The Fortunate Wheel

A golden rule's unneeded when one notices surroundings: "what goes around comes around, no worries". Augustine found so abhoring, a pain to privilocracy – mid-age peasants knew full-well from pagan stories told from old that chance is only half of it, the other's steared to make one's destiny.

Chance is fickle, so they say, though it can help decisions because faith believed in all the way presents but one direction. But as a starting point, we say "so what if it is?" When you come around again it's likely fallen quite a way.

This points to Lady Tyche or Fortuna's spinning wheel, casting out lines like spiders inviting vitals to grab on and calling crawling feet a rudder if in lieu of boat, to help one's fate along.

Or globe she's spinning with her fingers like a basketball or underfoot creating day and night. In middle ages, a game of ferris wheel or rolling heel for gypsy wagons with a compass for an orphan – it's compassion, never any kleptomania – to remind it's not just chaos makes a cornicopia and sometimes like the snail, chew with much less haste so's not to forgoe taste: there will be plenty but not if you'd stand still, waitng till you're more than twenty.

The tiller is as well a weaver's beam some call a transom but sometimes it's a club not made by joinery or ransom, and a transit views a steady rod or two or stadia and makes a road as if a star to steer by.

Where six hundred seven feet's a single stadium and the rod is sixteen and a half (or ten for shorter craft), the same for any cranium or tub we call a boat and the rod is the handle of a rudder and a perch or pole.

Pull the oar or turn the sail from transom, tiller shift and tell a tale concerning it in case your mind's adrift. Viewed from a perch a pole shift's just a turning of direction and if you're six feet high a league is to the sea's horizon.

The wheel is great if taken as a symbol, but as a tool for getting there from lake or stream or ocean, nothing's more impressive than a boat & oar or sail – now that's quite an invention – like a symbiosis with a whale, like to cross a scary stream land-lubbers grabbed the milk-cow's tail.

Divination presents a chance for wandering perusal; the oracle – it's like a koan – removes the rut beneath the wheel and in that spell enlarge your perch upon the universal. Blow your mind with this: sometimes beauty isn't just an ordered academia but sublime as any in- or outer spatial psychedelia.

And as for time there's none at all or ever not enough except in Math-time most would call real and that's when things get tough. Myth-time's simulteneity for sums and differences. Math-time's that old religion 'cause when infinitude is ever added to finality the sum is cross-eyed, absolutely certain death, and no one recognises but the dead who may know all or nothing to surprise us. Time goes nowhere yet still a question for the square and hip; going is for mariners by foot or truck or ship.