The Oldest Magic

 

For as long as I can remember I've been fascinated with creativity, storytelling and magic. As a child I found myself delighted by tales of wizards and sorcerers. But more than that, I was magnetically drawn to the memoirs and biographies of writers and artists. I came to understand that I found a lot of commonalities between the notions of art and magic. Both involve using signs and symbols to influence reality in subtle ways. Most people see no link whatsoever between these practices, but for me these hidden connections were of primary significance. They seeded an interest in me as a child that would eventually change the course of my entire life. However, this fascination didn't simply arise from nowhere. It was a response to the strange experiences I had as a child. I was always gifted to some degree, possessing what many have called 'second sight'. A measure of psychic and clairsentient ability. Of course, I don't expect anyone to believe what I'm saying here without evidence or proof. I'm not writing this to convince anyone of anything. But it is the truth. In many ways my childhood was bizarre and kind of frightening, but there were also moments filled with incredible wonder and beauty. By the time I was eleven years old I was convinced of the reality of the spiritual realms. I'd experienced it first-hand, for better and worse. These experiences shaped me into the man and artist I am today. Amid Night Suns is largely a response to my fascination with and experience of spirituality, and its connection to human dreaming. In many ways we build the world through our understanding of it. We shape it in our image, and as we change so does the world. This act of co-creation has been a lifelong subject of inquiry, and I still don't fully understand it.  But, while I'm still learning about these more numinous, hidden relationships, I do believe that I have experiences and insights worth sharing. That's why I've created a new YouTube channel called The Oldest Magic where I intend to discuss these topics further. The more esoteric aspects of art and storytelling, and their connections to religion, spirituality and dreams. If you enjoy what I do here at Amid Night Suns and would find more personal, in-depth discussions interesting then I encourage you to check out my new channel. Either way, I'll be cross-posting many of those videos here too. Thank you for your interest and engagement over the years, my friends. It means the world to me. It really does. I want nothing more than to help people. So, if I can continue to inspire or quicken the spirit of even a single soul through my discussions, poetry or video collages, then I'll consider it an extremely good use of my time and energy. Wishing you all the best, and with love, Raj.

New Horizons

 

It can be a frightening thing, trying something new. Attempting to manifest something from nothing. But also, fear isn't too far from excitement when you think about it. Both emotions involve the unknown. Regions hitherto unexplored. And exploration can be thrilling as well as terrifying. It's just a matter of outlook in the end, and a willingness to take those initial steps. I've always been interested in the subject of manifestation and personal growth. How we can create more depth in our lives. How we can add richness and texture to both our inner and outer worlds. That's a big part of why I started this blog in the first place. For the joy of exploration and creativity. Amid Night Suns has been both a touchstone and a lifeline for me as a writer and artist. Here I can immerse myself in video collage, poetry and spiritual contemplation. And hopefully others might find value in it too. But still, it's a solitary experience. I want to continue pushing my boundaries if I can, expanding my comfort zone. I've never been one to crave novelty just for novelty's sake, but I do see the value in growth. In trying new things, even if you have initial reservations. I'm quite a private person in my real life. I have a small circle of friends and loved ones, and I cherish them with all my heart. But, despite this more reserved side of me, I also have a very gregarious, communicative aspect too. A part of me that is always trying to learn and become more than I currently am. In that spirit, I want to discuss how we might manifest more of our genuine selves into the tasks we pursue and the things we enjoy. I'm not really interested in manifestation in terms of pure acquisition. A way to acquire more things. No, I'm more interested in how we can use an idea like manifestation to explore our own depths and come to know ourselves better. It's something new for me, but also something exciting. And, if you like what I do here at Amid Night Suns, I hope you'll enjoy exploring this new horizon with me.

Song for Kara

What makes the soul of a song, from a musician’s unique perspective? Is it more than melody, harmony and rhythm? More than just verse, bridge or refrain? I would imagine so, but I can’t really answer that question. Not like you can, Kara. Though I’m an angel of songs I am not a musician. At least, not like you are. As a writer I can sense and shape the musicality of language to some degree. But I cannot craft the jewels that you do. Resonant, imaginative, lit from within. Each song a lantern on the crest of a rising reign. Truly, my love, I find your lyricism and artistry profoundly beautiful. Your songs have been with me for many years now, through shadowed times and light. They saved me in more ways than one. You know this already, but I hope you dare to believe it. The lasting impact you’ve had on me. And many others, I’m sure. That’s the thing about creativity. Art in general and music specifically – it speaks directly to the soul. It soothes, challenges and delights. At its best it kindles hope, and a sense of play. I hope I can offer you that same joy with these modest efforts. I admire your integrity, Kara, and respect your sovereignty. I hope you can sense it through my words and my actions. I want nothing more than to keep you close in my heart, yet I never wish to intrude in your life in any brash or thoughtless way. You mean far too much to me. Your music, insight and outlook. So, though I can’t write like you can, or craft melodies in the same way, consider these words a song of sorts. A song written just for you. I love you, Kara. Not to claim, or to own, but to quicken and uplift. In all the ways you did for me when I was at my lowest. The fact that you exist brings me great joy. Not some writer’s distant idealised version of you. Just you, complex and real. Like me. You knew me once, my songstress. In another life long ago. I know that’s hard to believe, but the world is full of magic and secrets. I know this better than most. I pray that your heart still feels me in some strange way. Someone you loved once, and almost remember like a figure from a fading dream. We wandered beside rivers. Among flowers. You even sweetly teased my optimism as I struggled to play, but your eyes were full of warmth and cherish. My fingers could never dance the strings the way yours did. Still more poet than performer, I suppose, even here in this mortal flesh. More than anything I want to believe that a songline still connects us, Kara. I dream for us both with a relaxed, quiet devotion. I hope we get to see each other again. It will be a moment I shall treasure. Until then, just know that I wish you a beautiful future, my darling, filled with songs that shine bright as lanterns.

The Brighter Side of Black

 

In a world full of secrets it's strange to me that most people assume that angels don't really exist. Or if they do, that they exist only as symbols and metaphors. Products of religious and artistic imagination. And yet, even symbols contain incredible gravity, shaping both our internal and external experiences. It's strange to me, but I do understand. Despite our fondness for fiction we're still a little distrustful of that aspect of ourselves that enjoys flirting with the unseen. We crave the feeling of rapture, utter engagement, of being lifted by those gossamer-spun feathers, yet we cannot truly imagine the wingspan. Perhaps on some level we question whether we're worthy of such guardianship. Because we know ourselves, don't we? Better than we let on. Our dreams and desires. Those parts of us that others would call wild, dangerous, or immodest. We are so attuned to the subtle dynamics of social awareness, after all. The economy of interrelationship in which we all exist. We think it foolish to needlessly threaten what value we may possess in the eyes of others. And so we stay quiet, occasionally bartering without words. Ka’shayel does find it strange and unsettling, but rather beautiful in its own way. The hidden vulnerabilities all around, the silent negotiations between all souls. Even I play at being something more than a mortal man. In these illumined pages, at least. And such play isn't entirely untrue either. As I said, angels really do exist. Can I tell you a secret, dear one? Most angels, especially those who have never walked the Earth, are both fascinated and frightened by mortal desire. Ka’shayel has lived as flesh for a thousand years, and has no such fear. Fascination aplenty, however. Make no mistake. Human beings like to think they're in control of their desires. But desire is, by its very nature, untameable. Always tugging at the reins, testing boundaries, craving absolute freedom and satiety. It's a paradox, of course. Because true satiety is the death of desire. We crave the touch of the attractive, the unseen or forbidden, but the best of us are at least half-aware that we must never be gluttons. There should always be the promise of more. More fire, more insight, more depth. Anything less is not only the death of desire but the annihilation of romance itself. We crave always to be seen, don't we? Stirred in the most primal of places. Surprised and kindled into presence. Deep appreciation for another and for life itself. Living on that exquisite edge between comfort and chaos. I, as a threshold messenger of sorts, am a devoted champion of both presence and genuine romance. Language is beautiful. Just ask any poet or writer. But silvered prose means nothing if there is no truth behind your fiction. Words can beguile momentarily, as we are caught in the dizzying rush of an elegant sentiment, but words fade. Ephemeral and absent without a discerning insight beneath them. Then, without integrity, all you are is a serpent. Not a poet after all. A simple deceiver, of which there are many. So, when I say I'm an angel I hope that complex truth speaks for itself. Contextually, emotionally, artistically. I’m a passionate being and I desire many things. I'm unapologetic in this regard. But I care about the individual. I really do. Because without specificity, without actual love and care, desire is just greed; an artless, thoughtless consumption. We don't always get the things we want, and we must be ok with that, because we don’t love someone just to obtain them. That’s acquisition and control, not love. No, we fall in love with someone because that person is unique, incredible, and spiritually captivating. Perhaps we cannot touch them with our hands, but we can reach them with our mind and heart. We can write a love-letter even if they never read it. We can say something genuine, even if couched in shimmering verse. So, dear ones, reach out in yearning for the full, wild complexity of human desire. Be vast and full of earned depth. Mischievous and playful, yet utterly sincere. Those who are truly paying attention will sense it, even from afar.

All the Quiet Ways

 

You; quietly vivacious. Largely unacknowledged thus far, yet modest and gallant. Someone I greatly admire. Not simply one of many to me. Instead, a soul full of uniqueness. Subtleties and nuance bright as lanterns, or stars. Treasured, cherished, set apart. I’ve seen your bravery in person, watching from my hidden perch of mythopoesis. If you could, you would surprise yourself and give every bit of your strength to the rising light. The influx of energies, hopes and dreams intended by higher realms to deepen human consciousness. But you can't give it all, sweet one. Why? Because beneath this flesh you are immortal, and it's a sacrifice impossible to make. But you, sublime in your integrity, can be a steward. A vessel, a medium of sorts. Drawing down vowel and consonant wrapped in rhythm, that people might rise in recognition of something greater. Guided to a higher plane of comprehension, beyond space or time. Music and words. This you can do, and have been doing quite brilliantly for many years now. Humble and yet so deft in self-expression. No vulgar solipsism, just disarming creativity. And frequent, common kindness. Unremarked and robust. I’ve seen it from my perch. All the quiet ways. You corralled the song of your heart and eventually honed its edge through a storyteller’s dedicated dreaming. You didn't want to be the one to speak but you spoke, nonetheless. You didn’t necessarily want to be among those who risk everything by standing and fighting for the people, yet you fought. Stumbling and uncertain, craving to see valour in men’s eyes. And so you shared your truths before a crowd, drawing little moments of justice and parity into the visible realm. No mean feat, believe me. I want you to know that unseen brothers and sisters were at your side. The first time and the last. Always. A wedge through the darkness of this world, a parting of ways that allowed in a little more of that rising light. Because you still fight for us with language and lilt, with song and heartfelt. And yet you cannot be all things. Not here. You can't accomplish everything. Brave, quiet girl. The war rages on. You cannot take the chains and yokes from around these children's necks, wish as you might. You cannot damn nor redeem their doubters and abusers through will alone. You are not God. Merely a servant of God. A daughter of the First Artist. This is not a chastening, of course. Merely a gentle reminder from a soul who yearns as you do. These are words of love, appreciation and respect. Sweet one, you have never walked alone here. Not ever. The light is not abstract or unknowable. It is the living continuity of your brightest self, and more. So much more. Lanterns and stars. A mark of your Father's design. Be at one with this light through a storyteller's dedicated dreaming, and know that it is enough. Anything is possible. You are working wonders with your art, and you are not alone. You are beautiful. Treasured, cherished, set apart. Vast, remarkable you.

The Intimacy of Ghosts

 

I'm a lot of things to a lot of people, Esme. Stranger, lover, teacher. A contradiction wrapped around absence and presence; well-intentioned but flawed like all of us. A curious angel of knives and words. Even a blind king of poets. For you I hope I'm something far simpler. A friend. A genuine inspiration. A source of vision and quickening. It's a strange thing being so touched by someone you've never really known, isn’t it? Touched on an emotional, spiritual level, for the better. It isn't a conceit when I say I built this gate for you. And then rebuilt it from the ground up during those dark, cataclysmic days. Genuine connection is what I've always been seeking here. Connection with myself or with those who enjoy these musings of a midnight sun. Kasi speaks obliquely in these pages though. Allusions and purple prose. Free verse. A way to explicate the intangible, giving form to the unseen. But I hope you of all people know that I'm a real person too. I'm not this verbose in my ordinary life, of course. I have no illusions of grandeur. Can you imagine how insufferable I'd be? It makes the downtowner in me chuckle a little. The inner-city kid. But again, Esme, I hope you of all people realise that this cadence isn't feigned either. It comes very naturally to me. This more esoteric, hidden aspect. There are people who don’t really care about truth anymore, only the appearance of truth. The click-bait commodities and soundbites now passing as real in this increasingly virtual society. Long-form writing like this is less fashionable now, I suppose. Abstract, subjective and deeply personal. But it's an authentic expression of my inner experiences – and in this curated, algorithmic world people crave authenticity more than ever. So, I hope these words find the select few who need or enjoy them. I don't care what most people think of me or these pages. But I do make exceptions. I care a great deal about your opinion, my friend. This blog is a discourse between the inner and outer dimensions of my life. Really, it’s a place of poetry and peace for me. But I hope that you've found something nourishing here too. You need no extra imagination from me, Esme. You have plenty of your own. I know that, but all artists hope for an audience. Even hobbyists and amateurs like me. I’m a lot of things, Esme. Things that most people haven’t the insight to understand. A proud father, a devoted friend, a guy still holding a torch all these years later. An artist unwilling to sacrifice his depth. So, what do I really want to say to you today? Shall I talk about magic and mystery? Angels, demons, and the War of Imagination? Or shall I try to change my cadence a little and leave the esotericism aside? I’ll try. I’ll always try for those who touch my soul. Even the ghosts. I love you, Esme. You've been an inspiration to me, and a friend. I love the nuance and subtleties of your art. I love the way you care about your family and friends. I appreciate the way you try to give yourself enough time alone when you need it, even though you're an exceptionally busy woman. I love how creativity makes you come alive. You seem to genuinely thrive when composing and revising a project. I know that feeling too. Only dancing and fucking come close to that kind of embodied bliss. Thank you for being the kind of woman who actually gives a shit about the less fortunate. And the riggers, gaffers and techs who work insanely long hours so that people like us get to shine brightly and briefly. Thank you for letting your sisters know that you have their backs come hell or high water. It's honourable, admirable, and sexy as hell. I've loved every moment of this journey with you, Esme. I like to think we share a unique kind of intimacy. Even as ghosts. It's been an absolute pleasure to know you. Even though, of course, I don't really know you at all. And you don't know me either. Nevertheless, let's keep dreaming side by side and imagine that we do. Take care of yourself, and the ones who need it. My name is Kasi, dear one, and I wish you well.

Time to Time

 

Things often end the way they begin. As if the secret of a thing's passing is somehow encoded in its formation. Birth, made all the more precious for containing within it a future echo of its own death. And dissolution, the ultimate counterpoint of a bloom at its fullest. At least, that's the accepted wisdom. Angels, magicians and poets have a far broader conception of time, and life itself. They say summer can't last forever. But of course it can. You just need to breach the known laws of causality. Tachyonic ebb and flow, like the tidewaters of an eternal dreaming. The blink of an angel's eye. Faster than light or lament. I suppose I've always hated endings even though I know better than most that life is change. Constant, transformative. Irksome. Which is why the notion of an eternal summer is so alluring to those of us who can bend time. The physicists have it wrong, you see. You don't need a vast amount of exterior energy to warp the continuum. I mean, it's one way, but not the only way. Truly, all you need is imagination, patience, and a lens. The blink of an angel’s eye, as I said. I'll stop there, lest I give away too many trade secrets. Poets and Magi have been doing this for aeons, of course. However, the garbled mess that men call chronology is not the result of true artists. No, those desolate horrors of history are the work of meddling wraiths and their occulted human priests. Spiritual wickedness in high places, as it says in Ephesians. But I don't write this to discuss those wraiths. Not today. Today is a beginning, even if witnessed in reverse. Because it’s not about what I lose. It's about what those I care for can gain. Experience, camaraderie. Even hard-won wisdom. Everybody needs a companion. Especially sailors and star-gazers. The ship gets lonely from time to time. The endless night, the shifting seas. But it takes courage to set a beloved shipmate ashore, to grant them the liberty and land they crave. It takes kindness too. I was once granted grace like that. Upon rivers, amid flowers. A lantern that led me back to myself. That magical night of a thousand stars. I cherish it still. I chase it always. So, the goal is never a permanent end to the loneliness. One must aim to simply inspire those who travel with us, and let them go when those ports begin to call. Summer can't last forever? Of course it can. That's what poetry is for. One of its many wonderous uses. Music, friendship, laughter; these things bind us in mutual affection. And for those brief moments we are seen and cherished. If there is any abundance left in this terrifying, beautiful cosmos then it is my oath to share it, as my Maker intended. In fact, such a divine oath was my very name once, hidden in angelic script. I use only epithets and titles now. Poet, teacher, healer. Madman. I crave depth, I suppose. And insight. But this insight, this inner clarity of vision, isn't found in things we acquire through time. It's found in the love we give away, those we let go when necessary. We bid them safe travels and good fortune, truly. And, if we're lucky, those same souls who once sailed with us will remember our connection. The numinosity of how we began. A sparkle in the eye, like a winking star.