Stochelo Rosenberg and the Rebirth of Tragedy - Day 3 (Saint-Quentin to Vienne)

"Wherever the Dionysian prevailed, the Apollonian was checked and destroyed.... wherever the first Dionysian onslaught was successfully withstood, the authority and majesty of the Delphic god Apollo exhibited itself as more rigid and menacing than ever."

-Nietzsche

For the sin of wearing the Coat of Christ in the presence of the Emperor, Pontius Pilate was sentenced to death. Upon hearing the news, Pilate took a knife and slew himself, rather than die the ignoble death of a villain. His body was cast into the Tiber, awakening the evil spirits who dwelt within and creating such consternation that the Romans 'drew out the body in derision' and had it sent to Vienne.

Pilate's Tomb - Vienne

Apollo and Dionysus watched as the wooden ship eased its way up the Rhone in the dead of night. They remained motionless as the soldiers tied a millstone to Pilate's body in anticipation of a final journey to the bottom of the great river. As the soldiers relaxed with their new wine in old wine skins, a singular silence fell, revealing through the tolling of a bell that the moment was now. With the last chime dissolving into the starry heavens, the gods stirred and the great betrayer sank beneath the surface. Slowly he sank at first, yet gathering pace until, trapped by stone and black mud, all motion ceased. Almost at once the great river shuddered as the ill spirits of the water revealed themselves in waves of such ferocity that the vessel above splintered into a thousand parts.

The men aboard became absorbed by the ferment and swam for their lives, fighting the lashing rain and currents in a desperate bid to reach the safety of the shore. By dawn the twelve survivors hauled themselves up the bank and fell exhausted beside an old, shattered millstone. The body of Pilate lay just a few feet away, unmarked but broken. Silence returned. The curse was lifted, the gods had triumphed, and Vienne would now be a place of music, life, wine and intoxication.

The Roman Theatre - Vienne

Karura took his place at the top of the ancient theatre, sensing all too keenly the struggle to create order from chaotic fate. The terror and ecstasy of life seem to require meaning and yet in grasping some interim meaning, the terror and ecstasy are lost. Sitting here in this ancient realm of the gods, Karura determined to create himself anew. His autonomy demanded it. His life required it. Washing his hands of responsibility would not suffice.

Later he would work his way to the front of the crowd in order to be an integral part of the revelry. For now, Karura was content to allow his neighbours to smile tolerantly. His long held ambition of discussing Jean Paul Sartre in his original language was as far away now as it had been when he was a teenager. He was on safer ground discussing the music, but in his element constructing paper aeroplanes for his new young friend to throw anonymously towards the musicians far below.

Stochelo took to the stage and Apollo smiled. It was for this that he had stirred all those years ago. Karura eased his way to the font of the crowd where, wine in hand, he abandoned everything to the music of the gods. Dionysus too was pleased. Tonight meaning permeated the air, grasping at Karura's lungs with every breath he took; clinging to his body. Tonight, Karura danced with the gods.

And Thus Begins The Web - Day 2 (Llansilin to Saint-Quentin)

"I am the things that are, that will be, and that have been. No one has ever laid open the garment by which I am concealed. The fruit which I brought forth was the sun"

Credit: http://myworld1.deviantart.com/

After three thousand or more years weathered by sand and rain, Neith's exquisitely woven bandages fell to the ground, the shroud disintegrated, and the gift of death stole silently back into the shadows. Karura was alive again. For so long the goddess had protected him from annihilation; standing guard with her arrow and bow until no one even remembered his name. Until the precise moment that the last person who had felt his presence expired and his very existence became no more than an echo in the breaking waves. Yet in her greatest task, Neith had failed, and with her failure his proud heart tore itself asunder, unleashing a passion not even the waters of the great Nile itself could quench. The crocodiles and the birds knew of his pain and would steal out to soothe his burning forehead each night as Karura slept. The fish kept silent vigil. Waiting. Praying to the gods.

Karura could feel the wind now. The sun on his face and the smell of the fields tore into him, pushing through his skin, into his eyes, his ears and his nostrils, nourishing his very being. For months this feeling had been his goal, his solace. Now, at this very moment in time, nothing else mattered. No aspiration, no purpose, no desire, no yesterdays, no tomorrow. He glanced behind briefly. A futile gesture. But this was not a moment for sharing and he turned his face back to the wind. Tucked into his breast pocket, close to his heart, was a reminder of two young boys, a recent farewell and of the tears that had almost breached defences forged through many, many months of grief. Karura twisted the throttle a little further and the bike swept forwards more urgently, the perfectly balanced beat of an inline triple reverberating through his body, massaging his soul. The great plains of Shropshire lay dazzlingly wide behind him, punctuated by hills and part encircled by mountains. This was the view he loved so much when travelling homewards. Home, that restorative place of belonging, contentment and love is, above all, where the heart lies. But his heart did not lie. 

He was heading east now and soon would swing round to the south and the sea. Four weeks and four thousand miles. This time tomorrow, he would be in Vienne at the Roman 'Théâtre Antique', listening to the music of the gods and learning to dance. Karura followed the arc of the curve, sinking deeper into that trance like state where the bike and rider become one and there is nothing left to contemplate beyond the magic of the moment.

"Passport, please". She looked at Karura from behind resigned, restless eyes and through differing roots a flash of envy on both sides brought him back to a very different, more tangible but somehow less real 'now'. Paperwork complete and helmet on tank, Karura traversed the final few yards of English soil then took his place high up on the top of the ship, all the better to watch the emerging stars. Peace enveloped him. France beckoned. The gods smiled.