Saturday, 14 May 2016

Life in Red



I have blood on my hands.  I would have it no other way.  I am both daughter and son to a huntress, a divided diver, a marian whore.  I hear talk in the alternative-community of dead orthodoxies, toothless neopaganisms, postmodern neologisms – halls of mirrors where every pane is cracked, fallow temples where nothing grows, a Craft of surfaces, decentred and bodiless.  But I see something different.  I look upon this world and see the counter-rotating spin of a still-occulted physics.  I see the shadows that locate light within our time and our space.  Whether it’s in the heresies of the indie-filmmaking communities, or the gaggle of emergent YouTubers trying to share digital fires with the decidedly un-elect, or the current wave of writers and operators attempting to better recontextualise their conception of malefica, I do not see negation.  I see opportunity. 

We are not the symbols and stories of our enemy, overwritten and colonised, unless we make ourselves complicit in such things.  The witch has no time for such anxieties, those illicit thrills of the spent slave.  No, she has been raped before, and she is far too concerned with place, with bone, blood, flesh and fire.  She is dancing; reciprocal, dynamic and dangerous.  She is at work.  She is waging war, against pseudo-royalist black-market slavers, against militant corporatism turning ugliness into tradecraft, against all predator-elites that would see the human vessel cut to ribbons within the shattered kaleidoscope of sanctioned meaning. That is why they rape, dismember and disarticulate her.  Because she is concerned with power, and she will not accept their avatars.

But the devil is in the details, as they say, and he watches this assault of his consort with a baleful eye. I don’t see broken evocations or nullified spaces where the magician must grow herbs from lifeless rock.  No, I see a constant interchange, a conscious exchange, cure becomes poison becomes cure.  Where the predator elites install asset-stripped futures, I see instead ordeal and crucible…always useful tools for those that work with secrets, with interplays of shadow and light, with fractals of flesh, as the witch has always done.  Their machinations and blood-dimmed hierarchies are not the death throes of our sovereignty, rather they are simply places to begin a working. 

Through all this morass of twenty-first century jihadist corporatism, negation and dehumanisation, I can still hear the call of my consort, my queen.  She is my most beloved heresy.  I am godless, and black, and I traffic with whores and monsters. I attempt to heal the sick, and speak for the voiceless.  She is here in this with me, whispering as in a faery-tale, blended and threaded through this archonic world of broken covenants.  I sense the menses-scented intelligence of greater workings and older pacts, even amidst the detritus of our modern gilded hellscapes.  And as in fairytales my Snow White can steal thrones from desolate gods.  She sits inverted in the deepest of caves, and stands at the peak of the highest mountain.  From the cleft of her sex flows the blood of every age, both remedy and poison, down her thighs, across the snow.  The entire mountain begins to run red with her dynamism.  In the bowels of the Earth that blood crawls upward like an army of crimson spiders, through cave ceilings, through volcanic bedrock, up through the chthonic architecture of cities, through mud and grass to stain the soles of my feet.  These are not your caves.  This is not your mountain.

I have her blood on my hands.  But not just on my hands.  It stains my lips, my tongue, my cock, my mind, and it is painted in a simple but resonant kiss on my chest; a bloodied X above my heart.  She is my life, and life is always dancing; reciprocal, dynamic and dangerous.  She is always at work.            



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