’t they affecting us all the same?”  Because not all of us romance the grape with such dedication.  Not all of us relish the deranged sugar called alcohol as robustly as did Pan and his remaining devoted legions of nether-spirits. 



    I say ‘did Pan’ since Pan, of course, is dead.  The only god that ever died.  “God is dead,” proclaimed Nietzche.  “Thanks for the fitting obituary,” would have remarked Pan, had he not drunk himself to death.  But Pan, while he lived, was everything to everyone.  He was, after all, the playful perpetrator of pandemic pandemonium itself!  “Wine women, wine song, and wine wine!”, he used to declare. (Since shortened to the more familiar ‘wine, women, and song’ to make the notion more intelligible to those, to such influences, less familiar). 


    And his passing is, indeed, observed yearly, when the grapes grow ripe, by all his faithful followers sucking the mind-torqueing raisins and going deep-end into winter’s night.  Their hibernation is just the annual sleeping-off of the memorial panbuzz.  And in their hangover dozing, dreams of Pan and his vision of forever frolicking yet live on.  And their collective dreams sustain the legend.  The legend of the Once Great Pan.

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