alan liles - Katabatic Breeze

O. For a puff of katabatic wind in Paradise, CA right about now.

Terra is burning and the Nero wannabe in the White House just keeps strumming his out of tune lyre.

Ugh. Try not to dwell on it. As my sister texted me yesterday—

“The death march is sad”.

She was not referring to the immigrant army marching from Honduras to the United States border with Mexico. Nor was she referring to lines of starving refugees fleeing the bombing in Yemen.

Perhaps the forgotten 33% of all species of animals on Earth made extinct in a mere two generations since the 1970’s due to human progress?

Uh. No. She was referring to everyone whom we know personally. Who has fallen of late. On the road toward Betelgeuse.

Right. Good morning, cyberworld!

Which digital strand shall we pluck today, Orfeo?

Though I dread it. Let us return to April… 3? 2014. My birth mother’s 88th birthday. I must have forgotten to send her a birthday card that year.

April 3-4-5? 2014… something like that.

I entered my bedroom upstairs in my father’s house in Mckinleyville, CA. I drew the curtains, pulled down the black-out shades, undressed, climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and

Down
down

                       d   o

                               ooowwwww

nnnnnnnnnnn

I went……

Way down.
Curtains—

Katabasis or catabasis (Ancient Greek: κατάβασις, from κατὰ "down" and βαίνω "go") is a descent of some type, such as moving downhill, the sinking of the winds or sun, a military retreat, a trip to the underworld, or a trip from the interior of a country down to the coast. The term has multiple related meanings in poetry, rhetoric, and modern psychology.

A trip to the coast[edit]
The term catabasis can refer to a trip from the interior of a country down to the coast (for example, following a river), in contrast to the term "anabasis", which refers to an expedition from a coastline up into the interior of a country.
The main meaning given for catabasis by the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) describes "A going down; a military retreat, in allusion to that of the ten thousand Greeks under Xenophon, related by him in his Anabasis:
1837 DE QUINCEY Revolt Tartars Wks. 1862 IV. 112 The Russian anabasis and catabasis of Napoleon. 1899 Westm. Gaz. 17 May 4/1 Little space is devoted to the Anabasis; it is, as in the story of Xenophon, the Catabasis which fills the larger part.
— Oxford English Dictionary - catabasis
In the opening of Plato's Republic, Socrates recounts "going down" to the port city of Piraeus, located south of his native Athens. Several scholars, including Allan Bloom, have read this first word, κατέβην ("I went down") as an allusion to Odysseus' journey into the underworld.

Arts[edit]
In poetry and rhetoric, the term katabasis refers to a "gradual descending" of emphasis on a theme within a sentence or paragraph, while anabasis refers to a gradual ascending in emphasis. John Freccero notes, "In the ancient world, [the] descent in search of understanding was known as katabasis",[1] thus endowing mythic and poetic accounts of katabasis with a symbolic significance.

Modern psychology[edit]
In modern psychology, the term katabasis is sometimes used to describe the depression some young men experience.[2] Author Robert Bly proposes in his book Iron John: A Book About Men several reasons for the "catabasis phenomenon", amongst them the lack of Western initiation rites and the lack of strong father figures and role models.

Trip into the underworld

The Aeneid[edit]
The katabasis of Virgil's Aeneid occurs in book 6 of the epic. Unlike Odysseus, Aeneas seeks to enter the underworld, rather than bring the spirits of the dead to him through sacrifice. He begins his journey with a visit to the Cumaean Sibyl (a priestess of Apollo) and asks for her assistance to journey to the underworld and visit his father.[20] The priestess tells him to find a golden branch, and if the branch breaks off in his hands, he is fated to go to the underworld. She also tells Aeneas to bury his dead friend and prepare cattle for sacrifice.[21] When Aeneas reaches the forest to find the golden branch, he is guided by birds to the tree, and the branch breaks into his hand. The branch, however, does not easily break off as the Sibyl said would happen to a person fated to go to the Underworld - the branch is described as "cunctantem" ("hesitant"). The implications of this have been debated by scholars - some arguing that it means that Aeneas is not as heroic as he needs to be, others arguing that Aeneas has not yet fulfilled his destiny, and several arguing that he is still a hero, with this section added purely for drama. Aeneas buries Misenus and he and the Sibyl prepare a sacrifice to enter the underworld.[22] Aeneas first encounters several beings and monsters as he enters: Sorrows, Heartaches, Diseases, Senility, Terror, Hunger, Evil, Crime, Poverty, Death, Hard Labor, Sleep, Evil Pleasures of Mind, War, Family Vengeance, Mad Civil Strife, Scylla, Briareus, Hydra, Chimaera, Gorgons, Harpies, and Cerberus.[23] Next, Aeneas encounters Charon, the ferryman who leads souls into the underworld, and the mass of people who are unburied.[24] His first conversation is with Palinurus, a man of his crew who fell overboard and died on their journey. Palinurus begs Aeneas to bury him so he can enter

the underworld.[25] The Sibyl convinces Charon to carry them across the river Styx in exchange for the golden bough.[26] Aeneas encounters Minos pronouncing judgment on souls and the souls that died for love: Phaedra, Procris, Eriphyle, Evadne, Pasiphae, Laodamia, Caeneus, and Dido.[27] Next, Aeneas sees heroes of battle: Tydeus, Parthenopaeus, Adrastus, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Polyboetes, Idaeus, Agamemnon, and Deiphobus.[28] The Sibyl then leads Aeneas to Elysium, the place for the blessed. On the way, they pass the place for tortured souls and the Sibyl describes some of the tortured's fates. Tityos has his liver eaten by a vulture daily. Pirithous and Ixion have a rock constantly hanging over them at all times. Many others face the punishment of moving rocks, being stretched, and being tied to wheels.[29] The two then enter the Estates of the Blessed, where they see a utopian land where heroes and good people reside. There, Aeneas finds his father, who tells him of the rich history of Rome to come.[30]

Ahhh. If only I had had the all-seeing assistance of a Cumaean Sibyl. If only I had had Proserpina’s Golden Bough. Even a “cunctantem” branch. Hanging upon a sorely bent, sun burnished pine. On the edge of an eroding cliff. Near the mouth of the Mad River. To hang onto

If only I had known then…

Alas and alack. Perhaps another more ambitious slave of Diana had come to kill this priest who guarded yonder sacred tree? Perhaps I had abandoned my post? Perhaps I was due my “fare share of abuse”…

The point is. I have no idea what compelled me to do what I did next.

And what was that brave hero… Aeneas, is it? Or, Orpheus? No. Odysseus, right?

I fear not, me laddees.

Let me guess: You sacrificed a litter of puppies at a crossroads?

No. Sadly. Coward that I am. I retired. I retreated from the world of the living.

I lay down for the next thirty days and thirty nights. I let the steady hammering upon the right back side of my head, the paralyzing pain down the right side of my body… I let the pain take me down.

I surrendered… if not wholeheartedly… certainly whole bodily. To the punishing blows of an invisible god. I went to “Hades”

To “hel”/“hell”/“helle”. To the “underworld”. The “duat”

“The concealed place”

I went upon a spontaneous chthonic journey.

I don’t know what else to name the nameless place where I went.
Praying like a madman for rescue—
It felt like going down.

Down
Down
Down
Down

With each pounding of the invisible hammer.
I.
Whatever I was.
A scrap of meat.
A point in time.
A writhing snake upon a swampy bed.

An atom of awareness.

With each down falling of Thor’s Mighty Mjolnir.
The inherent atoms of my awareness descended into.
An unimaginable netherworld.

Blackness is what I remember.
Stark black inner darkness.
Pain and heat.
Yes. Fearsome heat.

Volcanic molten rock heat is what I remember.

Increasing heat and pressure.
A steady compression of molecules.
An ever-increasing sense of squeezing.
Compression in consciousness.
A melting down of mind and soul.
As if into a black hole.
A hideous unavoidable converging.
To a point of maximum intensity.

And then.
The screaming—
The wretched screaming of frantic leptons?
And the almost metallic wrenching.
The grinding and wrenching of live photons?

“A dreadful wailing and gnashing of teeth”…

Like the “lamentations of the women”?

Yes. Rather. Only these utterly silent cries of… grief.

And. It did feel like grief!
Like the dark hearted implosion of grief.

This pressurized, seething cauldron of super-concentrated.
Ionized grief.
How to say it….?

Well.
There were no beloved ancestors there.
No famous philosophers.
No important artists.
No third-rate poets.
No historic scientific celebrities.
No heroes or heroines.
No gods or goddesses.
No demons or she-devils.

No aliens.
No weird Hieronymus Bosch facsimiles.
No Lord Yama.
No repo man.

You didn’t see a hungry crocodile/hippopotamus something or other waiting at the bottom of a dark well?

Sorry. No.

And the good ibis headed record keeper, Thoth? Did he represent you well in the Court of Osiris?

No. He did not appear.

A feather standing upon one pan of a balance beam scale?

Just heat and pressure and pain.

I see. Does not sound like either a Christian, a Buddhist, or a

Oh. But now that you mention it. I do recall occasionally transfiguring into a vision of Christ on the Cross. Like those gemlike Flemish paintings in
the Groeningemuseum in Bruges, Belgium.

Oh really? When was that?

Usually around 4-5am. When the 104 degree fevers would break.

Yes. That’s it. Just when coming back into body consciousness out of the infernal caldron. I. Or, the matrix of awareness. Would slowly reform into a prayer—

The “O Father why hath thou forsaken me”… type prayer.

I would find myself re-materializing from a condition of… writhing psychic quarks… into that famous, beseeching image of Christ on the Cross. Head turned upward. Pitiful cerulean blue eyes cast askance. With the tiny droplets of ruby blood. Beneath the wretched crown of thorns

Or occasionally I found myself to be. A beatific vision of. Our dearest Mother Mary. Staring down with. Profound tenderness and grief. Praying to Our Father. For her beloved child, Jeshua. Just after he has been brought down from the crucifixion cross.

The fevers raged nightly for a month. I poured buckets of sweat nightly. I covered the bed with towels. Then stripped them off and replaced them each day.

Lisa was frantic. She called my doctor. My doctor said. If he is running a fever, go to the emergency room immediately. She called the surgeon’s assistant in Santa Monica. The surgeon’s assistant said. If he is running a fever, go to the emergency room immediately.

I wouldn’t listen.

Was it because I was born stubborn?

Or, was I so terrified of returning to the nightmare hospital that I chose to take my chances at home?

Was I suffering from PTSD as a result of my surgery and post-op care in Santa Monica?

Was I in a confused state of mind brought on by the cruel daily regimen of hemiplegic migraine?

What was I thinking?!

It is futile to ask. What I was thinking could only be described as—

Crawl in a readymade hole and die.

I have no good answer. Other than this.

Once a day. Usually in the early hours of the morning. Around 4-6am. My jaw would unlock. That’s right. I forgot to mention the jaw locking nausea that accompanied the migraines. Let’s see.

There was. Jaw locking nausea. Which would release. Only for an hour or two in the early morning. After the sweating fever subsided. The fever starting in the evening around 9pm. And lasting all night. With alternating chills. During which times. I changed out the soaking towels covering the bed. Upon which I constantly lay.

I lost thirty pounds in thirty days. Sweating.

Around 6am I would crawl downstairs and try. To eat and drink something. A little goat yogurt and granola perhaps. Some tea. This much I knew I had to do. For the mortal body. To survive. Within the narrow window of time. Allotted me.

On days when I could. I tried to walk—

I did walk!

I tried to make my usual pilgrimage to the mouth of the Mad River. My sacred crusade. My Holy Walk.

But. I was in no shape to make it to my beloved mouth.

I would head down our long driveway toward the Hammond Trail to see how far I could go. Every day I could. I walked.

I tried to reach a certain bench. Like a station of the cross. A certain memorial bench on the Hammond Trail just above the Mad River. Looking toward the western horizon. Toward the Pacific Ocean.

Each walk was a test of my ultimate endurance. A test of faith.

I figured. If I could walk farther. I was getting better. If I could not. I was getting worse.

I was determined to defeat… Senor Cancer… my deadly foe… Genghis Khan… whomever… whatever.

I really thought I could win!

Just one more night.

Just one more day.
Just one more walk.
Just one more step

And then I went back to bed. For 20-23 hours a day.

And so it went. Day after delirious day. Night after hellish night.

With each step.
I prayed.

With each step.
I thought positive thoughts!

With each step I smiled.

I smiled at the ravens.
I smiled at the river.
I smiled at the sky.

I was determined to get better.
I was convinced I could get better.
I was sure that if I left no room for doubt—

I would get better.
I was getting better!

And then the day came.
Just another typical sunny morning in Humboldt.
May 4, 2014.
The day I couldn’t breathe.
The day I had to lie down on the cool ground.
On some anonymous neighbor’s lawn on Kelly.

The day came when.
In between almost non-stop coughs.
Gasping for air.
The world going white.
Spinning like a dervish.

The day came when I looked at Saint Lisa.
Who had been walking at my side.
And Jasper.
The white muppet emotional support dog.

And I said.

Ok.

Are you okay? Lisa asked.
Pausing.
You don’t look okay.
You look awfully pale.

Yes. I said.

Yes. Yes— What? She furthured.
Starting to look concerned.

Yes. I said. As a slight katabatic breeze gently cooled my burning brow—

Now it is time to go to the emergency room, please.

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