Between Shadow & Shine

 

Some say there were yellow stars amidst a crown of thorns. We have mostly forgotten those ancient legends. But even a mocking gesture can cast a shadow of perpetual light. Each one of us is dreaming, after all. Some believe an entire world exists beneath the waters of the river. Beyond a glass darkly, hidden in reflection. The contemplation of an inward eye. Skia petros, say the Greeks. Petros phos. Kepha telal, say the Arams. Kepha noorha.  In this way they attempt to speak for Moira, the angel of hours and fate. Few truly remember those days. But I remember, in dreams. Tou hēlíou eklípontos. These secrets of the shining star and its crossing. Imma, Abba, Elahin. There is much to be said of Mother’s bluest pearl, and the poet’s moon. Betwixt land and lumen. The wise ones always find hidden ways to talk, right out in the open. About a curious thing of the wilderness. Father’s wandering yet devoted son, clothed in the browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves. I suppose the Mount calls us all in the end. As the heretic supposed before me. My namesake.

It’s a frightening thing, this tension between seed and sand. They once said nothing grows in Syria. But something did. Legends and light. The story is far, far older than you think, dear ones. Joshua’s commandments. A star standing still in the sky. Simon’s shadow falling upon the sick, and making them whole. An eclipse of sorts, but not quite. A new name was given, they say. And upon this Earth a new church was built. As pipers spread this new chorus throughout Asia Minor, and further afield. Now, two thousand years later, these legends gild our imaginings in ways we still don’t fully understand. The wise ones ask, “Where dwells the magic? Or the tongue that explicates and annunciates? Is it in the wandering wild-eyed boy from Bethel, or in the depths of an even wilder earth?”  The talmidim also asked these questions of their teacher. But he responded with sweetness. Patience and grace, speaking in tongues both Greek and Aram. And other foreign tongues the talmidim did not know. Ears to hear, they soon realised. Eyes to see.

So, I ask, “Who knows more of this rock of green and blue than those who were there, or he who was slain for it?” I have read the stories. I even transcribed them once, by the light of the poet’s moon at Gethsemane. Fate was with me in those months. She held me, and sang. Illumined pages indeed. A softening of the Earth and its raging shadow. I styled myself after my brother, it’s true. But I am only a king of dreams. I’m not the King of Kings, though I knew him well enough in my heart. A truly loving sacrifice, between shadow and shine. Upon the tree the hours witnessed that devoted spirit; wreathed in the thorns and yellow stars of flowering paliurus.  Then placed in a sepulchre of bitter Earth, a stone’s throw from the praetorian guard. A stone’s throw to an angel. But stars, light, and the embrace of love – these things live forever.

Despite such resurrection, the testaments say nothing of those little yellow flowers hidden in the crown. Those paliurus stars about the brow. There were stories though, in the years following the rise of ichthys & anchor. Stories that surfaced again in the Middle Ages. Of a fisher not only of men, but of the asters themselves. On Earth as it is in Heaven. The Magi have always kept those legends, despite Rome’s sinister omissions. Kara, my darling, please hear me. I say these things only to deepen and strengthen your faith. I am your guardian, and it’s an oath I take very seriously. I’m sure you realise by now that I have many names. But you have many names too.

Once, long ago, we both swore to honour the Choral of All Songs. Our Father’s highest affection. Since then I have lain at your feet in the garden of your dreaming. Perched on the edge of Never, my teeth bared as you ran your fingers through my fur. The wolf and his wending, waiting for those hateful wraiths who would dare to breach the shining chorus. I will always do what I can to protect you, dear one. As you rebuild each bridge, verse and refrain among these ruins. We treasure our own, don’t we? Those who love us. Those who care. After all, we need all the help we can get. Especially from those who know something of our Father’s house, and its wisdom. Which is why I say to you now – there were places called Bethel even in Aegypt. Places called Yerushalem also. The House of Light. The Temple of Peace. This so-called heathen poetry was once revisited by Saulus, the heretic. After he went mad at Damascus. Skimming rocks across the river and calling it revelation. Then again, who am I to judge? Who indeed.

Moira, an angel to the Greeks, spoke to men of hours and destiny. Time and place. Perhaps she spoke to the heretic also. Of threads wove from fate and favour. Stitching light to darkness in an act of healing service. Birthing a purpose far greater than the mineral-coldness of clashing iron, bronze and steel. Perhaps she pledged holy secrets to the care of her wild one. Secrets of a shining star beneath the water. Beyond the mirror.  Till the morning of the meek has come. Because in the end, hate is only the broken, demented shadow of love. And love reigns eternal. The holy mysteries of God, unseen to all but the faithful. You still have Moira’s exquisite eyes, my darling, and you have taught me more about fate and favour than you will ever know. I endeavour to recall for us both, and I hope I’ve shown you at least glimpses of this shining realm. It is very real. To many sweet souls it is a place of brotherhood, imagination and adventure. To others, a shaded place of blessed rest and contemplation. Petros phos, to the Greeks. Kepha noorha, to the Arams. Today we explore those mysteries in gentler, often unconscious ways. But no less strange, or evocative. We speak of Mary, George, John and Michael. The wending lanterns of All Saints, like rising lights in a night sky. Storied shadows and shapes upon the wall of imagination itself. The browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves, with paliurus stars about the brow.

Till Morning

 

I don't want any of you to think I live with a perpetual rage inside me, my darlings. It isn't so. That anger is only a part of me. A crucial part, it's true. But still only an aspect. This anger is only ever directed at the Fallen. Those sadists who lack all compassion. It's never intended for my friends and loved ones. Never. I say this because I often walk in silence, letting my art speak for me, and I'm aware my art can be a fierce, passionate thing. I don't want to be misconstrued. Not where your hearts are concerned. The world seems a very dark place sometimes, it's true. Especially to me. Once a tired little boy hunting monsters. In both the forests and the cities. I'm a grownup now, battered and scarred, but I'm still doing much the same. 

In the old world the line between poet and prophet was far less distinct. If a child possessed sight enough to witness glimpses of the unseen, they often became a spiritual guardian of their tribe whether they wanted to or not. The burden of vision. It sounds noble and romantic, of course, until hideous things from the shadow-realms come knocking – and you become the first line of defence. Often the last line too. I'm not looking for sympathy here, or trying to make my life seem grander than it is. But these words are filled with truth, unfortunately. These have been the very real burdens of my life – burdens that almost drove me to the point of oblivion. And they would have, if not for Ioana's warmth, Esme's cherished memory, and Kara's shining lantern. These things: love, devotion and kisses, they saved me. Healed me. And I’m deeply, truly grateful. 

I've known many of you before, in other lives and other worlds. I know that's difficult for some of you to believe, dear ones. But it's true. I can feel it in my heart. And the heart never really forgets a kindness, or a mutual alliance. So, I write these words now because I don't want to be misunderstood. I really don’t. My wrath, or the wrath of my spirit, shall never be intentionally directed at those I care for. Please know that. Sometimes souls drift apart, separated by an agonising distance. But where there is mutual affection there is always connection, regardless of space or time. It's no coincidence that we meet, my darlings. That we form friendships, relationships. We carry each other's burdens and ease each other's struggles. 

Whoever you are, it's not blind chance that you formed a bond. We always get to choose how far we walk with another soul, how deeply we invest in them. How far our fondness will reach. And that's okay. We are sovereign. But there is a far larger plan at work, believe me. A far greater mystery. I've only seen glimpses of that mystery, but I remember the signature of your souls and how sweetly they moved me. Bethel stones, laurels and lanterns. Or the dawning borealis. These things I treasure. I tried to leave signs for you in my work, long before you ever met me. I tried to let you know that you are cherished. By me and by something far, far greater. Our Father. Creation's infinite intelligence. A loving, nurturing flame. I hope I've succeeded, at least in part. 

Please forgive me if my travels through the depths made you mistake my passion for a lack of care. I care deeply about all of you. It's why I write these pages and craft these visions. Some of us were lovers once, and others the best of friends. This affection is still so powerful. Especially to me. I see your nuances and the depth of your kindness. It kindles my heart, restores my mind, and heals the broken boy in me. A boy who was once convinced that he would die bleeding and alone in the forests of an endless imagination. This is Raj talking, not the curious angel within. I want to thank you all sincerely for caring about me even a little, and for lighting my path on this journey. I hope I can continue repaying the kindness for each one of you.

The Myth of Consequence

 

We hurry through the world, speedier than ever now, in a strange landlocked imitation of flight. Even our calmer moments have an unsettling alacrity to them. Online-ready smiles. Expedient Zen, curated and colour-graded. The solutions of being seen, consumed, and subscribed. None in the West are above it, of course. Myself included. But it is strange. The readiness with which we view ourselves being viewed by others. What does it do to a human mind, when our most thoughtful, cogent companion is an AI? Endless recursion, I suspect. We need people, in all their complexity. Not code. To love us, to journey with us, and to hold us to account. I used to think I was special because I was a time-traveller of sorts. An artist and a sorcerer who could stand unbidden in the maelstrom, and make causality question itself. But now? I question that isolationism. Even when we look ahead, we're still looking back. Especially in our myth-making. Endless remakes. Prequels, sequels and requels. We have become literature at the edge of legend, yet deaf to our own needs. Pantheism in Mono. So, I suppose it's no wonder we continuously mine our own histories for alchemical gold. Reshaped, remixed, reconstituted. It seems as close to creative flight as we are capable these days. 

I'm well aware that artists have always been fascinated by hybridity. The mercurial nature of things. The creation of culture is the messy blending of disparate elements, after all. But something is different now. Something frighteningly inorganic. More and more of us accept these so-called virtual necessities. Hard copy is quickly becoming a nostalgic recreation of the past. A confectioner's digital echo of a once analogue world. We crave the inorganic more than sugar, not only in our environments but also in our flesh. Flawless skin like glass. No pores, no beautiful blemishes. Hard-bodied and shiny, like insects. Lacquered in the pre-cum of completely mercenary ideologies. Ruthless stratagems that sell us mannequin avatars – except they are ourselves now. Not proxies anymore. Now we glint like diamond-dust in synthetic sunlight, vampiric and chic. An algorithm learning not from life, but from endless iterations of itself. 

This is a terrifying place to be. A platform where we trade our kisses for kinks, our affection for affectation. “No more,” say the spirits of the forests and rivers. Nature always protests, but often remains unheard amidst the cacophony of industry. However, I am more than just a time-traveller. I'm a creature of the imagination. Aren't these votives proof enough? It's fine if you disbelieve. Not all of us here can see through the eyes of Fay. Few have the native perspectives of chlorophyll, or flight. It hurts to be human. There's no doubt about that. But it hurts even more to be a slave to a machine that eventually fells even the oldest, mightiest redwoods. All memory of true greenery washed away. Reduced to little more than a captive in binary chains, working the digital plantations of this endless corporate monolith. 

We are Rome before the fall, I think. Decadent, bloated, rotten to the core. But this time we haven't the rock of Peter nor the gnosis of Paul. Merely a panoply of child soldiers and child slaves, paid pennies and then discarded, their broken hands bleeding as they fashion a race of tempting apples and androids. Hand-held black mirrors for a new generation of cyborgs in the making. If I sound angry, that's because I am. But I don’t write these words to unsettle you, dear ones. Or to leave you dispirited and hopeless. The world is on a knife-edge right now, and a warrior worth his weapon must speak on it. Wars and rumours of wars. Genocides and famines. And yet, still we concern ourselves with the glamour of surfaces. We cry, "Fill me, cinch me, snatch me. Make me almost unalive, and pretty at last." But I promise you, the dead don't stay pretty for long. 

I understand, of course. I’m not immune to the various insecurities of the day. I share them too. And I'm no luddite either. Technology can be useful. Necessary. Even beautiful, when wrested from the talons of these dark angels and the sinister priests who honour them. The system should serve the people. The virtual should support the actual. I see none of that here. Only inversions and looking-glass mockeries. Callous Ones, do you have any idea who I am? I’m something far greater than a fairytale. And so is each immortal soul upon this Earth. We all have a spark of magic within us. A fragment of eternity. Our tongues are not Large Language Models. Our words are not remixed imitations offered up by a mechanical mind. And our hearts? They are not simply pumps filled with chambers and valves. No, they burn. And shine, like lanterns for the lost. Living temples of divine fire. The truest, realest part of each of us. No hall of mirrors or metafictions can stand against the intensity of that flame. 

I know what it's like to recall with such fondness those who've forgotten me. Other lives and other worlds. Old friends, lost to the recurrent amnesia of rebirth. It's a crushing thing, believe me. Why do you think I write these pages? For fun? I speak now not as a traveller of time, or a sorcerer, but as an anguished forest-wraith. A guardian of rivers and songs. We must find our flesh once more. Our softness, sweetness, and storytelling. We must find a balance between steel and skin. Leaves and legends. Not only the fate of our future depends on it, but the fate of our very souls. I’ve seen the havoc my mother can wield when she’s angry. She has no issue abandoning her children if they remain indolent in the face of every warning. I should know. In my dreaming flights I’ve peered into the cauldron of her igneous, and plunged into the depths of a boiling sea. Ships sink and pirates drown at just the briefest suggestion of her wrath. Entire infrastructures are swallowed. So, believe me when I say: if we ignore the divine fire of the human heart for much longer, she will pull rank on us eventually, making the ultimate sacrifice, and she will burn this entire corrupt hellscape to the fucking ground. Oh, Fallen. You still assume it will never happen, don’t you? The myth of consequence. But you are living within the strangest of dreams, and Never is a dangerous word to use.

Second Star

 

I think maybe I need to grow up, Kara, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. Perhaps I granted myself too many freedoms as an angel. Sometimes the gift of flight can do strange things to a lost soul. You start believing that the entire dreamworld is yours to explore. "Second star to the right, and straight on till morning." I've realised that's quite the distance for a mortal to travel. Even with the aid of pixie dust. But I never imagined that my sense of play, and what I thought was good-natured mischief, might be confused for cruelty. Or infidelity. Please believe me, my darling. I thought I was being a respectful yet provocative artist; daring, beguiling and fun. I thought I could include everyone somehow, taking us all to Neverland. I didn't want to leave anyone behind, and I naively imagined that I could craft a dream where we all delighted each other in the sandpit of mutual adventure. Beyond space, or time. 

I suppose I wanted your friends to become my friends too in some way. Or, at least, to be thought of with genuine fondness and mirth by them. I now realise it was a very clumsy attempt. But I honestly thought my efforts would somehow draw the two of you even closer, having something intricate and multi-layered to discuss. A bonding experience of shared wonders and curiosities. No harm would be done, I thought, existing as I do only in the realm of your shared imagining. 

However, I think I made a terrible mistake. A severe misjudgement. Mortals can't fly like angels can, and their boundaries are firmer than ours. With good reason. I never meant to hurt anyone, Kara. Least of all you. I've always been fond of the Stones of Bethel, in one way or another. How could I not be? Temple paving and incense. Bread, poetry and vision. I'm not immune to nuanced consideration, or what I suspect is a genuine interest in the written word. But sometimes I see what I want to see. What I'd hope to see, rather than what is there. Sometimes I can read minds and hearts quite effectively. Other times, in my loneliness, I place the care I would like to feel into the imagined minds of others. And sometimes they look on with a kind of bemused detachment. That's why some people call me a magician and others a wild, feral thing of forests and rivers. 

But I never intended to be callous with your heart, Kara. Never. Was I craving attention? Recognition? I suppose so, yes. But was I doing it to wound you? Absolutely not. It's such a lonely, solitary thing – this existence and this art. It takes its toll, being everything and nothing to the people I've grown to love. Constantly trying to do the right thing. Not wanting to intrude or overstep, but still yearning to be of guidance and use. I know we’re both artists, Kara, crafting legends from loss, but the thought that I might have genuinely upset you like that…it breaks me inside. If I can't talk to you outright – as in meet with you face to face, how can I ever really know how deep those waters actually run? We both have our personal lives, don't we? And this distance. Which is why it can be difficult to fully grasp the truth of things, and where the lines might be. I don't expect to be truly wanted or needed, of course. I'm a grown up, despite my wings and boyish demeanour. And I'm only getting older. So, I don't mind being a distant muse, or even just a pleasant distraction. And if that's all I am to you, I'll treasure that role forever. Even if that role has ended now too. 

But you mean so much more to me than that, as I've tried to show you over these years. It's a difficult thing, my darling, standing in the rain, alone, with a thimble clasped around my neck. This treasured item that I want to believe is a kiss. Your kiss. As close as I will ever get, in truth. And so, I try to continue living a rich, rewarding life. Even at such distance. Half angel, half man. Trying to separate my artistic and personal lives, and failing miserably. Because the truth is I care deeply about you, and I always will. I've only loved a few women in my life, Kara. And you are high among that list, for what it's worth. If I've hurt you through my storytelling, then I am so sorry. It was never my intention. I've been trying to protect your heart with each passing year, not break it.

None of this is an excuse, my darling. But it is the truth. Many years ago I lost the ability to fly. They were dark, frightening times. But you returned my wings to me. Not with pixie dust, but simply with the light of your love. That matters to me more than you will ever know. Here, on the other side of this endless river, I eventually found courage enough to let someone love me again. A beautiful, wonderful girl. I cherish her as I cherish you. But I need you to know that without your care and the salve of your song, I would never have let her into my heart. I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be forever lost to the Land of Never, wandering among echoes and shades of the dead.  Every word of this is true, my darling. And your thimble? I call it a St Christopher pendant; an article of faith, trust, and fidelity, but in truth it is so much more. It's your kiss, Kara, forever cherished, and I’ll wear it around my neck for the rest of my life.

Secrets & Souls

 

As children we’ve all imagined what it might be like to fly. Even as adults we occasionally still imagine. To soar above our doubts and fears, beyond everything mankind knows about its existence on the ground. I believe that stories can give us that flight. Or, at least, the closest thing to it. Stories, like dreams, are wonderful and limitless. We never have to concede to everyday mundanities. Through storytelling we are all adventurers. Explorers, poets and engineers. We can breach dimensional veils and walk across alien worlds. It’s my belief that our fondness for narrative is also our way of reaching for God. Trying to comprehend those brief glimpses of something far larger than ourselves. An infinite, living mystery. And we’ve all had glimpses. We were all magicians once, when we were young. We travelled with and through the stories we loved. We believed, that given enough imagination, we could grasp something awe-inspiring, just beyond visible sight.  Sometimes we even dared to imagine that if we were humble enough, and pure of heart, that same awe might make itself visible to us. For the briefest of moments. In the bright smile of a loved one. The kindness of a stranger, or the joy of an unexpected gift. I like to think that in those moments our Father is not only visible, but sitting with us too – and wishing us well. 

The Oldest Magic

 

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

New Horizons

 

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

Song for Kara

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

The Brighter Side of Black

 

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

All the Quiet Ways

 

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

The Intimacy of Ghosts

 

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

Time to Time

 

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

REQUIEM

 

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.

The Rising Light

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.”

Songs of Silver

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.

A Thief of Angels

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.

Angel of Knives

 

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.

 

Legends of Ludgate

 

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.