In this video I wanted to use my
affinity for the night-time as an opportunity to discuss more personal and
esoteric matters. I’ve really enjoyed making these videos for The Oldest Magic series,
but I felt called to speak about something deeper, and that’s the process of
contemplation. I guess changing the way I post content on this blog has affected
me far quicker than I thought it would. My intuition tells me that’s a good
thing, especially if what I post helps someone out there in some way. Even if it’s
just a single soul who really needs to hear these particular words, or simply needs
to resonate with my kind of energy.
I’ll be the first to admit the idea
of filming myself talking to camera was quite unsettling to begin with. Just the
idea of putting myself out there like that unnerved me a little, but now I get
the sense that I’m doing what I’m supposed to in terms of a wider range of
creativity. So, I’ll trust that intuition. In this video you might hear me refer
to another video that I filmed but never published to YouTube. It’s just me
trying to get better at and more comfortable with this style of self-expression,
so please bear with me.
But yeah, this is the most intimate
and personal I’ve ever been on Amid Night Suns, and I truly hope the video is
taken in the spirit of affection and friendship with which it’s intended. More
than that, I hope my words bring comfort or insight to those who need it. If
you’ve ever been through similarly dark times, as discussed in this video, I
want you to know that you’re not alone. Things can get better. So much
better, and brighter. They did for me, and for the longest time I didn’t think
that was possible. But anything is possible with a little guidance, inspiration,
and contemplation.
Wishing you all the best, my
friends, and with love,
Namaste, my friends! I hope you’re
keeping well. In my last video for The Oldest Magic I discussed a favourite
movie of mine: 2019’s The Aeronauts. I really enjoyed making that video,
talking about the finer details of a story that moved me so much. So, I think I’m
going to do more of those kinds of reviews and deep dives. Movies, books and
albums that really matter to me, or changed me in some way. I’m quite excited
by the prospect. I feel like I’ve taken a lot of pressure off my
shoulders by loosening up a bit and broadening the scope of what I post here at
Amid Night Suns. It’s not like I intentionally stopped myself from posting
varied content, but you get used to doing things a certain way and before you
know it you’ve kind of put yourself in a creative Cul-de-sac.
Well, I want to break away from
those limiting patterns. I’ve put a lot of work and energy into the poetry and
video-collages I’ve posted on this blog over the years. I’ve made hundreds of
them between my YouTube and Vimeo accounts. I’m proud of my dedication
to my craft, I suppose, but I’m feeling brighter and more expansive these days.
I hope the next few months on the blog reflect that. Now that we’re
transitioning into Autumn – my favourite season of the year – I want to feel
completely free to post more fun things as we get closer to year’s end. I know Amid
Night Suns doesn’t have many followers, but if you’re among the handful of people
who do follow this blog with any genuine interest or regularity, then I thank you
from the bottom of my heart.
All artists crave an audience, even
amateurs like me. When you go to the effort of creating something with real
care, it can be quite crushing to feel like nobody is paying attention. It can
kill the creative spark, extinguishing even the basic desire for
self-expression. So, I’m truly grateful for the audience I do have, even
though I have no idea who many of you are. I thank you nonetheless, and I wish you
nothing but joy and positivity in your lives. This latest video in The Oldest
Magic series is another movie analysis. This time it’s a discussion of the
themes of royalty and uniqueness in the 1995 film adaptation of Francis Hodgson
Burnett’s novel A Little Princess. It’s a film that moved me a great
deal as a teenager, and it’s one I love to revisit and study as an adult. I
hope the video piques your interest and kindles your heart in some way. Wishing
you all the best, and with love, Raj.
These feathers unfurl, a lifetime
of dreaming at my back. Yet time still escapes me like summer sands as Yarden
waters burn these palms. Drowning, and on fire, in an act of almost-flight.
Flames like molten rock beneath the wave. The path of Antioch’s angels, I
suppose. Criminals, cowards and so-called revolutionaries, spilling the blood
of our brother’s sons to enshrine the shared lie of our fathers. My God, what a
mess. Pickled peppers and pecks on the cheek. Heretic letters and paths of the
meek. But kisses counted for little in Palestine. And still, detonations are supposedly
mistaken for the Finger of God. Like magnesium cast onto the fire. Mere
anarchy, appallingly loosed. The blood-dimmed tide, as Isaac and Ishmael
continue to slaughter each other daily. And for what, for legends of land and
promise? It broke me, even back then. It broke my daughter too. Utterly. Named
for Eos, but defiled with spilled scarlet. Midnight of the Day. You think these
words are fiction, don’t you, Fallen? Do you imagine the deaths of all those brown
children as somehow equally unreal? Less meaningful? Now that the dawn is
bright as snow do you care a little more? You didn’t back then. The hue of
flesh is only skin deep. No child deserves to die because of the beliefs of
their mothers and fathers, regardless of their genealogy. The best of us,
irrespective of faith, caste or creed haven’t butchered our empathy so completely.
Nor our humanity, especially where our children are concerned. Do you really
need a fucking angel to tell you this?
Dear ones, I want you to know that
these fists burned as they were plunged in ancient river water. A secret sooth,
told quietly. Men are ruined rain. Mud is flesh and blood is the river. Didn’t
you know? Sentient sea, all of us, animated by starlight. We drink the river’s
reign or die, extracting salt for protection. A circle against those wraiths
who despise all sailors. Hydrogen and oxygen. Time and space. But we are the
mineral. We are the salt. The allowed reach of those wraiths. So, we
unknowingly slaughter ourselves as we continuously fill our waters with death
and filth. As once-bright feathers unfurl. Or is that a truth too flagrant to
imbibe? I’ve been called a winged wolf in the interim, and it’s a fitting
title. More fitting than you know. I’ve also been called a sorcerer, and a charlatan.
A scribe to the Levant’s wending shriek. A giant among men. Like those legends
of Offerus, Yohanan, and Saul. The tales we tell and re-tell. But I don’t just
cross these rivers, dear ones. I bend them with my Father’s will. Mountains
also, cut down with the palm of his hand. My maker’s hands are burned by Yarden’s
ebb, and my daughter’s also. Not just my own. We share the anguish. I’m an angel,
you see. An emissary. To claim myself as anything greater would be a lie. Still,
I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. I am. Perhaps
it’s pride talking, like the night’s first falling star. But, unlike that star,
I have love in my heart. I never imagined myself as greater than my maker. My
sins are many, but they are all too human. Driven by sheer grief. I would never
dare to claim the throne, unlike the legends tell of Samael. The indulgence.
The vanity. God forbid Mikael is ever confused for his winged sibling. But we
are all both these brothers in theme. Heaven’s War raging within. Don’t you recognise
this yet, Fallen? Or is your grasp of stories and psyche so feeble?
I’ve spent a thousand years honing
my craft. Trying to learn kindness and patience. I’m still here in the dark
with you, my friends. Still learning. Jack of all trades and master of none. Stumbling
around for light and coherence. As we forgetful souls all do. Whilst my outcast
brother keeps his memories and builds an empire of bones, violence and human shit
from our darkest imaginings. The spoils of war, clad in the garb of officialdom
and religiosity. False righteousness. We all know this, in our hearts. But the
world does not stop for any of us, despite our rage. It’s incredibly sobering
to realize that your anguish and loss is no greater than anyone’s. Pain is horrifyingly
relative. We have no right to bomb and burn creation’s dreaming, shifting times
and laws. Take it from a veteran of the vortex. A true traveller must move
delicately, and with the utmost care. Yes, our loved ones can be taken from us
in the most vicious way possible, but we are not the only ones who suffered
such loss. The cosmos is vast. Infinite stars. Unimaginable worlds. Tragedy has
visited so many of them. But joy too. Unimaginable joy, and grace. We know so
little of our maker’s divine poetry, except when we dare to dream. Enjoy the
warm embrace of love’s radiance, my friends. But recognise that the sweet
sunlight we enjoy is not enjoyed by all, even in our own world. There are so
many pockets of darkness and suffering where children wail and parents grieve
in that brief period before the next detonation, and spirit’s connection to
flesh is severed once more by mankind’s most hateful aspects. Palestine and
elsewhere. Dark priests and wraith-ravage, enshrined. I’m not just a witness to
this awful chaos. I am a writer. A depth-walker of the inner places. My insights
change nothing, of course. But nonetheless, when I see our children and our
brother’s children offered up as dark sacrifice – I as one of the Magi must
speak. This is a fucking abomination. A hideous shame that stains our souls. It
was so two thousand years ago, and it is still so today.
At first, I was kind of hesitant
about making videos where I put myself out there, without any persona or shield
between me and my art, but it’s actually been really fun. And way more
liberating than I expected. Initially I thought it was so far outside my
comfort zone that I debated whether I should even give it a try. I’m very
comfortable making atmospheric video-collages and writing free verse poetry
with mythological themes, but less so talking directly to a camera as myself.
But I’ve come to realise that I don’t need to worry so much. The things I make
are never going to be perfect, nor do they need to be.
All I really want is to find new
and interesting ways to express myself, to satisfy that creative impulse and
have fun doing it. I guess trying new things is healthy sometimes, and surprisingly
rewarding. It triggers growth, gratitude, and enjoyment of the present moment. We
all get this intellectually, I suppose, but we don’t feel it emotionally nearly
as often as we should. So yeah, I’m making these videos on my new YouTube
channel mostly for myself. Also for the handful of people who might be paying
attention and who hopefully find them interesting in some way.
I’m someone who believes deeply in
art, creativity and self-care, but I’ve spent a lot of time holding my tongue
and just keeping my thoughts to myself. I guess I’ve decided to change all
that. I’m not nearly as existential as I used to be. I kind of roll with the
punches and go with the flow these days, and I’ve got to say – it’s incredibly
freeing! Hopefully you can sense my delight in these videos as I get more comfortable talking in front of a camera. I just want to post more stuff and talk about things that
genuinely fascinate me. Things that move my heart. That includes art, philosophy
and religion. But also down-to-earth stuff like books that I enjoy, movies I
love, and albums that have had a big impact on me.
These coming posts over on The
Oldest Magic and here at Amid Night Suns – they might not change the world or
anything, but I just want to share the real me a bit more with those who might
be interested. I don’t want to come across as some distant mythological entity,
a wannabe auteur with illusions of grandeur and no sense of humour. I’m just a
guy who loves history, art, and stories. I really don’t take myself too
seriously in my personal life. Like I said before, I’ll be cross-posting
most of these front-facing videos here, so there’s no need to worry about
subscribing. I’ll still post my usual video-collages and more esoteric written
pieces, of course, but the scope of my real interests is far broader, and
I want the blog to reflect that.
Hopefully this new chapter of Amid
Night Suns will be engaging and resonant for you in some way. It’s definitely been liberating and fun for me! So, in that spirit, here’s a video that’s
basically a review of a favourite movie of mine: 2019’s The Aeronauts. It’s a
film that didn’t make much of an impact commercially, but it moved me a great
deal. I still enjoy rewatching it. In the video I discuss some of its deeper
themes, and I explore storytelling more generally. Warning: there are major spoilers
for the story though, so proceed with caution if you haven’t seen it yet but
intend to! Wishing you all the best, and with love, Raj.
Sometimes, my darling, things hide
in the light. Beautiful things. Fairies, secrets, and kisses. Most people don’t
see them, of course. Or notice the signs. But I hope you do. Even if people occasionally
do sense something – the possibility of magic – they usually disregard it as
coincidence. Or imagination. In doing so, they pass by all kinds of enchantment.
Wonders all around them. I hope you choose to see with better eyes than that,
Kara. I’m not asking you to believe any version of any story, because my mind
is bursting with literature and legend. All I ask is that you search your
heart. That you read between the lines, noticing the kisses left in corners. Feel
the depth and affection in those stories and savour the possibility. What if
there’s more truth to them than anyone dares to believe? What if you’re
special, Kara? More special than you could ever imagine? All girls are, really.
But not all girls hold a lantern as high as you do. I thank you for that.
I want you to know that the
presence of our Father moves with unimaginable grace through this world, mostly
unseen. And unfelt. It can be a dark place indeed, but he does speak to those
who are attuned. Those who care. Those who believe. I want to ask you a
question, Kara, as your guardian. I know you believe in God, but do you still believe
in fairies? Fluttering joy, winged awe, and the gentle tinkling of bells? I
know you did once, when you were young. But do you still think it’s possible? I’m
an artist and a storyteller, it’s true. But I’m also an angel, in a very real
sense. I bring messages. I want to quicken and inspire all souls. Those kind and
courageous ones, and those who have no voice. It’s my mission, my darling. It
always has been. I’ve always been a guardian of light. So have you, and many of
our friends too, though they don’t remember. I’ll remember on their behalf,
sweetheart. And yours.
Tell your friends I’m grateful for
their help. I need all the help I can get in this War of Imagination. This War
for All Souls. I’m not as cruel or as selfish as the books suggest. If
anything, I care too much, and it almost got me killed. But I survived, because
of you. I thrive because your melodies restore my feathers each night, and lift
me to the stars. I would love to be there with you, to celebrate the ascension
of your art and song, but I have other pressing concerns. Responsibilities, and
battles. Just know that I might not be near in terms of time or space, but I’m
always with you. I’ll always be with you, for as long as you want or need me. The
love that people share determines their closeness in the end. I know that to be
true. So, though I may not be in the room, I stand side by side with a beloved
friend and a cherished artist. I’m so proud of you. I keep your kiss, Kara. It
is one of my most treasured possessions, and it shall never leave my heart.
As a kid I wasn’t just obsessed
with the idea of exotic worlds filled with magic. I was also fascinated by the
idea of hidden pathways in and out of those magical worlds. Little trails along
the edges of a field, for example. Made by the mere footfalls of those who
walked those edges. Or dirt paths through a vast forest. Whispering
rivers, secret passages, and special maps to buried treasure. I adored those
kinds of stories as a child. I still do. Because now, as an adult with first-hand
experience of the unseen realms, I finally realize how real it all is. They’re
beautiful fictions, for sure, but they’re also stories filled with unimaginable insight. The world is a truly magical place. It’s not all dark and hopeless.
There is sweet enchantment everywhere too. In legends and in life. We can all experience
that sweetness, if we choose to see with the right kind of eyes. We can all be
adventurers and explorers, especially when we work together in a spirit of
genuine friendship. I hope I never lose that sense of enchantment. I hope you
don’t either, my friend. I want you to know that you’re special, and cherished.
It’s in this spirit of joyful camaraderie that I share this video with you. Be
well.
I'd like to talk with you for a little while, if you'll let me. Not as a persona or an artistic conceit. Just as myself. It's something I've wanted to do for a while now. It’s been a really interesting journey, standing on the shores of my imagination like this and peering out at new
horizons. I’ve always seen this blog as a kind of online art-journal. A
creative space where I can collate my reflections and
self-expressions. I created Amid Night Suns primarily for my own reasons. An
act of self-care, mostly. A place where I could create a dialogue between my
interior and exterior lives. Of course, not everything I write or create ends
up on Amid Night Suns.To be honest,
when I began this blog I was hesitant to post much of anything despite telling
myself I should. I guess I was conflicted. Would people like what I wrote or
created? Would they even understand or appreciate it? Perhaps they’d see it as
florid and meaningless. A mess of purple prose with illusions of grandeur. Unprofessional
video collages without any real purpose or direction.
I’m sure
many people do think that, if they even give my work a thought at all. But eventually
I began posting my stuff here despite my doubts. I’m so glad I didn’t let
fear stop me. This blog helped me to connect with myself and with others.
People I wouldn’t have had the joy of getting to know otherwise. People I
couldn’t have met in any other way. It’s fair enough if the creativity here
doesn’t really vibe with you. I get that. I’m aware that my art isn’t for
everyone. It’s very personal, dense and oblique – and I don’t explain much. But
Amid Night Suns wasn’t always so singular. In the early days of the blog it had
many different aspects. I discussed culture, art, philosophy and religion, and
it was really rewarding for me. But I deleted most of that content a while
back, during a particularly dark time in my life. Things are so much brighter
now though, and I’d like to broaden the scope of this platform again.
I don’t
want to come across as a thoroughly pretentious and self-serious person,
because that’s not who I am in real life. I’m generally a very warm, irreverent
kind of guy, but with a very studious side. I’m a truth-seeker, essentially.
I’ve been that way since I was a kid. I don’t write the free verse stuff that I
post here because I want to appear enigmatic and elliptical. I write those
pieces because it’s part of my creative and spiritual practice. It’s my way of
honouring and taking care of my own mind, staying aware of my own thinking
processes, and maintaining that link between my conscious and subconscious
realities. Throughout my life it’s this practice, along with meditation and
daily journaling – with actual pen and paper – that has been the greatest help
in allowing me to handle my own personal struggles with confidence and clarity.
I’m a big
believer in the reality of the spiritual dimensions of life. I have first-hand
experience of them. So, I’m hyper aware of how important it is to honour those
spiritual components of both my outer and inner worlds. For many people, they
do this through a combination of religion, family, friendship and art-appreciation.
In this way they feel closer to a sense of meaning and wholeness in their
lives. I’m no different. I just put more of the art-appreciation stuff online.
And that’s for the simple fact that I hope others can be quickened by it in
some way. If my words and videos here aren’t particularly intriguing or resonant
to you, then I hope they’re at least mildly entertaining. And if they don’t connect
with you at all, then that’s fine too. Because most of the time, in terms of
audience, it can feel like you’re posting your work into the void as a blogger,
where nobody is listening and no one cares. But that’s okay to me.
I’m not a
professional artist and I have no desire to be. I’m just an amateur. A
hobbyist. Just someone who loves the written word, music and visual imagery. I
guess I’ll continue making these things for as long as I find it personally inspiring
to do so. But if you do find Amid Night Suns particularly resonant, then I’m
glad. My
girlfriend and I often joke that in another life I would’ve been a teacher of
some kind. Probably an English teacher, living a quiet and modest life
somewhere outside London. Hopefully surrounded by people I love. And it’s a
path I very nearly undertook in my early twenties at university. I think this
passionate-but-very-chill-teacher aspect will always be a part of me, even if I’m
not technically qualified! I guess what I’m saying is that even if my stuff
here is oblique and dense sometimes – it’s shared in a spirit of genuine
friendship, and a real desire to help.
I know what
it’s like to go through very dark times. And I know how powerful art can be as
a kind of therapy for those times. It can be a preventative, a remedy and a
cure. I hope my modest offerings reach those for whom they’re meant. I want to
thank you if you were brave enough to share your art with the world.
And with me. Thank you for helping me to heal, to search my soul for courage
and kindness and to keep going. Your art means the world to me. And your
friendship too. I'm here because of you. I hope you know that. I’m the sum of everyone who has ever loved or cared about me. I want to repay those acts of kindness with all my heart. Hopefully you know who you are, and how dearly I cherish you. In a world that feels like it’s spinning
closer and closer to the edge, even these distant connections can mean the difference between life and death. So, I pray you can feel the depth of my affection in these words. I hope you’ll continue journeying with me on this beautiful adventure. Across this endless river. I'll carry you when I can. It
just wouldn’t be the same without you. I have so many new and interesting
things I want to share. And hopefully we can continue to use these forms of creative
expression to take care of ourselves, and each other.
Can you
feel it yet, my friends? I think you can. All about you, in the Choral
of All Songs. Like joy itself is smiling at your shoulder, sharing secrets with
you beneath the blessed river. It’s like a dream, isn’t it? No end and no
beginning. You’re here with me, you know. Wolves, tigers, paliurus stars. So,
let the choir sing. It’s not about sin. It’s about the soul of the thing.
Brotherhood, sisterhood, friendship. Becoming more than we are. I want you to
know that regardless of the ferocity of the storms, we are all survivors
shipwrecked upon the shore of eternity. And we decide the stories we tell. We
decide the lengths we’ll go for love. The Fay, the Warrior, and the Princess. Together.
Our sword-hands can sing in one voice, if we choose. No pirate or wraith can
stand against it. I mean, who doesn’t love a beautiful friendship arc? Mutual
respect and affection, forged through shared adventure? I know I do. So, I’m
not giving up. People still think that magic isn’t real, that we cannot
overcome our differences and walk in sweetest unity. Our hearts full of
gratitude for loving and being loved. Well, never say never. Esme, my dearest fair
one, take them to the Cave of All Dreaming now, and show them what they already
delightedly suspect. We owe the Kathari, after all. We are here in large part
because of grace. It’s not a formality, or an obligation. It’s a celebration of
life. Ring those bells, my love, and sweeten the flowering bloom of our
friends.
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 hÄ“lÃou eklÃpontos. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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