Virgil’s Aeneid has been consulted by a wide range of those looking for insight, from Roman Emperors on the heels of war to farmers worried about a summer drought. Open up to a random page and place your finger on an unread passage; I have been told it’s a form of divination.

April 2024

“First, the sky and the earth and the flowing fields of the sea, the shining orb of the moon and the Titan sun, the stars: an inner spirit feeds them, coursing through all their limbs, mind stirs the mass and their fusion brings the world to birth. From their union springs the human race and the wild beasts, the winged lives of birds and the wondrous bred below the glistening surface of the sea. The seeds of life-fiery is their force, divine their birth, but they are weighed down by bodies’ ills or dulled by earthly limbs and flesh that’s born for death. That is the source of all men’s fears and longings, joys and sorrows, nor can they see the heavens’ light, shut up in the body’s tomb, a prison dark and deep.”

On a sunny Saturday, get lost in a wooded cemetery. Sit with your back against a gravestone that shares your first name or surname. Note the crows and beetles busy with their daily duties. Close your eyes. Feel the grass or soil against your palms. Find a small pebble and put it on your tongue. It will taste of minerals. It will taste of your fear of death. Your mouth will fill with salvia. You will be thirsty. Open your eyes, and you will find that even in a graveyard, spring is just as insatiable as you are.

March 2024

“As hard at their tasks as bees in early summer, that work the blooming meadows under the sun, they escort a new brood out, young adults now, or press the oozing honey into the combs, the nectar brimming the bulging cells, or gather up the plunder workers haul back in, or close ranks like an army, driving the drones, that lazy crew, from home. The hive seethes with life, exhaling the scent of honey sweet with thyme.”

The closest you can get to a state of grace is your lips collapsing into a tart margarita after an afternoon of yard work. Shake off the sedentary nesting of winter and get some shit done.

February 2024

“So when he sent his javelin hissing through the air and all the Volscians, wheeling, trained their eyes and alert minds on the princess, she was numb to it all, the draft, the hiss, the weapon sent from the blue – until the spear went ripping through her, under her naked breast and it struck deep, it hammered home and drank her virgin blood.” 

Heartbreak can strike suddenly and precisely as an arrow from Cupid’s bow. Steel yourself this Valentine’s Day.

January 2024

“There in the midst, a giant shadowy elm tree spreads her ancient branching arms, home, they say, to swarms of false dreams, one clinging tight under each leaf.”

Woof. Good luck with those resolutions, I guess.