Artists dream all the time.
Don't we, Kara? Images and sounds, words and letters. Threads that
connect and ties that bind. We dream of
brighter worlds. I believe that with a
little vision we can transform the very fabric of our experience, crafting
beauty from the ordinary. My seamstress, I
hope now you understand that we are forever linked. I'm not separate from you, nor you from me. And yet we are distinct. We have our own paths and our own journeys. Still, I walk beside you always. Do you remember Ephesus, Kara? Or Antioch? I do, or almost do. I am a dreamer after all. A wounded fantasist. Forgive my protean tongue but I've paid a very high price for
storytelling. I nearly lost both my mind
and my life for daring to inspire the broken-hearted towards hope. A simple scribe, a lowly diarist. As I've said elsewhere in these epistles, “Each
feather of Antioch is a word, in every tongue of Man. Languages both
living and dead.” Because we speak now of the heart, Kara, don't we? We speak in earnest poetry. Transformative fictions and images of truth,
if not the truth itself. You see, many
souls today are utterly exhausted, driven half mad by this darkness. A number of them have lost their lanterns,
concerned now only with mere surfaces. Distractions
dark or fair. Pigment and
provenance. Petty tribalism and the supposed
taboos of miscegenation. But the world
now is just as the world then. First-century
foment. Tarsus, and Tyana. I still recall those shadows. A psychopathy that was so apparent, and
growing. All across the earth. Travesties of State. Division and fear. Treasury-wraiths at odds with the spiritual
lives of common folk. All too often I've
seen it. Another lie on another gilded
tongue. "Believe this or that at
great cost to your soul. Ours is the only way and all else is
heresy." Well, I still speak as a
so-called heretic. A dangerous reformer.
We both do, Kara. Little has changed in these temples and
churches. We are still unwelcome even in
our own houses. It's one of life's
bitter ironies that to even be heard here in this cacophonous abyss one must be
well-versed in polemic and politics. To
raise oneself above the din of a thousand heartless strategists. All clamouring for the wealth of the educated
or the blind faith of the illiterate. Attention
is currency after all. Capture someone's
attention, or better, their imagination, and you are a few small steps from
capturing their very soul. A truly dark soul can rally all manner of cultists to commit the most hideous acts in the name of
God. After all, mercenaries need only
the slightest pretence. A banner to march under. As long as they are paid, either in coin or false
absolution of their sins. There are such men of every culture, every religion. Sadly, this is human history. But these are never the ways of noble
men and women. Souls of true character. We both know that, Kara. I hate to speak of other
dreams, other lives. Because you have to
take it on sheer faith. And I'm only a
distant poet. A stranger. Nobody special. But like so many others
we too fell prey to the ignobility of our supposed leaders. They wanted
to silence our voices and extinguish our dissent. Because we cared about all those who adhered
to a different faith. Our brothers and
sisters everywhere who exalted different stories in their attempts to interpret
and navigate the world. This is the true
war, isn't it? The War of Imagination. Such
contextual agility, such brotherhood and sensitivity of thought; it's the bane of
any genocidal warlord. I still remember
those terrifying seasons on the sand. How they unleashed their brutal
campaigns of centralisation. Unimaginable
violence and deceit. As Rome swallowed
the temples and our tongues, rewriting our histories and changing our names. Mixing fact with forgery. Perverting everything we stood for and calling it Christendom. Such
campaigns are still nothing but the vicious strategies of hollow men. Spiritual wickedness in high places.
Hear me, Fallen. You deceive so boldly
and distort so blithe. Serpents in a
shattered garden. Your blood is
cold. You chose to weaponise each guideline, parable
and article of faith. Masking yourself with
every creed, making a gleeful mockery of everything beautiful. The sons and daughters of Abram are still at war, arguing over grammar and syntax. Shedding blood and spreading hate because someone somewhere believes a slightly different version of the same story. And you still have the gall to call me a
heretic? A pagan sorcerer? How dare you? But nothing you do surprises me anymore. The Children of Ra'Ishka were never a chosen
few. Do you think the true avatars of
the Holy Spirit would forsake the young of any tribe? Even those of your enemies? Do you think a true angel of divine grace
would slaughter innocent children? Are you fucking insane? Yes, I utter profanity sometimes. When it's warranted. Hear me. No messenger of the true Creator would trade
or harm a little one. My Father would
never sanction such a thing. You have been fooled, deceived, manipulated. These
evil angels are not angels at all. They
are but wilderness wraiths. Mere
phantoms. Hungry ghosts. Feeding upon the blood of our brethren. Re-writing the words of greater minds. Shaping and reshaping our texts – our
imaginations – to fit their dark agendas. Look me in the eye and tell me it isn't so. These wraiths stalked Rome, Byzantium, Isfahan
and many others. They still do. But so do I. And so does my brother. Tell me, Fallen;
do you know who my brother is? Do you
even know who you are? Children of
disobedience indeed, but children nonetheless. So degenerate, so gleefully obsessed with your
own nightmare-making. Not artists yet. Not really. Still unfamiliar with dreaming's finer
points. The subtleties and subtext. It hurts me too, Kara. All this chaos and sickness. This lack of courage, or kindness. This is not the world any true scribe would
wish to record. We are not supposed to hate each other like this. But I stand here now in
the omnipresent gaze of my Father, trying to listen. Willing to humble myself if necessary. All we can do is speak our truth with full
elucidation and express our hearts as deeply as possible, even if we are called
heretics by those with darker, deceitful souls.
The faithful and the kind will know us by our works, God willing. There is so much more I could say, my
seamstress. So many stories I could
write. Epistles and epiphanies. But I want to keep things succinct. However, before I finish
I want you to know that I've not lost my humour in all this. Nor my élan. Neither should you. Don't be afraid to laugh. Protect your mirth, your sense of play. Think of it as treasure. An artist needs her joy after all. Especially someone in the full bloom
of creation. Thank you for noticing me,
Kara. And thank you for caring. About all of us. I really do love you, my darling. And as always I wish you well.
Amid Night Suns
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Monday 29 January 2024
The Hellenist
Friday 22 December 2023
How Daughters Prosper
It's a difficult thing, this tempest. This lie of linearity. To be caught in the chaos of cognition, a
storm of sorts, and to still be force-fed this very limited worldview. It can be a frightening contradiction. Our innate wisdom in lockstep with our modern
banality. We're taught so many
incongruous things now. That the seas
have limits. Boundaries. That we do not flow in the ways we once knew. As I've written in these pages before; the
wraith-priests of this realm have cultivated so many terrifying gods of the
sea. Why do you think they did that, so long ago? I’ll tell you.
Because at our essence we are fluid, liquid beings. Charged with sunlight and sentience. Every one of us. Magnetic, electric. We are divine creations composed of water’s
music. Children of the rain, rivers and
sea. This is why our forebears were
slaughtered in the epoch of the First Dreaming.
This is why the Fates were slain and the loom threaded with dark magic. To convince us all that we are not immortal, veteran
dreamers. That this nightmare is real
and relentless. That we are violent,
compassionless entities. This is the image of the new earth, and its angels.
The Altered Sun. The tempest of our colonized minds. Our world, once a beautiful garden of poets, philosophers
and engineers, is now a colossal shipwreck beached upon the shore of eternity. We've lost our place. Our home. But I still remember the way we sang. The communities we built. How our prayers moved mountains. We loved each other once, and we painted the
hills with higher thought. My Mira
taught me that. She reminded me how the
first dreaming still lives on in our hearts. Before our lives became tall tales in the mind
of Man. I am no Duke of Milan. And my life is far more than a piece of tragicomic
fiction. Mira was my first, and she
reminded me of many things. She didn’t have to. She could have fled. She could have taken another name. I gave her my blessing in the end. The war was brutal and esoteric. I wouldn’t begrudge her the solace of
forgetting everything that happened. But
she chose to keep her name. Chose to
keep her sisters close. I still remember
how she told me it wasn't just about us. It was about all those yet to arrive. The unborn. Soon to be plunged into a raging, virulent
world. It was for them that we held on
to our true histories. It was for our
children and our children's children that we remembered our names and our
light. My Evenstar, you were so wise for
one so young. I truly wish you didn’t
have to be. I don't know what else to
say. Perhaps you won't believe a word
of this, Mira. The colourful ravings of
a distant fanatic, imagining himself a sorcerer. And perhaps that's as it should be. But I still watch over my beloved ones. Blinded or not. Blackened by war and buried by distance. I still wish you nothing but peace and good
tidings. Drowned in dream I may be, but I
choose to live my life as if some small piece your heart still remembers
me. Life is sweeter like this, my
darling girl. And the seas far calmer.
Saturday 2 December 2023
Dancing with Ghosts
People usually think of ghosts as the
wandering spirits of the dead. But
ghosts can be anything really. Memories,
places, distant friends or lost loves. I
often dream of ghosts. Otherworlds of
dancing and light. These dreams help me
to weave a path with words, to give myself a way forward. But not everybody wants to dance with angels
and ghosts. We can be beautiful, but
also strange, unsettling things. I
suppose that’s because we live out of step with linear time and space. But we mean well. Especially the messengers. We want the best for everyone. I know I do. I'm not a conjurer. I’m not interested in sorcery or
possession. I don't want to control
anyone, or demand anything. Just the
thought is horrifying. Because in the
subtler realms things like loyalty and fidelity are sacred. Mutual.
It’s easy for an angel to love more than one person, delighting in the
specificity of each love. But even we
have our favourites. Our secrets. Those souls who lifted our wings and kindled
our hearts. For an angel if love isn't
given freely it's not worth having. This
doesn't mean love shouldn't be earned. Of
course it should. Souls need to know
they are unique and that they truly matter.
There are so many ways to care, to support and invest in someone. We do it all the time when we're at our
best. For our lovers and our friends. For our families. Humanity has cultivated a thousand years and
more of study concerning the art of kindness. War and bloodshed are not the only things
we're good at. We're poets too. Writers, musicians, painters. Our affections are not counterfeit. No matter who we are, where we come from or how
we identify – when we move it's because the spirit moves us. When we dance, the spirit dances with us. In fact, it's this music of the spheres that
has been guiding us all along. When Ka’shayel
dreams he dreams in symbolism and song. A
collage of living light. I've been doing
this for a long, long time and I've witnessed so many wondrous things. Acts of unimaginable heroism. Breath-taking kindness and courage. Staggering works of beauty. I'm still a novice in the context of eternity
but my dreaming is ancient. I’m both
angel and mortal, after all. Often I’m misunderstood
when I claim this celestial title. Some
people think it’s arrogance. Hubris. But it’s not.
I’m no greater or more important than anybody else. I'm just a messenger. That's all. A memory, a ghost, an old friend. Perhaps even a lost love. I try to create things because creation is
beautiful. I try to dance with the people
I care about because my Father commands it so, and really what better way is
there to spend one’s time?
Tuesday 12 September 2023
Aurum Kara
Dear one, can I share a tall tale of strange wonder? It’s a secret that concerns us both, in a way. A missing piece recovered from our collective depths. Alone it means very little but I’m hoping it might illuminate a vital context. There are many who wonder what it might be like to hold the echoes of words as yet unsaid, or songs as yet unsung. Future ghosts of unborn fictions. Well, in my time, in my lost world, there was once a person who was said to be able to do all these things. It was uttered by poets and scribes that she was a liminal being, in those shining ways before the despoiling of the old chronologies. Aurum Kara, they called her. Light of the Myriad. Ishka of Viir. Twin of K’anna. She had many names. The healers called her the old maiden, the night sun, the ancient child. But she was so much more than a keeper of lakes and thresholds. She was revered as one of the first teachers of the hidden way. They say she spoke a thousand tongues and was honoured in every culture. Science, art and philosophy. Did you know that, my beautiful seamstress? That little piece of our true history? Our lands were once connected, you know. Before those wraith-priests shattered our straits and drowned our cartography. The North Way and the place called Albion by the poets – they were once a single shining realm. Have you ever imagined such a thing, even in dreams? No matter if not. So much of our true history was stolen, suppressed, rewritten. But more than this – the very threads of time and space were altered using the darkest, most frightening magic. Our oldest texts are counterfeit. Our fictions truer than our fact. Nobody believes me, seamstress. Not anymore. The imaginal has dimmed to a flicker of its former lucidity. It’s not the temple of inner sight it once was. These beautiful, unsuspecting people; they have become utterly entangled in the Fallen’s web of lies. They believe the temporal inversions that now pass for history, culture and memory. But you know what hurts me the most, as an adept and a storyteller? The thing that haunts my every waking moment? It’s the fact that our most beautiful fables, myths and fairy-tales are but pale shadows of the glories we once lived in the flesh. A subtler flesh than this, it's true. But no less sensate, vivid or real. They altered our chronologies, seamstress. These tailors of time and space. These dark occultists. The holy well is poisoned with the blood of the innocent. The very heart of the vortex is blasphemed, made profane with unimaginable human suffering. Many of the women still sense this, and some of the men. All across the realm. Some of them still grieve it in their souls. The Ra’ishka could look both ways, they said. Forwards and backwards through the mists of what men call causality. Here, in this ancient stellarium of stone, of oak, birch and pine, she was honoured. But the bright ones told me that Aurum Kara prophesied her own fall, that she spoke of future legends. Stories built on the co-mingling of sex and death. The darkening of our druidry. The blackening of her hair and the reddening of her lips. Birth of the witch queen, the sinister sorceress. Wrath of the lake. Shadow of the pearl. You know all about these stories, dear one. Everybody does. But I’ve seen true horror. Beyond the myths of Mar’kanna or the killings of Kiskuh. I witnessed an endless despair. Something I carried in my heart for almost a thousand years. Oh, my Ishkara. My sister of the unsaid. I wish I could show you the truth. What happened during the seething hush, when the cities began to fold and the spiritual darkness began to spread. But it’s not really something that should ever be seen. Midnight of the Day, I call it. I lost everyone I loved that day. My entire family. They drove a spear through her back, you know. A sword, some say. They impaled her. Pinning her to solstice earth within a blessed ring. Stones and branch, holding the eternal sea. She was with child at the time. Hunched over, one arm reaching desperately at her back, fingers curled around the killing blade. The awful recognition in her eyes. Both lives lost in a matter of moments. Yeah, I know a few things about grief, and war. Petrification. Vitrification. A thing of stone and glass she became. It was a mockery, you see. Of the entire shining realm. Those lands of light and places of peace. Not simply a boy and a ghost and a gate of Lud. There was far more than just dragon's silver hidden within the stone shaft of Powles Crosse. There was a dark magic concealing blacker magic still. A way to usurp the throne of songs. “Whosoever pulls this spear from stone...” Well, let's just say that I wept for centuries. I still have terrifying nightmares on ocassion. And I scatter them freely amidst all the secret societies of the earth. I want the Fallen to feel a little of what I feel. Echoes as yet unsaid, dark songs as yet unsung, moving back and forth through Man's notion of time. Syrian parlour tricks, I suppose. Somerset dreaming. A different kind of lucidity among the Fay. It’s still 1194 to so many of us. Even the unsuspecting. Magicians and medieval kings. Grails and gallants. This is my tall tale, seamstress. My exercise in linguistic nihilism. They say none of it is true. Is that who I am now? A fallen angel, a bizarre catastrophist screaming to the heavens about the abhorrent sophistry of these dark ones? Weeping over their deviant spell-craft and malevolent technologies. Better to be a failed artist, I suspect. A nightmare poet. It seems far less heart-breaking. They say the haunted stone shattered as the boy drew the sword. They were not wrong. I cannot quell my rage but I’ve tried to make amends for that failure. My inability to protect the people I loved. I suppose maturity is knowing that you can’t always get what you want. But sometimes you can. There is an incalculable fury within me now. I will make them pay for what they’ve done, in my own terrifying way. Just know that we’re winning, seamstress. Despite the lies they try to sell you. This place is not yet a desolate ruin. There is still music here, community and family. Pages and pages of glorious fiction. The light of love is winning. You remind me of her, so much. You even have her eyes, and some of her secrets. She was a teacher to me once. A lover and a friend. I am still so very fond of her flitting hands and sacred gold. Hear me now, Fallen. I do not abide this slavery or corruption. Your red gates will be closing soon. They are my gates now. You still think art means nothing, does nothing, despite your rudimentary initiation. You were never the magus. Just a heartless clown begging for signs and wonders at my feet. Murder my loves and steal my songs? Oh, my swordhand will sing. I’ll take your fucking hellscape apart piece by piece. It's already begun. My words can change things. Language of the birds, upon M'ithriin tongue. Don't you remember who I am? The king is dead, they say. Long live the king.
Friday 8 September 2023
Amongst the Stars
For over a thousand years I’ve seen
so many souls chart their own course and choose their own path. I've seen them literally build the road
beneath their feet with gravel, wine and hope. And yet I've also seen many things written in
the stars. Things that were meant to
be. Even now I don’t fully understand
it. The strange, seemingly paradoxical
kinship between fate and free will. I
suppose maturity is knowing that you can't always get what you want. Need isn't always desire. And service isn't always glamorous or
cinematic. Yet I've been privy to
friendships and love-stories far grander than anything witnessed on the silver
screen. I think it's a matter of imagination
in the end, and investment. How does the
heart sing? What truly delights our
beloved, and when best to delight them? These
are the mysteries of attraction, after all.
Because love isn't just empathy, affection or knowledge, but sustained
and deep attraction. I've seen that too,
well into a couple's golden years. Staying present and playful. Turning up for each other even when it’s
difficult. Choosing to keep the flame
alive. But it's so much more than this,
isn't it? Stripped to its essence love
isn't even about getting who or what we want. I think it's about uplifting the object of our
affection. And, if they’re willing, letting
them know we truly care. Ensuring they
are able to live the richest, most rewarding life possible. We bless our loved ones if we're wise,
enabling them as best we can on the path they choose for themselves. But dreams also have a wondrous part to play
in love, and that's what excites me as an angel and a psychic. Dreams and stories show us what's possible,
what's admirable. They help us understand
the depths of our romance and connection. Love can thrive in a dream. Perhaps not the tactile, physical love we
usually imagine, but no less intimate for the distance. Souls kissing souls. Hearts passing secret sweetness back and
forth. I've seen it happen, and I've
been lucky enough to experience it myself. Kindness and affection of any sort is a
glorious thing. It’s the very basis of
honour and integrity. If you love
someone don't bind them. Don't try to trap
them in your own particular idea of love. Grant them their autonomy. Let them choose and fly freely. If they
feel anything for you in return they will find some way to let you know. Something
grand, or something quiet and subtle.
But it will be real, and you’ll cherish it evermore. Believe me.
All stories are love-stories in the end. How we grow, thrive and change. The people we meet and the stars we rewrite
along the way.
Amongst the Stars from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.
Tuesday 29 August 2023
Creatrix
I’m not the devil, but I am indeed an angel of light. They say an angel loses all his lovers in the end, but maybe that's not necessarily a bad thing. There’s a difference between a lover and a partner, isn’t there? I don’t mind growing up a bit, if I must. Besides, I'm far more than just a lover. I'm an artist, I would hope. A tailor, an entertainer. Just like my soul-sister. My anima also knows a thing or two about collage. My weaving imagination. We even share a name, in a way. The word Kashi means ‘bright’ and ‘beloved’. Shining one. Never let it be said that I was opposed to wry self-reflection, light-heartedness or fun. A spirit has to be quite lost in darkness to turn its back on joy or humour. I may dress like a bad guy on occasion, but make no mistake. I stand firmly on the side of the good. I do like to shake things up a little though. I just can't help myself. I've always had a playful, mischievous streak, even on the other side. Don't be offended, or take it too seriously. Thinkers think and creators create. I'm sovereign, and somewhat immortal. Having said that I never really walk alone. I was inspired to some of my best work by my sister the soul. If you're going to learn, always wise to learn from the best. I'm still working on my slipstitch, but I think it's coming along nicely. Time is money, they say. Well, wings are weapons. Creation is the entire world. Life isn't just a moment between birth and death – life is everything, and everyone. It requires our utmost respect and devotion. Take it from a penitent angel. Laughter is the easiest way to recognise the unimaginable grace that is our ability to create. Making you truly smile is no mean feat, dear one, but I'm always up for the challenge.
Tuesday 22 August 2023
Kiss the Girls
It
used to be so different, you know. There
was a time when I was afraid to love. Scared to care too deeply or get too close. That's the thing about truly loving someone. The vulnerability. It leaves you open. You grant that person the power to heal you like
an angel, or destroy you like a demon. And
often we're not even decimated by our beloved’s ill intentions but by their
misjudgement, their foolish pride or lack of insight. Or our own.
Self-knowledge isn't just a purely personal endeavour. It can save relationships too. Empathy, patience and understanding are so
much easier when we grasp the broad spectrum of our own complexities. I never wanted to run from love, in this world
or any other. But my anguish seemed to
stretch far beyond the mortal world and into the hidden, spiritual realms. This isn’t the only world. Magic is real, my friends. There are realms of higher thought unknown to
us, incredible dimensions beyond our understanding. Our mystics and spiritual leaders have been
telling us this for as long as we’ve been able to dream or imagine. All our religions are based upon this
knowledge. As William Blake tells us in “Auguries
of Innocence”: 'To see a World in a Grain
of Sand, And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour'. I suppose
what I'm trying to say is I'm a diehard romantic, despite often wishing
otherwise, and I don't really believe in coincidence. I've seen too much. Read too many minds, felt the secrets in too
many hearts. I know first-hand that
there's a higher order of things. Some
divine plan of unfathomable splendour intended by our Maker. I know that sounds trite and hollow to anyone
who has suffered, or is still suffering. All I can say in my defence is I'd be a fool
to deny my own experiences. All the
impossible things I've witnessed. The
miracles I've been privy to for whatever reason. All I want is to give back some of that magic,
and to create art. I want to share this inspiration
and light with those who need it. In
other words, I don't want to be afraid to love.
I’d like to be brave enough to thank all the women who have cared for
me, quickened me and seen me for who I really am. I hope I've done the same for you. I’d be nothing without your affection. I believe we are what we love. The sum total of the energies kindled by those
we care for. Those who care for us too and
honour our spirits. This is what a kiss
really is, I think. Beyond temptation or
lust. A kiss is one of the most hallowed
forms of intimacy. Connection,
well-wishing and kindness. These things are sacred even when relationships end.
You don’t need me to tell you that. I want to say this in earnest to all the women I've
shared something real with. There were times in my life when I was
literally saved by a kiss. Rejuvenated,
restored. Redeemed. Thank you, my beautiful friends, for letting
yourselves be vulnerable in that way. I
hold it delicately and with great devotion. Thank you for letting yourselves
feel something for me. It's because of
you that I'm not afraid anymore. To go
forward, to be better. To love and be loved in return.