Is this real life?

To be fair, I never paid much attention to the running of the bulls before.  I remember learning some time ago that, despite the dramatic pictures, there are only six bulls involved in each run; the danger to humans is in fact quite overrated if one considers the sheer number of them in the streets.  I didn’t even know that it was associated with bull “fighting” until a year ago.  That’s why I have to wonder if it’s really always such a violent time.

Quick, run! Here come the bulls!

Two more men were gored as the vigil continued overnight, and a bull killed a matador in Teruel, the first such death in 31 years.  (None of the reports I’ve read indicate if the audience threw flowers to the bull on occasion of his victory, but somehow I doubt it.)

So far as I know, my participation in the vigil this year doubles our number, and frankly I wonder if that has anything to do with it.  I definitely don’t think I’m all that, but maybe Poseidon is getting juiced that this issue is getting more sacred attention.

In addition to writing blog posts — something which I am actually a bit surprised to find time for — I’ve been writing more hymns.  A new one to Poseidon Kthonios came out, for honoring the dead bulls not sacrificed, as well as all the other dead which he claims.  No interest in debating if Poseidon could even possibly have a kthonic aspect or if that’s just his brother; the answer is definitely “yes” to that.

The circles that I have noted as emanating outwards are also bouncing back within, and they are threatening to shake things loose, break walls down, tear barriers apart, likely to mold me again when the process is complete.  This is a surprisingly emotional experience for me, because it’s stripping away those protective layers of “don’t want to think about it” which protect me from the pain all around.  I’m not a bleeding heart environmentalist any longer because I hardened my heart to suffering that’s not in my face.  Sure, I recycle and compost more than most and I recycle far more than most people would be bothered to, but when I allow myself to feel what we collectively do to the denizens of this world, the sadness and anger tend to make me . . . let’s call it “anti-social.”  Shielding that sensitive part of me allows me to function and move forward in my own small way towards a planet that is populated by compassionate beings that don’t bring suffering to all of their neighbors.

I may have to find another way, because there’s four more nights of this ahead, and I don’t know what there is of me that isn’t going to get swept away.

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