The problem with oracles

The trouble with oracles is that they often aren’t clear-cut. The fatal flaw in believing that the universe is sending you messages is that you might not be reading them right. Know what I mean? Ask the ancient Greeks – that Delphic ditz regularly did their heads in.  I mean, look at her - you can almost hear her thinking, "Hmm, how can I make it really really confusing? Is there a more complicated way I can say that?"  She ought to write technical manuals.


Last night (yup, my usual 2.30am (not)friend) I was reading In The Dark Places of Wisdom about the Phocaeans who asked said oracle where they should go, having been booted out of their home by the Persians. They thought the oracle was telling them to go to build a town on Cyrnus (Corsica) so off they sailed only to get their asses royally whooped by the Corsicans. Eh what? They had done exactly what Apollo said and been almost totally destroyed. No wonder the poor bastards were confused. Then along came a stranger (as they tend to) and said, ‘You got everything wrong.’ Which is why you usually want to fecking thump the stranger. ‘That’s only what you thought. What he was really saying was to build a place for Cyrnus.’

Eh what (again)? Well, Cyrnus did mean Corsica but it was also the name of the son of Hercules. Anyhow, it doesn’t really matter. Though it did to the Phocaeans of course. ‘Everything had seemed so hopeless. But all they had done was interpret the oracle too narrowly, understood it on the physical level instead of at the level of myth.’ Stupid fecking Phocaeans.

Sorry. This is really long-winded. But bear with me. I try to follow the clues, I really do, but I’m beginning to wonder if I get it all wrong; if I’m blindly following a string when the end has been untied (sorry, mythical metaphors really getting tied up in (Gordian?) knots now). Shit. *smites brow*

Last night though (earlier, before the 2.30am interlude), at least, it all seemed pretty clear-cut. I had fed and watered James, watched a few sky burials with him and then sat down to go on the Internet. The screen started to swim. Migraine alert. Weird. I get, what, maybe one a year? But there was no arguing with it: darkened room, eyes shut, no choice whatsoever. The idle though ran through my head, unbidden, that the Louise Hay prescription for migraine is masturbation. Shit, Louise, have you ever tried it when the whole room is pulsating and the lights are flashing (but not in a remotely orgasmic way?). Anyhow, I reckoned that this (the migraine, not the non-masturbation) was a pretty clear message: stay OFF the internet.

But then, today. I was halfway through an email to the Daily Mail (yes, yes, I know) when Everything Died. Power cut. Sooooo? Is the message ‘Don’t go back! Don’t sell your soul to the devil?’ or is it more a case of ‘Hey, you sad loser, the sun is shining and you’re sitting in front of the fecking PC. Grab the moment! Walk the SP!’

See what I mean? You don't? Do I think too much? Don’t answer that. Just a power cut? Ah, whatever. You’re probably right.

Anyhow. We walked and I saw one person in the distance walking towards us over the big field and, instead of veering off the way I usually would, I headed on a collision course. And the person turned out to be my friend Maggie. And she turned around and walked with us again. And the big field worked its magic in its usual way. And it was good.

And...this will make you laugh. I came back to find the power was back on and that I’d been invited, nay summoned, to a four-day course called Sort Your Life Out. With this guy.  Here. This Sunday. Sort out my life in four days? Bring it on, sunshine.