I met Bacchus in a muddy field a fortnight ago, bobbing his head to New Order. The land vibrated as sacrificial children in wellies and animal masks laughed and flirted and forgot their worries.
What do you need when you met Bacchus? Nothing, really. Friends, perhaps. At the time, I had a capacious handbag, the very sort Oscar Wilde conferred upon Miss Prism in "The Importance of Being Earnest", big enough to hold or conceal, depending on the purpose, a baby or a manuscript. This bag contained tangerine-coloured lipstick, toilet paper, sunglasses, an umbrella, xeroxed pages from Heidegger's Being and Time, enough space for possibility.
Today I'm home, homing in on some thought, making home for that thought, the critical mimetic moment. The festival's glitter rubbed off, but still there, deep under skin. Scratch and it will gleam like a cache of gem in split stone. This mythology allows for me to be both scholar and midnight dancer, part-time nun and gentle decadent in the fields of Bacchus, Pan, and Thalia.