![[Image Description: Two MCC members taking a brief break; one is sitting on a rock, the other is standing nearby. They are both in their uniforms, looking out at the expansive, mountain view surrounding them.]](https://cdn.firespring.com/images/c3f85e97-43a9-4810-8081-e8e6338173d0.jpeg)
One thing our intrepid Powell Bozos could never be reasonably accused of is equanimity, nor, for that matter, balance. What makes our crew OUR CREW? By all accounts, wanton obscenity and revelry. The Summer Solstice on the Salmon portended the encroaching long, dark night of our collective soul, the onrushing blood-black elation of ecstatic jouissance, joie de vivre, and verbal debauchery.
Each henceforth hitch’s day six brought novel, vibrant nonsense. We were conduits of Blake’s mythical Urthona, we passed through and beyond conventional language into the breathless expression of nonattachment and joy: belly laughs.
I took ironic satisfaction in our night on the town coinciding with the fall Equinox, a time of supposed balance. Our shadow selves had tipped the scales.
The filth, mirth, curses, babble, rabble, the flagrant indecency, jokes, and impressions give way, the bottom falls out. We’re left with a strange reflection, a clear glass darkly.
Of course we know these are not our enduring faces, that our grim trail names are not our final names. Of course, we know. How can one find balance without first playing with the weights at stake?
