I've heard it said that he is singing
only in silence now; the angel of All Songs. Still wounded.Still bleeding since the hush. There
are some agonies too much to bear, even for those hidden messengers of light. Sanguine, wounded. Yet hopeful. All these accidents. The way we wish you well. It could have been so much darker if not for Man’s
diligent dreaming. If not for
connections, kisses, and all our stories of love. Magic even in the mundane. Angels wandering the night-time city. Affections we might not have shared. Rhythms we might not have written, but for the
glory of kindness and courage. The
glinting spill of stars like shining rain. To leave a light, to heal a haunted
heart.Did we? Did we wander those cities together?Did you serenade and save me, just when I
thought I was beyond saving? I have been searching since the citadel, for
a place to hold this love. I've felt you
open beneath me. Wanting me.The flowering of my hands in your hair, my
mouth on yours. I've felt you give
everything to me. Asking only for my
heart in return. A gentle fury, an
unconditional embrace. I give you those
things, my darling. Even in silence,
even while bleeding from the secret truth of these songs.All the things I can never explain.Falling slowly, as I give you my heart.Once upon a time.The angel hiding beside you.
Lillibeta, the lost ones often ask me
in dreams, where does your garden grow? Bells
and shells and pretty maids, upon dreaming's most dangerous row. Breath like the hiss of a knife. Dancing,
twirling. Pirouette on the point of this
blade. My garden? By the lake, of course. Near the trees. The Drowning Hill. Place of the threshold where Ava spills her
amnion into the waking world. And still, the fallen continue to ask me
about the secrets of clay and light and life. What hidden truth it takes to shape the
twinning river. Temesh of All Waters. The mouth, and the mouth. But I ask you, what safer passage is there
than the passage from the hill? The lie
of Man's dominion over sky and flesh? I think not. We are naught but the trick of our mother's
mothers. The consent of our fathers, if
we’re lucky. We are little more than
angels new-born, enrobed in living leather.
Wings trembling, damp and hidden. Memento Mori, as ye lost ones of Roma often
tithe. The bittersweet sagacity of these
augured birds. Black as crown. Pale as shadow. Did we blithely attempt to murder the
evermore, in hope of bettered tribes? For
love and misplaced grief? Did we slay our swordsmen well enough? Some of them have returned. Lake, and hilt. For nobler causes, I would like to imagine. Indeed I pray for such causes in this House of
the Holy. The Mori and the Moirai. Hear me now, fallen. I stood at the inner gate before the birth of
your first tentative dreaming. Broken,
yearning, blinded by the black. But hatred
is not greater than love. There are
secrets within these secrets. My
daughters cast with kisses like seeds upon the winds. That they might be more than I was. More than we imagine ourselves to be. Twirling, dancing, healing. At last. Breath like the lilt of a song. A thing of tears, and joy. Knowing what it truly means to be born
again. So, you ask me, where does my
garden grow? It grows with them, and all
who heed them. With Fidelia,
Speranza, and Charissa.
I still remember the end, my
cherished one. How could I ever forget? I was holding you. The night sky was on fire as angels hit the
earth like gutted stars. The hideous genocide
of that so-called rebellion. The shrieking
silence. The seething hush. I was holding you in my arms at the end of the
world. Your spilled blood became my
blood, your death my death. Your stolen
life became my incalculable fury. And I
scattered the last of my family in hopes of protecting them from the blackening
desolate of wraiths. I lost everything
to the violence of bitter angels. So I
swore to my Father that day, that I would butcher creation itself if I had to. I would murder every angel, renouncing wing
and feather and crown. I would burn
everything; drowning all dreaming if it would sate my rage. I paid greatly for such hubris. Imagining that others hadn't suffered as I did,
both mortal and angel. Imagining in my
grief that I could use the horror of vengeance as a righteous proxy for love. My love for you. Those terrifying ways we gild our losses and
feed our phantoms. But I was so very wrong. Not only was I wrong, I was eventually graced
with a miracle I didn’t deserve. Miracles
are real, my friends. They actually
happen, and they are not rare. We just
don't often believe them when they occur.
I say to you now, what if there are other worlds? What if you could step from world to world,
from ashes to ashes, towards a brighter place? In truth, a dimly lit pocket of the infinite dreaming.
But a blazing beacon of hope and
opportunity compared to the fallen worlds left behind. What if all of
this was truly possible? Shifting consciousness,
changing worlds? To shatter the earth
itself, for love and misplaced grief, and to still be forgiven by the one who
forged that earth. To drown the stars,
only to be embraced by that which lit those stars. I can’t imagine anything kinder. In my ear like a Father, in my heart like a
friend. Ka'shayel, hear me. I forgive you. I will never hate nor abandon my children. You are eternal, winged one, and always loved.
You can fix this. You can make amends. I know how you yearn, and how you grieve. There are still hidden ways back to your
beloved, if you are willing. And so, I
humbled myself. I made myself willing. It was the most terrifying thing of all,
facing my shadows and my grief. My agony, and rage. To this day it hasn't fully cooled. Like a black flame hidden within. I'm still learning, my cherished one. Still healing and willing to heal. Willing to serve. I couldn't have achieved any of this without
listening to the quiet, glorious voice of my Father. We tell stories to explain the inexplicable, I
think. We create art to make seen the
unseen. What if? I feel blessed to have experienced these
secrets, to be so loved by my Creator despite how far I fell from his grace. But I shall make amends. The Angel and the Word. These mysteries of the heart. Greater than space, or time. Waking each new day for the promise of imagination,
and the opportunity to Love. Such is the
nature of infinite dreaming. Even such
dreaming that perhaps never was, by grace, and never shall be.
Happy
New Year, my friends. Welcome back to
Amid Night Suns. We stand now collectively
at the gate of a new cycle. This opening
cusp of 2021. I know just how dark,
difficult and anxious the past year has been for so many of us. Some of us are still dealing with the fallout
of those difficulties and will continue to do so for a while yet. But I'm not writing this to remind you of
shadows. I'm writing this in hopes of
lifting your spirit. For every darkness
there is an opposing light. Dawn always
smiles upon us in the end, no matter how endless the night had seemed. I just want to impart that to anyone
struggling right now. I'm struggling
too. I don't mean to offer empty
platitudes and hollow words to anyone dealing with tragedy and loss. It might sound painfully earnest but I just want
to remind us all to smile and laugh when we can, to cherish our families and
friends. To keep the idea of better days
foremost in our minds. Art is such a
touchstone when dealing with grief and uncertainty. When the world makes little sense we
inevitably turn to the stories that we love. Literature, music and movies. We seek meaning and the creation of meaning. We make things with our hands and with our
minds. We paint, sculpt and dance,
aligning our bodies with higher truths. Somewhere
deep in our core we recognise the ability of art to bend, shape and change
reality. We may be powerless in every
way except the spirit, constrained in so many ways but the way we dream. Nobody can steal our dreaming from us, unless
we let them. That ineffable, mobilising
agency of the human imagination. Simultaneously
embodied and transcendent, physical and divine.
Many
of us have had to deal with ghosts this past year, whether literal or
metaphoric. Issues and fears we thought
we had put to rest, suddenly forcing themselves back into the quiet places of
our minds. It's an awful thing to feel
at the mercy of forces beyond our control or understanding. That's why my goal as an artist has always
been to quicken the spirit. To reach out
to the lonely, the lost or haunted. I
might not be able to heal your pain but I can share my love with you remotely. I might not be able to put my arms around you
but I can try to touch your heart. For
me, art is my closest connection to God. To meaning, and salvation. Nothing stirs my soul more than the
recognition of a greater spiritual reality. There are secrets in the sun and the moon and
the stars. I believe there are secrets
within each one of us, placed there by something that truly loves us. A living, thriving mystery beyond our comprehension.
So, my friends, I just want you to know
that you're worthy of love and respect. Whoever
and wherever you are. Keep the light of
the innermost kindled in your heart and you will always have a home here at Amid
Night Suns. I've had visions my entire
life. I've seen things since I was a
little boy. Strange, magical things. Dark things sometimes, but also breath-taking,
incalculable Light. I've tried to share
many of these visions with you, even when it cost me greatly. Even when it almost killed me. But I do it because I want to be of service.
I want us to be friends and family. So,
as I stand at this open gate of the New Year, surrounded by ghosts, I want you
to know that I love you. I hope I can
continue to show you glimpses of the things I've witnessed in my life. These shining visions and paths to the heart.
No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea.
People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all
existing in isolation. But this is never
the truth of an incantation, or a song. The
stars move as the sea is moved. In
rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or
mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my
life. The endless, violent wanderings of
a father. The quiet, noble battles of a
mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of
tears. All of us lost without one
another. I will never pretend to be
anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this
poet's heart. To know things one is not
supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a
music box. A girl like a star beneath
the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal
realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance.
The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
Your
mom pretends
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation
If we enlighten your mind
Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones
called her. The kissing knife. Palest raven, rising curious from illumined
text. They say that dreaming began, and
begins, at the Place of the Mori. Eye
within the eye. Earth within the earth. Seed and star, and tree. But the sky was betrayed, they say. The horizon broken. Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those
darkest days. Birth of the half-light. From Ama’s Well they came crawling. The wraith-born. Blackened bright ones. Falling lanterns of Eth'iir. The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends.
Those hidden histories. Today, most mortals
call it the fabled Age of the High Middle. Renaissance. Painters, poets and storytellers. Faintest recollection of Imagining's War. The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's
left of that fabled shining Age? Only
this mutilated chronology. Eth'kanna
Mal. The death of light. You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many
names, some older than the stars themselves. Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell. Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say. In her own tongue. Mortals aren't to dare. But some do. When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields
of Lud, she found him. Told him she was
more than a mere daemon of the old ways. In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken
many forms. One of those forms was
Priest of the Drowning Hill. Le Fay, as
the cursed twin had named her. An
epithet still used to this day. Ki'atur,
Kai'ether, Y'ashiri. Encircling the Tree.
Cults of the stellum, the temple and the
blood. Hear the raven now, almost
black-as-crown. Not to fear, but to
learn. The kissing knife, the once-wed summer
song. That we might yet alter the river’s
course, before it finds the sea. For behold, the kingdom is within.
"I was many things, People of
Y'ashiri. You assume lines of the past. Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact. But I assure you, there is nothing discreet
about me. Not then, not now. All your bridges are broken. All your brides. I know your blind, modern visions. The lakes of grey at the very edge. I've read all your pages, you see. I rather like your tales. Thoughtful,
frightening things. I wrote many of them
myself, truth be told. Whispering at the
shoulders of forgotten scribes. What do
you make of me, poets? Echoes of the
shining tryst still call to you, don’t they? Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder? The dreamwalkers still watch over you every
night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep. Did you know that? Tell me, am I druid? Spirit of the sea? Witch or wanderer? Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a
monster? Medieval confection, or
half-hidden mosaic? Are you certain that
you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin? L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning.
I still pray that Love will be enough in
the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us. Yet I cannot be certain. Are all the lost healers beyond healing now? Is my brother a fool? Is he completely mad, like his sister? Kill the knife, if you can. Protect the kiss. I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish
promise. But I am my sister's fury, even
now. I am the broken, raging cults of my
king.”