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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ithriis,
of the first glyph. The ancient, feathered tongue. When music first formed the
flesh of Man. Eth'iriis, of the first dreaming. Look, poets; tellers of the
tallest tales. Look at the land. Hear it. Y'iththriil, of root, trunk, and
howling branch. Forest wraith, wandering barefoot and mad. Hooded wolf in
hollow tree. Star, angel, dragon. Seer and prophet? Bard or conjurer?
Shapeshifter, in a word. Edgewalker. Before the Saxons or the Romans. Lake, forge, water, and fire. I should know. As an artisan I do not bend the arc for
glory alone. Man is only wild if his wildness is explicable, else he is nature
itself. Y'ithriin, ahba ahba. Protect the heart, old one. Dramatis personae.
Here in these circles of salt, silver, and blood. Brighter than skyfire, the
inward eye. Kasi, they call us in the Vedic tongues of river and sea. An
epithet used by countless anonymous poets. Eth'rai, Eth'rai, of glyph and king.
Father, father, haunt the tree and scare away the saddest songs with your
lament. Because the act of dreaming yearns in distinction from waking. The anguished
gulf between what is and what might be. So, men carry wolves with their echoes. Rest, and resurrection. Stars, angels, and dragons. Are we not anonymous? Nameless? Unassuming? Blood of blade,
in lineage of light. Salt of sacred, for remembrance of all nameless innocent. Song
of silver, for those who pray for hopes of a better way. Brothers, birthrights,
sisters, and sons. Drawn from the circle of stone. Look, wanderers; keepers of
the eldest truth. Look at the flesh, the rising belly of the land. Hear her. When
music first sang the soul of Man.
For many of us, this time of year
is when we celebrate life's triumph over death. Rebirth, renewal, resurrection.
The passing of the last traces of winter, the fullest bloom of spring. For some
of us these stories have more specific, embodied meanings beyond the ebb and
flow of the natural world. Themes of protection, guardianship, and sacrifice.
He is Risen. “Hristos a Înviat. Adevărat a Înviat.” The Earth is no
longer a sepulchre. No longer a tomb. The axis of reality itself has shifted.
Through grace – divine love, essentially – mankind is no longer bound to time
and space in quite the same way. Many become One. The place of the skull,
called Golgotha in a certain tongue, is no longer the site of mere ruination.
Instead, our minds become something more. A place of crossing and
transformation. A holy light linking earth and heaven, a flame carried through
faith into each homestead. Men might argue over the details of these beautiful
stories, endlessly warring over the so-called truth of this or that version of
their favoured legend. But I would hope we can all at least agree on the fact
that, regardless of our own private beliefs, denominations or
rituals, for many of us this is a time of new life, new light, and new
opportunities. I can only speak for myself. But I've seen what can happen to
human beings who are denied the sustenance of stories, the comfort of
communities and the joy of shared celebrations. Given enough time, a dark,
fallen psyche is always the eventual result. Warring with our fellow humans
over the minutia of each faith is a fool's errand, believe me. Beauty, truth
and good character are often lost in such pointless wars. But believing in
nothing at all is even worse. I'm not asking men to become theists if they truly
believe that doing so is to choose fable over truth, fiction over fact. But I
am encouraging them to at least be open-minded. Sensitive to the wonders of
Creation at work all around them. I would suggest our knowledge of physics is
neither complete nor infallible, that the binary of religion versus science is
a false one based on incorrect axioms and incomplete data. Men need both, don't
they? Soul and sobriety? Imagination and reason? Perhaps a certain playwright
was correct when he suggested there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy. I have always believed in the human heart's
capacity for love, imagination and connection. I hope you do too, my friend. As
someone I love dearly recently explained to me, “Inimile noastre se înalță
prin dragoste. Și iubirea e magia cea mai înaltă dintre toate.”
Poets, musicians,
and artists often dream about the literacy of light. The unfathomable breadth
of knowledge that might be found within genuine spiritual comprehension. Everything
is connected, after all. Rhythm, scale and attenuation of force. All drawn down
from higher realms into the multidimensional lexicons of human experience. Our
various registers of discourse. One would hope that any spiritual or religious
practice would embody the highest light and literacy. The depth, nuance, and subtleties
of what it means to be an incarnate creature of imagination. A chivalrous being
seeking love and purpose. But we artists and troubadours also recognise that
our relationships with the ineffable are not always so sublime. Sometimes the
musicality is harder to discern. Here in these extremes of polarity we cannot
discount the darker, broader brushstrokes. The unfortunate politics of power. In
this sense all religions begin as heresies. Rebellious offshoots and cults.
Quiet, hidden practices led by monks, knights, and iconoclasts. Many of these
rebels were vicious though, caring little about the sanctity of the inner
realms; only interested in using
their practice or dogma to acquire status and power.Some were later reimagined as heroes with
the passage of time and the safety of political distance. Made a poet's conceit
and bestowed with virtues they never actually possessed. Forged into palatable avatars
for the storytelling of a later Age. This is what legend and literature always
does. As a species we prefer fiction over fact because what use is true history
to the Fallen? What use is our imagined freedom if it is gained from the
suffering and oppression of others? After all, the entire infrastructure of
what we call civilisation was built upon the broken backs of countless slaves. That
is the darkest way to claim dominion or divinity. And it is the part of
ourselves we like the least. So, we massage the truth and occlude the facts. We
would rather imagine our gallant knights and heroic kings as beyond reproach.
Beyond the vicious barbarism that our mass graves imply. We would rather dream
of the highest chivalry. Enchanted swords and maidens fair. The brutal horrors
of history are both exhausting and dispiriting. Instead, we want to believe in
some form of real magic. True enchantment. Well, dear one, let me tell you an
incredible secret. A carefully hidden truth. Those benevolent wizards and good witches
from your fairytales did exist. Those true Magi, gallant knights, and the Fay.
They are not merely a child's idle fancy. Or a substitute for the hideous
realities of military expansionism. No, both things were true, and both were
happening at once. The darkness and the light. Those kind and courageous ones
who lived with genuine honour and integrity, those whose magic was truly
special – they still exist. Many of them are nameless now. Living humble,
ordinary lives.But they are the reason
the Earth is not a smoking ruin. Don't you think the darkness would have laid waste
to the entire world if it could? Don't you think we would all be slaves, shuffling
through a desolate hellscape? We would. Listen to me. I have held Excalibur in my
hands, and I am not the only one. I speak of genuine literacy, and light. All who
are worthy can wield the blade of silvered song. And it is through the efforts of
those kind, courageous ones that we are here now. Because beyond the arcane spell-craft
and demonism of these various secret societies, there is still poetry, art and music.
Rivers, flowers, and children still at play. The shadows have garnered quite a
foothold in this realm, it's true. I won't lie to you about that. But neither
will I lie to you about the light, or those true servants of the light. The
real angels of the flesh. Protectors of wisdom and sweetness. As I've said many
times, this is the real war. The War of Imagination, and it has been raging
since the beginning. Or the false beginning handed to fallen humanity by the
very wraiths who stripped us of our birthrights. Since men first stumbled from
the deepest caves like amnesiacs, unable to grasp how they had survived the cataclysm. The destruction of the shining realm. Ishkara, Kashmira,
Eth’iri. The world behind the world. It has many names. Today men talk of
science instead of magic. They forget the silvered song and the world of miraculous
light. However, this so-called science is a very recent human pursuit. Far
younger than religion or myth. Nowhere as robust as it imagines itself to be.
It has given us tools of great power, of course, but we have always had powerful
tools. Especially in the hidden chambers beneath the earth and below the sea. But
there is a far older gnosis. A true science. An ancient knowledge of multidimensionality
only hinted at in the hermeticism of your so-called past, or the quantum physics
of your imagined present. We are beings of infinite light and literacy, made in
the image of our Creator. Spirit is not simply something we learn, it is something
we are. A creative, combining faculty constellated around a divine spark – a fragment
of eternity. This is the calibre of the crossing, the sword of the threshold. Pulled
from carbon, silica and stone. I have lived these things, dear ones. I do not
speak blithely. I have slept and dreamt as only poets and kings can. I pray
that one day we will all wake at last, to build a better, fairer world. Until
then, I dream songs of reflected light to keep the darkness at bay. I dream songs
of silver.
Many
have called me a liar or a thief in the midst of life's endless dreaming, but
few have ever said it to my face. It's true that I can move about unseen when
needed. Also, in dreams faces can change and shapes can shift. It can be
difficult to keep track of who's who. But perhaps the real reason I've been
called a trickster so often is simply this: few of us comprehend the limitless
generative power contained within.Those
elements that grant us our cognition are hinged upon the fulcrum of eternity.We are, all of us, made in the image of God.But the power inherent in such an image is a
terrifying thing to grasp.Not many have
the tenacity to confront the truth of something like this. Something we still don't
really understand.The depths of our own
being. I have spoken these words before, long ago. Back then I was called a teacher,
a wise one. Then a heretic. A blasphemer. And finally, a dangerous threat to
the established order. I never once claimed that Man was God, or equal to God.
Such later interpretations are both imprecise and woefully unimaginative. I
only spoke the truth. That each of us contains a divine flame, a fragment of
eternity that is the signature of our Father’s design. It is from this fire
that all song and science spills. Perhaps I do have the ink and imagination of
a dreamer, but there is really no reason to be afraid of me. I’m no saint nor
demigod, and never claimed to be, but I want the very best for all cultures.
Men, women and children of varying custom. Every family, tribe or religion has
its cherished stories. Like sojourners gathered around the fire.As a storyteller myself I find them all fascinating.
But I have seen men kill for their stories.I have witnessed wars waged over a single book of songs.It still happens today.Isn’t that unsettling? People are so
deserving of peace, regardless of who they are or the songs they hold dear.
Other men are not beasts simply because their scriptures and their angels
differ from yours. Have you lost your mind, Fallen? There is darkness in every
culture, and light also. Both is found in every human heart. To varying
degrees, of course. A man must be judged on his merit. His honour, intent and
action. Not his differences of belief. That way lies madness, and endless
bloodshed. Look around you at the radicals and extremists of every kind, many
of them funded and sanctioned by the State. They all believe they are righteous,
and they all ignore the ugliest aspects of their own actions. Petty grievances are
quickly whipped into a frenzy. Tribal disagreements become cruelty, then bloodshed,
then genocide. This is nothing new. It can take frighteningly little time for a
man to lose his wings and his soul.Do
you know true history, both hidden and overt? The sickening transgressions committed
by the men and women of your own faith? I do. Religious violence of every kind
is ancient, and far too common. It is predicated upon the dehumanisation and
othering of those from different cultures.Those with different stories, or different skin. Even a single faith can
fracture into numerous denominations, all of them claiming exclusive rights on
the supposed truth. But it has always been my belief that human beings of every
religion deserve to live unmolested. It is insanity that such a statement was
considered incendiary back then and still is to so many. How dare you
reduce divinity to mere division? To childish favouritism, politics and war? But
I suppose men are always hesitant to defy empires and emperors, aren’t they?
Especially when they are led to believe such figures are genuine representatives
of the divine. I was never under any such illusions. Never afraid of being
somewhat provocative. Still, I chose my words and my moments very carefully. A
wise man can do nothing less if he wishes to succeed. Context is everything,
and an orator must know his audience. My words were still twisted though,
despite the precision with which I spoke.Letters rewritten. Rhetoric that I never once uttered was later placed
into my mouth.A man first lives as
flesh. If his work is resonant enough, he becomes legend, then literature.He becomes a useful avatar for all kinds of
opposing ideologies.Little has changed
in that regard. But I'm still fighting for the same thing I always was, many
lives and many years later. A world free of the machinations of these venomous
occultists. The dark designs of the wraiths, slave-masters and traffickers who
rule this realm. Who wouldn't dream a little in the depths of such darkness?
Yet I've been deemed far worse than a fantasist over the years. Agitator, revolutionary,
dark angel. Perhaps I’m guilty on all charges.Nothing more than a sinister oracle. Tell me, Fallen, is that what's
become of the sun at midnight? Is that who I am now? A demon-prince in your
inverted cosmology? Another paltry antichrist in your quest for colonisation? I
admit that I'm a magician of sorts. Wounded, and fond of phantasmagoria. But I
would like to believe that I also possess a level of genuine rigor. A code of
conduct. A true warrior's heart. Because I really do care about the innocent.
The lost, lonely and broken whom you trample so mercilessly. It's why I'm still
doing this. Why I'm still a thing of vision despite the wild tempest such
pursuits have wrought. Poetry is painful. I know this better than most. It can
make a wreck of man’s imagination if done well. Even if done very carefully. As
the Ragged Magi once pondered, "Are we not creatures of clay, forged of
star and sea?" Indeed, we are. Formed from the radiant imagination of the
Living God. Myriad and mysterious. Older than temple, politic or parable.
Larger than any text or testament. Perhaps this still sounds like wildest
heresy even to modern ears. But that matters little to a Syrian. An angel of
Antioch. As I said, I've been called so many things in this dreaming of a
thousand years. Fantasist and heretic are by far the mildest of those slurs. We
are all wedded to our dreaming. Even in this deceptive, aberrant chronology.
Thus, we cannot cleave ourselves from our own perceptions. We can only refine
them through context. Imagination, experience and wisdom. So, let it be known
that I am nothing special.I’m just like
you. Not a liar or a trickster.Neither
demigod nor saint. Merely an artist trying to inspire others to the better
angels of their nature.Trying to understand
the world in which he lives through the tools he knows best.Dreams, stories and song.Hoping to kindle that divine fire I spoke of.
That wisdom of the heart.
It’s a thin line between pride
and shame, beloved ones. Razor-thin. Enough to cut ourselves deeply, or
another. Like a thorn in the flesh. I believe there is great insight in knowing
the solemnity of such uncomfortable truths. That place in human storytelling
where light gives way to shadow. Sometimes a darkness can be birthed in the
fervour of protecting our own, and we become the very thing we hate. It’s the
lament of many poets, isn’t it? And warriors who wished desperately for
some other way. But sometimes the sky of a mind can darken, and you are
hunted by jackals in the wilderness. Suddenly, you find yourself prowling like
a jackal too. It’s easy to discuss the polity of occupation from a distance. I
suspect it is something else entirely to be ravaged by it. To see your children
ravaged by it. In such instances some men truly believe that they are forced to
take up the sword. But eventually, it is always the innocent who suffer
most. The children on both sides. Violence is always an anguished
lament to those of sufficient soul. I’ve wept like that, in dreams. I’m still
not sure if my soul is sufficient, but like all true initiates of the hidden
way I once knelt before the burnished Mountain of God, praying that a man might
not be forced to become a wraith to defeat an army of even darker wraiths.
Cruelty is no glamorous thing, believe me. Neither is war. There are so few
heroes in war. I’m no hero either, but I’ve been called many things across this
dreaming of a thousand years. A ghost, a charlatan. An angel of thorns, or
knives. Like that wretched Prince of Sicarii. Well, such titles are not
entirely unwarranted. As I’ve said elsewhere in these epistles, your enemy is
still your brother. And spilling the blood of your brother is always a matter
of terrible, hideous shame. Saltire or not. Regardless of what side you’re on.
All causes are righteous to men of burning conviction. In a climate of such
hate, hostility and viciousness only a fool would consider himself righteous,
without shadow or flaw. I once walked among such men, in my nightly sojourns.
Honour and integrity were beyond so many of them. Beloved ones, I want you to
realize that fiction is a prerequisite to religion, as all writers of merit
understand. Storytelling is thus often the business of crafting more palatable
heroes. Pacifists and polemicists. I know this because I was a storyteller even
as a boy, long before I was blinded by vision. Long before I watched my
many brothers and sisters curl their fingers around the hilt of a sword. I
tried to renounce such revolt and pledged myself to the Mysteries of Rhacotis,
like any true seeker of that time and place. There I learned many things. What
my enemies might call magic or malefica. But more than that, I learned secrets
of imagination. What one might call spiritual technologies. I learned that no
text is a dry recital of dispassionate fact. All texts are dramaturgies. Even
this one. Full of religiosity, sympathies and antipathies. Occulted aspects. I
quickly realised that our words are full of incredible revelation, and our
actions also. Not a single soul is without agency. From peasant to prince. Man
and woman. There are no true hierarchies save those forged in the mind.
Regardless, some say a dark angel birthed those sinister hooded ones. The
shrouded ones. Some say this angel led them to the mount. Men and women of
dagger and cloak. What know you of these darker things, Fallen? Josephus,
Celsus, Origen? Are these your measures of supposed fact? Listen to me. You
know only what the Magi have allowed you to know. These mysteries, these hidden
things – they are not discontinuous. There is a lineage of light stretching back
to those times long before the temple fell. The Cult of First Dreaming.
We who recall the shining realm. We who rebuke these slavers and
traffickers in all forms. Do you really suppose ichthys and anchor were
the only signs of revolution? Do you think swords are the only weapons? Hear me
now, lost Roma. I don’t need to kill. Insight is a far sharper blade. And it
cuts both ways. Your empire collapsed in the end, didn’t it? Just as my
namesake did at Damascus. It was only a matter of time. And poetry. As I
said, it’s a thin line between peace and war. Razor-thin. Perhaps the
difference between pieces of divine light and pieces of silver. Just ask those
vicious zealots, or the sicarii. I know who I am, and what I’ve been working
toward. Protection for the little ones. Voices for the voiceless. Insight and comprehension between all clashing ideologies. Perhaps it sounds
naive to a warlord or a demoniac, but I have no interest in slaying my enemies
in some paper-thin parable of good versus evil. I’ve seen far too much horror
for that. But you will have to face yourselves in the end, Fallen. Just
as I did, in the crucible of my dreaming. Owning up to every wretched sin. See,
my concern was never counterfeit. My love is not entirely lost. I
value my heart and my shame, even as an angel. It means I dare not make the
same mistakes again. Instead, I shall find other ways. Gentler, hidden ways. A
warrior of the innermost. For I am not without imagination. All souls deserve
freedom and decency. A fair trial beyond claims of sedition, regardless of
their fealty or their faith. Even you. It is no laughing matter,
Fallen. I take it very seriously. Lay down your daggers, all of you, and
take up a different kind of blade. For Kasi tells you now, we are all equal in
the eyes of my Father. Praise be to God and his grace. That I almost
never was, nor shall I ever be again. There is a great wisdom in that, even for
a humbled storyteller.
In the
old stories they used to speak of a fractured king with two faces. Half flesh,
half myth. Folded through artworks and songlines beyond linear
time. Buried on the holy hill beside the river, beneath Navahtri's white
lantern of stone. An angel of Rhacotis, some say. Or a giant. A winged
messenger of dreams bearing the oldest mark; one who was both the end and the
beginning. My brothers have never forgotten these stories, but such legends are
mere fancies among a plethora now. A panoply of fictions regarding what my people
once called the City of Gates. The place of both ways. Libraries and
lighthouses.Navah has other names now,
and other histories. Framed and favoured with the blood-dimmed heraldries of
officialdom. But there have always been other voices. Alternate histories. Even
when raven-touched sorcerers remind men of these things they are often sadly disbelieved.
Ignored by those same souls they wish to liberate. The now familiar lies of the Church are offered as an almost instinctive rebuttal.Lies made holy writ by royal sanction.
"There is but one truth, one history, and it was forged by Rome." Oh,
Fallen. You know nothing of Rome. Of Peter or Paul. You know so little of true
divinity, or art, therefore your grasp of history is tenuous at best. Hear me,
and men like me. My brethren are among the Cult of First Dreaming. All
Dreaming. Pearls of great price and serpents of the sea.Those who watched the Watchers even as the
war began. There have been a thousand names for London, Shalem and Rome.
Countless visions of Albion. And innumerable fires. Sacrifices made ritual.
Like a board being cleared of its pieces, being reset. But even these local
genocides have crow-like echoes and strange secrets. Many places, becoming one.
As I said, the Fallen know little of magic. I don't know everything, of course.
But likely I know more than you. My wisdom is debatable, but I studied diligently,
and my years have more breadth than I care to admit. Regardless, gates and
wings does not an angel make. You need a message. A vision. And believe me, despite
my flaws I am a creature of vision indeed. True scholars know that we become
what we fear if we're not careful. Do you fear night-wraiths, as I once did?
Well, I was once a king among wraiths. A wild gypsy-king standing defiant in
the sand before the burnished Mountain of God.But I was humbled.Brought to my
knees.This is what it means to be a
thing of fractured dreaming. Hear me now, dear ones.You exist in a false, aberrant chronology.
Your most ancient compendiums and memories are counterfeit, or else very
partial truths. The splendour and vastness of the myriad, of which you are key,
has been hidden from you. Who did this, you ask? Who engineered such darkness?
Such sinister oppression? You know who did. The gatekeepers did this, the day
they buried the angel alive. On the hill, by the river of Temesh.You were a keeper of gates once, even if only
in dreams. I know you were. I remember you at Rhacotis.This is nothing new, lost ones. I've said all
this before. Souls of great sweetness and depth have revealed all these things
to you in various ways. But, I admit, it is a terrifying thing to grasp. A
horror to reconcile. That dreaming – reality itself – was hijacked by
malevolent, adversarial forces. Satanic forces. The devil wears many faces, say
the Christians. Whereas the pagans say that wraiths ruthlessly shape themselves
to all expedient folklore, and whisper through the veil to any mortals who can hear
them. Both groups are correct, of course. Both have stories worth hearing. You
see, I was once a Christian. And a pagan. I am still both, as are you. There is
no getting around it, dear ones. You dream and imagine. You are a thing of
gates whether you like it or not. A creature of madness and logic. Brothers and
sisters, know this. Golgotha weeps at the breadth of your soul's dreaming. As
do the circles of stone. Sacrifices were made to keep you intact despite the
Fall. Despite the hush that seethed. That which stole your true memories and
your birthright. But you are not alone.Artists and Magi now walk this ruin with you. Marked and marginalised –
offering pieces of the old songs in lament. Two faces, both ways. Beyond linear
time. And yet, those far less brave than the carpenter or the raven wish to call
me a fantasist.They wish to lecture men
like me on the nature of history and dreaming. I would laugh, if not for my
brother's weeping. Yeru'shalem, the old ones say of the places of peace.
Mira'shalem. Blood is indeed a miracle, as is storytelling and love. Listen to
your brother. He knows far more than I do. There are greater kings, unburied. I'm
just a scribe. A poet of bold vision but imperfect grammar. I am not the fallen
angel of songs redeemed by the sacrifice of sky. I am not the winged one
interred on the hill of gates, made bright by the benevolence of his brother.
You are, dearest one. Of course you are.Knowing this secret, a great and dangerous secret, it is my genuine hope
that you dream well.
I speak
to you now, black-as-crown. Hear me. Hear your brother, husband and father. Rune and relic. Sigil and stone. There is always a war where art is concerned, isn’t
there? Between the beauty of form and
the utility of function. Reality versus
representation. You know well of this
war, seamstress. Storytellers always do.
They grapple often with the eternal
question. When to share the truth, or else
offer a comforting deceit. And then there
are those rare, confusing moments when both are one. But the human soul requires both. The black is blinded without it, believe me. It cannot survive on fact alone. Soul requires fiction to grow, to express the
fullness of its myriad nature. Heaven
and Earth. Dreams, and dirt. Like a seed. My dreams were threadbare after the Fall, and
I went seeking after Fates. Norns living
at the Mouth of Weavers. The lip of
Urd’s Well. The legends told of a
massacre. During the seething hush, when
the cities themselves began to darken and fold.
It was announced as so, but the Fates were not truly slain. I wouldn’t have allowed that. Instead, they were hidden away. In the Book of Doors. A pocket place. A threshold realm that only artists and
storytellers truly understand. Even
angels are a little wary of the book. After
all, it is a place where anything can happen. Fire, and death. This place. This haunted earth. Afkárr, hear me. I am the storm, as your sisters know well. Some men call me an angel of thorns, or
knives. Others call me a king of ravens.
But what I truly am is a storyteller. I am not the story itself. At least, not entirely. Then again, we build our world through imagination
and memory. Don’t we? Just like the legends claim. I suppose I am a thing of mystery, and
secrets. Aren’t we all? Artists especially? Isn’t it the Christians who say, if thine eye
be single thy whole body shall be full of light? Our stories put it another way, but the secrets
remain the same. As I said, the black is
blinded without deceit. Without sweet lies
that tell of greater, hidden truths. This
is indeed a war, Afkárr. A War of Imagination. You see it all around. These sickening lords of genocide. But there is a greater light, seamstress. A greater purpose we must find for ourselves
amid the chaos. That dance we must graciously
undertake, or else endure unwillingly. Between
function and form. Utility and beauty. You are not lying to yourself when you turn from
the horror for a moment and imagine with an artist’s eye. You are full of light, my wild one. Fierce, pale as shadow, and crowned. How do I know? Because it is I who crowned you, in the world
before worlds. Not for myself. Not for glory.
But because you held steadfast to both sides of the soul, even when it was
difficult. Mind, and sense. I shall never forget that. Storm or not. Be well, un-slain Fate. Be well, my Queen.
