tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52036063481193705652024-03-13T13:10:50.710-07:00Amid Night SunsNeither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.comBlogger332125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-20075783813278921792024-01-29T13:20:00.000-08:002024-01-29T13:20:14.870-08:00The Hellenist<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2UJTvTKggLzhCDU5fAiZt5gvxqm1rP2EEBrjQsN0zrzYfC4sgNJK62bEjgftk5RRjtuAFaKPihsFGqmeivrtImfuHhyuAnhrzOZXFF4mjK5jk4DPq8DNtreCbpqdfBBqqy_0SSHeloKhS_i9NYMzALdk7aa6rNxBTI6PbCWx1aZN5_qCx12qxFbk0E7T/s1290/Winged%20Victory%20of%20Samothrace.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1266" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2UJTvTKggLzhCDU5fAiZt5gvxqm1rP2EEBrjQsN0zrzYfC4sgNJK62bEjgftk5RRjtuAFaKPihsFGqmeivrtImfuHhyuAnhrzOZXFF4mjK5jk4DPq8DNtreCbpqdfBBqqy_0SSHeloKhS_i9NYMzALdk7aa6rNxBTI6PbCWx1aZN5_qCx12qxFbk0E7T/s320/Winged%20Victory%20of%20Samothrace.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Artists dream all the time.
Don't we, Kara? Images and sounds, words and letters. Threads that
connect and ties that bind. We dream of
brighter worlds. I believe that with a
little vision we can transform the very fabric of our experience, crafting
beauty from the ordinary. My seamstress, I
hope now you understand that we are forever linked. I'm not separate from you, nor you from me. And yet we are distinct. We have our own paths and our own journeys. Still, I walk beside you always. Do you remember Ephesus, Kara? Or Antioch? I do, or almost do. I am a dreamer after all. A wounded fantasist. Forgive my protean tongue but I've paid a very high price for
storytelling. I nearly lost both my mind
and my life for daring to inspire the broken-hearted towards hope. A simple scribe, a lowly diarist. As I've said elsewhere in these epistles, “Each
feather of Antioch is a word, in every tongue of Man. Languages both
living and dead.” Because we speak now of the heart, Kara, don't we? We speak in earnest poetry. Transformative fictions and images of truth,
if not the truth itself. You see, many
souls today are utterly exhausted, driven half mad by this darkness. A number of them have lost their lanterns,
concerned now only with mere surfaces. Distractions
dark or fair. Pigment and
provenance. Petty tribalism and the supposed
taboos of miscegenation. But the world
now is just as the world then. First-century
foment. Tarsus, and Tyana. I still recall those shadows. A psychopathy that was so apparent, and
growing. All across the earth. Travesties of State. Division and fear. Treasury-wraiths at odds with the spiritual
lives of common folk. All too often I've
seen it. Another lie on another gilded
tongue. "Believe this or that at
great cost to your soul. Ours is the only way and all else is
heresy." Well, I still speak as a
so-called heretic. A dangerous reformer.
We both do, Kara. Little has changed in these temples and
churches. We are still unwelcome even in
our own houses. It's one of life's
bitter ironies that to even be heard here in this cacophonous abyss one must be
well-versed in polemic and politics. To
raise oneself above the din of a thousand heartless strategists. All clamouring for the wealth of the educated
or the blind faith of the illiterate. Attention
is currency after all. Capture someone's
attention, or better, their imagination, and you are a few small steps from
capturing their very soul. A truly dark soul can rally all manner of cultists to commit the most hideous acts in the name of
God. After all, mercenaries need only
the slightest pretence. A banner to march under. As long as they are paid, either in coin or false
absolution of their sins. There are such men of every culture, every religion. Sadly, this is human history. But these are never the ways of noble
men and women. Souls of true character. We both know that, Kara. I hate to speak of other
dreams, other lives. Because you have to
take it on sheer faith. And I'm only a
distant poet. A stranger. Nobody special. But like so many others
we too fell prey to the ignobility of our supposed leaders. They wanted
to silence our voices and extinguish our dissent. Because we cared about all those who adhered
to a different faith. Our brothers and
sisters everywhere who exalted different stories in their attempts to interpret
and navigate the world. This is the true
war, isn't it? The War of Imagination. Such
contextual agility, such brotherhood and sensitivity of thought; it's the bane of
any genocidal warlord. I still remember
those terrifying seasons on the sand. How they unleashed their brutal
campaigns of centralisation. Unimaginable
violence and deceit. As Rome swallowed
the temples and our tongues, rewriting our histories and changing our names. Mixing fact with forgery. Perverting everything we stood for and calling it Christendom. Such
campaigns are still nothing but the vicious strategies of hollow men. Spiritual wickedness in high places.
Hear me, Fallen. You deceive so boldly
and distort so blithe. Serpents in a
shattered garden. Your blood is
cold. You chose to weaponise each guideline, parable
and article of faith. Masking yourself with
every creed, making a gleeful mockery of everything beautiful. The sons and daughters of Abram are still at war, arguing over grammar and syntax. Shedding blood and spreading hate because someone somewhere believes a slightly different version of the same story. And you still have the gall to call me a
heretic? A pagan sorcerer? How dare you? But nothing you do surprises me anymore. The Children of Ra'Ishka were never a chosen
few. Do you think the true avatars of
the Holy Spirit would forsake the young of any tribe? Even those of your enemies? Do you think a true angel of divine grace
would slaughter innocent children? Are you fucking insane? Yes, I utter profanity sometimes. When it's warranted. Hear me. No messenger of the true Creator would trade
or harm a little one. My Father would
never sanction such a thing. You have been fooled, deceived, manipulated. These
evil angels are not angels at all. They
are but wilderness wraiths. Mere
phantoms. Hungry ghosts. Feeding upon the blood of our brethren. Re-writing the words of greater minds. Shaping and reshaping our texts – our
imaginations – to fit their dark agendas. Look me in the eye and tell me it isn't so. These wraiths stalked Rome, Byzantium, Isfahan
and many others. They still do. But so do I. And so does my brother. Tell me, Fallen;
do you know who my brother is? Do you
even know who you are? Children of
disobedience indeed, but children nonetheless. So degenerate, so gleefully obsessed with your
own nightmare-making. Not artists yet. Not really. Still unfamiliar with dreaming's finer
points. The subtleties and subtext. It hurts me too, Kara. All this chaos and sickness. This lack of courage, or kindness. This is not the world any true scribe would
wish to record. We are not supposed to hate each other like this. But I stand here now in
the omnipresent gaze of my Father, trying to listen. Willing to humble myself if necessary. All we can do is speak our truth with full
elucidation and express our hearts as deeply as possible, even if we are called
heretics by those with darker, deceitful souls.
The faithful and the kind will know us by our works, God willing. There is so much more I could say, my
seamstress. So many stories I could
write. Epistles and epiphanies. But I want to keep things succinct. However, before I finish
I want you to know that I've not lost my humour in all this. Nor my élan. Neither should you. Don't be afraid to laugh. Protect your mirth, your sense of play. Think of it as treasure. An artist needs her joy after all. Especially someone in the full bloom
of creation. Thank you for noticing me,
Kara. And thank you for caring. About all of us. I really do love you, my darling. And as always I wish you well. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_240129_175016_813.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Aiay8I5IPB8?si=jTCG6NYXxyJq85iy" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-19446298344415959962023-12-22T10:23:00.000-08:002023-12-22T11:32:18.400-08:00How Daughters Prosper<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS0b5DmEqx-YCip7AiLC-kCHXB1vVg12mA9yJa5lQ5sgceQg50iMrYsy7Fu2KcMg6eCHb_d0qg-c06yAnozfR75QIle3xFvEyYIZF1QHIq_RPYSrPYNZOLSwzcrqDmgzhyf_zPfjcfQ3dXZ6dUMFLRTzcQidQYAOyQx9e0gt2NzNhiV2pe57yhKrtbu0Z/s900/How%20Daughters%20Prosper.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="869" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS0b5DmEqx-YCip7AiLC-kCHXB1vVg12mA9yJa5lQ5sgceQg50iMrYsy7Fu2KcMg6eCHb_d0qg-c06yAnozfR75QIle3xFvEyYIZF1QHIq_RPYSrPYNZOLSwzcrqDmgzhyf_zPfjcfQ3dXZ6dUMFLRTzcQidQYAOyQx9e0gt2NzNhiV2pe57yhKrtbu0Z/w193-h200/How%20Daughters%20Prosper.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It's a difficult thing, this tempest. This lie of linearity. To be caught in the chaos of cognition, a
storm of sorts, and to still be force-fed this very limited worldview. It can be a frightening contradiction. Our innate wisdom in lockstep with our modern
banality. We're taught so many
incongruous things now. That the seas
have limits. Boundaries. That we do not flow in the ways we once knew. As I've written in these pages before; the
wraith-priests of this realm have cultivated so many terrifying gods of the
sea. Why do you think they did that, so long ago? I’ll tell you.
Because at our essence we are fluid, liquid beings. Charged with sunlight and sentience. Every one of us. Magnetic, electric. We are divine creations composed of water’s
music. Children of the rain, rivers and
sea. This is why our forebears were
slaughtered in the epoch of the First Dreaming.
This is why the Fates were slain and the loom threaded with dark magic. To convince us all that we are not immortal, veteran
dreamers. That this nightmare is real
and relentless. That we are violent,
compassionless entities. This is the image of the new earth, and its angels.
The Altered Sun. The tempest of our colonized minds. Our world, once a beautiful garden of poets, philosophers
and engineers, is now a colossal shipwreck beached upon the shore of eternity. We've lost our place. Our home. But I still remember the way we sang. The communities we built. How our prayers moved mountains. We loved each other once, and we painted the
hills with higher thought. My Mira
taught me that. She reminded me how the
first dreaming still lives on in our hearts. Before our lives became tall tales in the mind
of Man. I am no Duke of Milan. And my life is far more than a piece of tragicomic
fiction. Mira was my first, and she
reminded me of many things. She didn’t have to. She could have fled. She could have taken another name. I gave her my blessing in the end. The war was brutal and esoteric. I wouldn’t begrudge her the solace of
forgetting everything that happened. But
she chose to keep her name. Chose to
keep her sisters close. I still remember
how she told me it wasn't just about us. It was about all those yet to arrive. The unborn. Soon to be plunged into a raging, virulent
world. It was for them that we held on
to our true histories. It was for our
children and our children's children that we remembered our names and our
light. My Evenstar, you were so wise for
one so young. I truly wish you didn’t
have to be. I don't know what else to
say. Perhaps you won't believe a word
of this, Mira. The colourful ravings of
a distant fanatic, imagining himself a sorcerer. And perhaps that's as it should be. But I still watch over my beloved ones. Blinded or not. Blackened by war and buried by distance. I still wish you nothing but peace and good
tidings. Drowned in dream I may be, but I
choose to live my life as if some small piece your heart still remembers
me. Life is sweeter like this, my
darling girl. And the seas far calmer.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br />
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231222_170029_840.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qnnrM_uREg4?si=SOg7uvieZAJUhe2n" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-14033933193055875402023-12-02T03:17:00.000-08:002023-12-03T03:22:22.660-08:00Dancing with Ghosts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RyPup17gGLUPEFBftvPQoOURvbZej2WH3pSgM3lD4NbtSon29X8mGCIiIG-1jDtRYCp5H9j_KYEuaf77egLDL0Fx1HM87D5xDK0PT62a4QaBOKabvkDpzJ-L1-bz9FcjKYfJ6kJcY0EOUvMVDUsaHNO1SS5SENiqAcxKYgxAIwsnySeEEqzpNYgO38MB/s680/Dancing%20with%20Ghosts.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="680" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RyPup17gGLUPEFBftvPQoOURvbZej2WH3pSgM3lD4NbtSon29X8mGCIiIG-1jDtRYCp5H9j_KYEuaf77egLDL0Fx1HM87D5xDK0PT62a4QaBOKabvkDpzJ-L1-bz9FcjKYfJ6kJcY0EOUvMVDUsaHNO1SS5SENiqAcxKYgxAIwsnySeEEqzpNYgO38MB/s320/Dancing%20with%20Ghosts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">People usually think of ghosts as the
wandering spirits of the dead. But
ghosts can be anything really. Memories,
places, distant friends or lost loves. I
often dream of ghosts. Otherworlds of
dancing and light. These dreams help me
to weave a path with words, to give myself a way forward. But not everybody wants to dance with angels
and ghosts. We can be beautiful, but
also strange, unsettling things. I
suppose that’s because we live out of step with linear time and space. But we mean well. Especially the messengers. We want the best for everyone. I know I do. I'm not a conjurer. I’m not interested in sorcery or
possession. I don't want to control
anyone, or demand anything. Just the
thought is horrifying. Because in the
subtler realms things like loyalty and fidelity are sacred. Mutual.
It’s easy for an angel to love more than one person, delighting in the
specificity of each love. But even we
have our favourites. Our secrets. Those souls who lifted our wings and kindled
our hearts. For an angel if love isn't
given freely it's not worth having. This
doesn't mean love shouldn't be earned. Of
course it should. Souls need to know
they are unique and that they truly matter.
There are so many ways to care, to support and invest in someone. We do it all the time when we're at our
best. For our lovers and our friends. For our families. Humanity has cultivated a thousand years and
more of study concerning the art of kindness. War and bloodshed are not the only things
we're good at. We're poets too. Writers, musicians, painters. Our affections are not counterfeit. No matter who we are, where we come from or how
we identify – when we move it's because the spirit moves us. When we dance, the spirit dances with us. In fact, it's this music of the spheres that
has been guiding us all along. When Ka’shayel
dreams he dreams in symbolism and song. A
collage of living light. I've been doing
this for a long, long time and I've witnessed so many wondrous things. Acts of unimaginable heroism. Breath-taking kindness and courage. Staggering works of beauty. I'm still a novice in the context of eternity
but my dreaming is ancient. I’m both
angel and mortal, after all. Often I’m misunderstood
when I claim this celestial title. Some
people think it’s arrogance. Hubris. But it’s not.
I’m no greater or more important than anybody else. I'm just a messenger. That's all. A memory, a ghost, an old friend. Perhaps even a lost love. I try to create things because creation is
beautiful. I try to dance with the people
I care about because my Father commands it so, and really what better way is
there to spend one’s time?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_231202_102224_973.sdocx--><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/890511291?h=338416c3ef" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-12254273422236530972023-09-12T06:52:00.000-07:002023-09-12T06:52:59.190-07:00Aurum Kara<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXH-K2E7c_XExj07Pg-Ij8bA0588YDCuv-OmTymAUIkSb9e0im-S7YzKhDoHrzUEvtIcA7bbrfJAjS4xxdhhEZBwrhWCbrCJheUUBwoED2Fiy_ULiuYOgSPDAOJOAIVpHKFdWn2PVBPAu6p82RCOSuR5pftP3659lX-I_EGPeIHdzpHEYUkDObpZNOfXO/s752/Aurum%20Kara.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="726" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXH-K2E7c_XExj07Pg-Ij8bA0588YDCuv-OmTymAUIkSb9e0im-S7YzKhDoHrzUEvtIcA7bbrfJAjS4xxdhhEZBwrhWCbrCJheUUBwoED2Fiy_ULiuYOgSPDAOJOAIVpHKFdWn2PVBPAu6p82RCOSuR5pftP3659lX-I_EGPeIHdzpHEYUkDObpZNOfXO/s320/Aurum%20Kara.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /> <i style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Dear one, can I share a tall tale of strange
wonder? It’s a secret that concerns us
both, in a way. A missing piece
recovered from our collective depths.
Alone it means very little but I’m hoping it might illuminate a vital
context. There are many who wonder what it
might be like to hold the echoes of words as yet unsaid, or songs as yet
unsung. Future ghosts of unborn fictions. Well, in my time, in my lost world, there was
once a person who was said to be able to do all these things. It was uttered by poets and scribes that she
was a liminal being, in those shining ways before the despoiling of the old
chronologies. Aurum Kara, they called
her. Light of the Myriad. Ishka of Viir. Twin of K’anna. She had many names. The healers called her the old maiden, the night
sun, the ancient child. But she was so
much more than a keeper of lakes and thresholds. She
was revered as one of the first teachers of the hidden way. They say she spoke a thousand tongues and was
honoured in every culture. Science, art
and philosophy. Did you know that, my
beautiful seamstress? That little piece
of our true history? Our lands were once
connected, you know. Before those
wraith-priests shattered our straits and drowned our cartography. The North Way and the place called Albion by
the poets – they were once a single shining realm. Have you ever imagined such a thing, even in
dreams? No matter if not. So much of our true history was stolen,
suppressed, rewritten. But more than
this – the very threads of time and space were altered using the darkest, most
frightening magic. Our oldest texts are
counterfeit. Our fictions truer than
our fact. Nobody believes me,
seamstress. Not anymore. The imaginal has dimmed to a flicker of its
former lucidity. It’s not the temple of inner
sight it once was. These beautiful,
unsuspecting people; they have become utterly entangled in the Fallen’s web of lies.
They believe the temporal inversions that
now pass for history, culture and memory. But you know what hurts me the most, as an adept and a storyteller? The thing that haunts my
every waking moment? It’s the fact that
our most beautiful fables, myths and fairy-tales are but pale shadows of the
glories we once lived in the flesh. A
subtler flesh than this, it's true. But
no less sensate, vivid or real. They
altered our chronologies, seamstress. These
tailors of time and space. These dark occultists.
The holy well is poisoned with the blood
of the innocent. The very heart of the vortex
is blasphemed, made profane with unimaginable human suffering. Many of the women still sense this, and some
of the men. All across the realm. Some of them still grieve it in their souls.
The Ra’ishka could look both ways, they said. Forwards and backwards through the mists of
what men call causality. Here, in this
ancient stellarium of stone, of oak, birch and pine, she was honoured. But the bright ones told me that Aurum Kara prophesied
her own fall, that she spoke of future legends. Stories built on the co-mingling of sex and
death. The darkening of our druidry. The blackening of her hair and the
reddening of her lips. Birth of the
witch queen, the sinister sorceress. Wrath of the lake. Shadow of the pearl. You know all about these stories, dear one. Everybody does. But I’ve seen true horror. Beyond the myths of Mar’kanna or the killings
of Kiskuh. I witnessed an endless
despair. Something I carried in my heart
for almost a thousand years. Oh, my Ishkara.
My sister of the unsaid. I wish I could show you the truth. What happened during the seething hush, when
the cities began to fold and the spiritual darkness began to spread. But it’s not really something that should ever
be seen. Midnight of the Day, I call
it. I lost everyone I loved that
day. My entire family. They drove a spear through her back, you
know. A sword, some say. They impaled
her. Pinning her to solstice earth within a blessed ring. Stones and branch, holding the eternal sea. She was with child at the time. Hunched over, one arm reaching desperately at
her back, fingers curled around the killing blade. The awful recognition in her eyes. Both lives lost in a matter of moments. Yeah, I know a few things about grief, and war. Petrification. Vitrification. A thing of stone and glass she became. It was a mockery, you see. Of the entire shining realm. Those lands of light and places of
peace. Not simply a boy and a ghost and
a gate of Lud. There was far more than
just dragon's silver hidden within the stone shaft of Powles Crosse. There was
a dark magic concealing blacker magic still. A way to usurp the throne of songs. “Whosoever pulls this spear from stone...” Well, let's just say that I wept for centuries. I still have terrifying nightmares on
ocassion. And I scatter them freely
amidst all the secret societies of the earth. I want the Fallen to feel a little of what I
feel. Echoes as yet unsaid, dark songs
as yet unsung, moving back and forth through Man's notion of time. Syrian parlour tricks, I suppose. Somerset dreaming. A different kind of lucidity among the Fay. It’s still 1194 to so many of us. Even the unsuspecting. Magicians and medieval kings. Grails and gallants. This is my tall tale, seamstress. My exercise in linguistic nihilism. They say none of it is true. Is that who I am now? A fallen angel, a bizarre catastrophist
screaming to the heavens about the abhorrent sophistry of these dark ones? Weeping over their deviant spell-craft and
malevolent technologies. Better to be a
failed artist, I suspect. A nightmare
poet. It seems far less heart-breaking. They say the haunted stone shattered as the boy drew
the sword. They were not wrong. I cannot quell my rage but I’ve tried to make
amends for that failure. My inability to
protect the people I loved. I suppose
maturity is knowing that you can’t always get what you want. But sometimes you can. There is an incalculable fury within me
now. I will make them pay for what they’ve
done, in my own terrifying way. Just
know that we’re winning, seamstress.
Despite the lies they try to sell you.
This place is not yet a desolate ruin.
There is still music here, community and family. Pages and pages of glorious fiction. The light of love is winning. You remind me of her, so much. You even have her eyes, and some of her
secrets. She was a teacher to me
once. A lover and a friend. I am still so very fond of her flitting hands
and sacred gold. Hear me now,
Fallen. I do not abide this slavery or corruption. Your red gates will be
closing soon. They are my gates now. You still think art means nothing, does nothing, despite your rudimentary initiation. You were never the magus. Just a heartless clown begging for signs and
wonders at my feet. Murder my loves and
steal my songs? Oh, my swordhand will sing. I’ll take your fucking hellscape apart piece by piece. It's already begun. My words can change things. Language of the birds, upon M'ithriin tongue. Don't you remember who I am? The king is
dead, they say. Long live the king. </span></i></p><p></p>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230911_174752_195.sdocx--><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tZZ3u7sLbIA?si=T-H8vGYljP_qM4Gs" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-60761201450346469622023-09-08T13:17:00.000-07:002023-09-08T13:17:18.004-07:00Amongst the Stars<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7AIEMXS1-ojQ7Kt1iFekCnjWmcaWOjH7X3RvjhKuSWiGj52-3NEowZ0lUJdHui_L4izUAjiTF7ujtjrIufaQd7zbGQdYTD31A6gihpHlparWD9-Sf4-mfEd0Yw632NZ1WZsJhZ2SBuY-p-4pJBM1P36nBnLQG5MLvE8GifXvVtpuXWsHlYO4mOCs6hRPj/s600/Mariah%20Tato.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="600" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7AIEMXS1-ojQ7Kt1iFekCnjWmcaWOjH7X3RvjhKuSWiGj52-3NEowZ0lUJdHui_L4izUAjiTF7ujtjrIufaQd7zbGQdYTD31A6gihpHlparWD9-Sf4-mfEd0Yw632NZ1WZsJhZ2SBuY-p-4pJBM1P36nBnLQG5MLvE8GifXvVtpuXWsHlYO4mOCs6hRPj/s320/Mariah%20Tato.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">For over a thousand years I’ve seen
so many souls chart their own course and choose their own path. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've seen them literally build the road
beneath their feet with gravel, wine and hope. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet I've also seen many things written in
the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things that were meant to
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now I don’t fully understand
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strange, seemingly paradoxical
kinship between fate and free will. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suppose maturity is knowing that you can't always get what you want. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Need isn't always desire. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And service isn't always glamorous or
cinematic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet I've been privy to
friendships and love-stories far grander than anything witnessed on the silver
screen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it's a matter of imagination
in the end, and investment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does the
heart sing? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What truly delights our
beloved, and when best to delight them? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
are the mysteries of attraction, after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because love isn't just empathy, affection or knowledge, but sustained
and deep attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've seen that too,
well into a couple's golden years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Staying present and playful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turning up for each other even when it’s
difficult. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Choosing to keep the flame
alive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it's so much more than this,
isn't it? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stripped to its essence love
isn't even about getting who or what we want. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it's about uplifting the object of our
affection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, if they’re willing, letting
them know we truly care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ensuring they
are able to live the richest, most rewarding life possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We bless our loved ones if we're wise,
enabling them as best we can on the path they choose for themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But dreams also have a wondrous part to play
in love, and that's what excites me as an angel and a psychic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dreams and stories show us what's possible,
what's admirable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They help us understand
the depths of our romance and connection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love can thrive in a dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps not the tactile, physical love we
usually imagine, but no less intimate for the distance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Souls kissing souls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hearts passing secret sweetness back and
forth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've seen it happen, and I've
been lucky enough to experience it myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kindness and affection of any sort is a
glorious thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the very basis of
honour and integrity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you love
someone don't bind them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don't try to trap
them in your own particular idea of love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grant them their autonomy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let them choose and fly freely. If they
feel anything for you in return they will find some way to let you know. Something
grand, or something quiet and subtle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But it will be real, and you’ll cherish it evermore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All stories are love-stories in the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How we grow, thrive and change. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people we meet and the stars we rewrite
along the way.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /><iframe src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/862519798?h=44fd38fe69" width="640" height="360" frameborder="0" allow="autoplay; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<p><a href="https://vimeo.com/862519798">Amongst the Stars</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user8713229">Raj Sisodia</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-91218075356085868272023-08-29T14:27:00.000-07:002023-08-29T14:27:04.975-07:00Creatrix<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEeqqNsDvF4B3roDSuYItzVfig7rGutAQzucikba1LUGNHreq7ZS_diJ8zZY_C6IgfnM031eozcpOfsmb9Io5DoX4ercUdq3coTbV1gmDRVgD_A3RU555BJWFU54TbhKhgu37ry87L-OuNVbwwaDVXKqo3dA-1L2dZrZnfsb-MqkDTci0vpQ4sm592fJK/s1094/Creatrix.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="1080" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEeqqNsDvF4B3roDSuYItzVfig7rGutAQzucikba1LUGNHreq7ZS_diJ8zZY_C6IgfnM031eozcpOfsmb9Io5DoX4ercUdq3coTbV1gmDRVgD_A3RU555BJWFU54TbhKhgu37ry87L-OuNVbwwaDVXKqo3dA-1L2dZrZnfsb-MqkDTci0vpQ4sm592fJK/w198-h200/Creatrix.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m not the devil, but I am indeed an
angel of light. They say an angel loses
all his lovers in the end, but maybe that's not necessarily a bad thing. There’s a difference between a lover and a
partner, isn’t there? I don’t mind
growing up a bit, if I must. Besides,
I'm far more than just a lover. I'm an
artist, I would hope. A tailor, an
entertainer. Just like my soul-sister. My anima also knows a thing or two about
collage. My weaving imagination. We even share a name, in a way. The word Kashi means ‘bright’ and ‘beloved’. Shining one.
Never let it be said that I was opposed to wry self-reflection,
light-heartedness or fun. A spirit has
to be quite lost in darkness to turn its back on joy or humour. I may dress like a bad guy on occasion, but make
no mistake. I stand firmly on the side
of the good. I do like to shake things
up a little though. I just can't help
myself. I've always had a playful, mischievous
streak, even on the other side. Don't be
offended, or take it too seriously. Thinkers
think and creators create. I'm sovereign,
and somewhat immortal. Having said that
I never really walk alone. I was
inspired to some of my best work by my sister the soul. If you're going to learn, always wise to learn
from the best. I'm still working on my
slipstitch, but I think it's coming along nicely. Time is money, they say. Well, wings are weapons. Creation is the entire world. Life isn't just a moment between birth and
death – life is everything, and everyone. It requires our utmost respect and devotion. Take it from a penitent angel. Laughter is the easiest way to recognise the
unimaginable grace that is our ability to create. Making you truly smile is no mean feat, dear
one, but I'm always up for the challenge.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p></span>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230829_205823_864.sdocx--><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/859120944?h=6736fa2bb1" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-30050360927320277642023-08-22T11:53:00.000-07:002023-08-22T11:53:06.076-07:00Kiss the Girls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHF_9eAReSvDEzCHyxFzPP3eZOYlC-cdzK3bQiXEtpx9czxQt7yMhmZwDh_7NcyBMoeCFWZdTZnyL3NTMojzJX3cBEf4xP8V8rLCr0Zn9IwifSH-pud_Wvc8RlAkUNuRtoEbxFdsguLFk28cOQfJTSe733hfHuyxhMZH4zL3i00dc0Bcl8MDZucBbDYgfw/s1920/Kiss%20the%20Girls.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHF_9eAReSvDEzCHyxFzPP3eZOYlC-cdzK3bQiXEtpx9czxQt7yMhmZwDh_7NcyBMoeCFWZdTZnyL3NTMojzJX3cBEf4xP8V8rLCr0Zn9IwifSH-pud_Wvc8RlAkUNuRtoEbxFdsguLFk28cOQfJTSe733hfHuyxhMZH4zL3i00dc0Bcl8MDZucBbDYgfw/s320/Kiss%20the%20Girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It
used to be so different, you know. There
was a time when I was afraid to love. Scared to care too deeply or get too close. That's the thing about truly loving someone. The vulnerability. It leaves you open. You grant that person the power to heal you like
an angel, or destroy you like a demon. And
often we're not even decimated by our beloved’s ill intentions but by their
misjudgement, their foolish pride or lack of insight. Or our own.
Self-knowledge isn't just a purely personal endeavour. It can save relationships too. Empathy, patience and understanding are so
much easier when we grasp the broad spectrum of our own complexities. I never wanted to run from love, in this world
or any other. But my anguish seemed to
stretch far beyond the mortal world and into the hidden, spiritual realms. This isn’t the only world. Magic is real, my friends. There are realms of higher thought unknown to
us, incredible dimensions beyond our understanding. Our mystics and spiritual leaders have been
telling us this for as long as we’ve been able to dream or imagine. All our religions are based upon this
knowledge. As William Blake tells us in “Auguries
of Innocence<i>”: 'To see a World in a Grain
of Sand, And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour'</i>. I suppose
what I'm trying to say is I'm a diehard romantic, despite often wishing
otherwise, and I don't really believe in coincidence. I've seen too much. Read too many minds, felt the secrets in too
many hearts. I know first-hand that
there's a higher order of things. Some
divine plan of unfathomable splendour intended by our Maker. I know that sounds trite and hollow to anyone
who has suffered, or is still suffering. All I can say in my defence is I'd be a fool
to deny my own experiences. All the
impossible things I've witnessed. The
miracles I've been privy to for whatever reason. All I want is to give back some of that magic,
and to create art. I want to share this inspiration
and light with those who need it. In
other words, I don't want to be afraid to love.
I’d like to be brave enough to thank all the women who have cared for
me, quickened me and seen me for who I really am. I hope I've done the same for you. I’d be nothing without your affection. I believe we are what we love. The sum total of the energies kindled by those
we care for. Those who care for us too and
honour our spirits. This is what a kiss
really is, I think. Beyond temptation or
lust. A kiss is one of the most hallowed
forms of intimacy. Connection,
well-wishing and kindness. These things are sacred even when relationships end.
You don’t need me to tell you that. I want to say this in earnest to all the women I've
shared something real with. There were times in my life when I was
literally saved by a kiss. Rejuvenated,
restored. Redeemed. Thank you, my beautiful friends, for letting
yourselves be vulnerable in that way. I
hold it delicately and with great devotion. Thank you for letting yourselves
feel something for me. It's because of
you that I'm not afraid anymore. To go
forward, to be better. To love and be loved in return.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230822_181026_970.sdocx--><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/856832104?h=ffc1613d2b" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-71378603038665556292023-07-10T17:37:00.000-07:002023-07-10T17:37:20.725-07:00Reaching the Reign<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTj2RyuP3950TfBTVDq_6_LwfzLIDhtARn6bosZ6CFXxCKewPztZfApgR2_OOBmxLqJcnd7mCcmeAEtwaj9SKLiYZbnL5iQOzGdADIgBfH2Wp8937kqSRFMdQKWlaSOFmQlpTbdIFNxwx66gJIYO_mt36JBUTlshBXON_DTh7LZku8JeNnFLFf7FXc1D/s1048/Reaching%20the%20Reign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTj2RyuP3950TfBTVDq_6_LwfzLIDhtARn6bosZ6CFXxCKewPztZfApgR2_OOBmxLqJcnd7mCcmeAEtwaj9SKLiYZbnL5iQOzGdADIgBfH2Wp8937kqSRFMdQKWlaSOFmQlpTbdIFNxwx66gJIYO_mt36JBUTlshBXON_DTh7LZku8JeNnFLFf7FXc1D/s320/Reaching%20the%20Reign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Space and time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History or legend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes we forget who we are. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We forget the magic threaded through our souls
like stars in the night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't want that
to ever happen to you, Kara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I
recall a time before this place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fragments
of pre-existence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gardens, fields and
cities that shimmer like something from the most wonderful dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember river-flowers, devotion and
grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shadows couldn't prise away
those pieces. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They guide me even now,
like lanterns for the lost. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I don’t
overcomplicate things with all these stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I want nothing more than to see my friends at their best. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopeful and full of purpose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to see that satisfaction in their eyes;
those moments when they realise they are part of a far greater reality. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There aren't too many tales where a mortal
saves the life of an angel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you did
that for me, Kara. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With kindness and
courage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You saved Kashayel's life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You became my angel in turn and answered a
question I'd kept in my heart since I was a boy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A floating light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wandering star. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've said this before but it's the truth, my
friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my grief was far too great
and my demons all too real, you stepped in like an angel at my window and saved
me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You sang me to sleep every night, nursing
me back to health. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You made me recall the
depth and glory of our Father's love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
font of many blessings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually you
gifted me the strength to fight back against the darkness and find my feet
again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For that I shall be forever in
your debt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm flesh and blood like you,
of course, but I'm also full of secrets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I sense the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I can read hearts and minds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not always, but when it happens I always try
to leave a soul's secrets intact. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's
the honest, gentlemanly way to behave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's
the thing about real power. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don't
always do something just because you can. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a piece of music, or any work of art,
there is great beauty in restraint. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hope you know how very real these words are and how much you mean to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you're ever in doubt that your music can
change things or save people, just remember me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I owe my continued existence to a handful of
wonderful souls, both near and far. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
it is with the deepest gratitude that I count you among them, Kara. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no laurels to offer you in return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have crowns of light, poems and
visions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consider them mere tokens of
Midnight's grace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In truth they are
aspects of your legacy here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your love,
beauty and integrity reflected back at you through the imagination of an angel.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together we shall honour the reign of our
maker and leave a little light for those who need it most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never forget who you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gifted musician. A student and teacher. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A storyteller and a poet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me you're so much more than a river-flower
from a shining realm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than a
beautiful girl I once met in another life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me you're legendary, and a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love you, Kara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be well.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p></div><script src="https://player.vimeo.com/api/player.js"></script><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/838138230?h=1b5938e832" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-9585689429315075052023-06-28T06:58:00.000-07:002023-06-28T06:58:39.706-07:00The Angel's Lament<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKl7dvciYzpD96Zq4rlRXlb2TjKOkPGl8X9SUXjm3r2UZBxrXMz10s7XTs2IZvzdrbuB4WnpPy-94EyalJzR7SKCLt628ItJXGGkNjJRIgDuvxLRy3tZOUh-pNPUoSnLrNxoOax4E3YDva_YF7vAJMX7S2AfzCtEfBfulPiEssqZPXc54u9m_G1ApyOm3_/s1200/The%20Angel's%20Lament.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="892" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKl7dvciYzpD96Zq4rlRXlb2TjKOkPGl8X9SUXjm3r2UZBxrXMz10s7XTs2IZvzdrbuB4WnpPy-94EyalJzR7SKCLt628ItJXGGkNjJRIgDuvxLRy3tZOUh-pNPUoSnLrNxoOax4E3YDva_YF7vAJMX7S2AfzCtEfBfulPiEssqZPXc54u9m_G1ApyOm3_/s320/The%20Angel's%20Lament.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Mortals say it's foolish to love like
this, to keep hoping in vain, especially after all this time. And maybe they're right. But they weren't there. We were. What later became legend was once lived
experience. Not only for ourselves but
for so many of our kind. A feather upon
the throat or a galaxy swirling in the palm of my brother's hand. Either way, I know what sorrow is. If I'm honest it's more sadness than betrayal
that I feel. Though I was betrayed in
every way a sibling can be. Hear me,
Amas. Sometimes paths are laid for a
reason. Pillars of love and trellises
gilded with alchemical gold. Sometimes
the gardens are planted for you and all one has to do is trust. But trust is a difficult thing when a soul
believes it deserves more than its portion. Isn’t it?
Silver cities, cathedrals of light, infinity enough for everyone. It was something you could never understand. Shadow of the sword, they called you. Akin, Lament. But tell me, who the fuck are you to suppose
you can grasp the full splendour of the myriad? Our Father's design. Yes, I’m angry. Why wouldn’t I be? These mortals know only portions of the play.
We both know the truth of why you left
me screaming. Why you left me mad. Deranged,
grief-stricken. Haunted. A third of the angels, dear one? Are you indeed divisible by three, my once
beautiful keeper of songs? Verse, bridge
and refrain. Are they not movements of the
same majesty? The same trinity? A feathered lantern. A stolen kiss. Micah misses you, my love. Despite the blood on his hands. Perhaps that makes him a fool. An even greater fool in the eyes of your
acolytes, supposing I’ve learned nothing since the storm. Irredeemable.
Irreplaceable. I threatened you
with dissolution and you begged me for it.
I threatened you with exile and you welcomed it. I honoured you with my most terrifying secret,
as brothers sometimes do, and you turned away from it. Leaving me unknown and unacknowledged. Like I was nothing. So, all I have left is love. How human of me. Don't you understand? I’m a dragon, Samael. I already made eternal this heartbreak. I murdered my brother on the day he was born, and
he can barely even grasp what I've done. And what I will do again at the end of everything.
You left me bereft, my love. You made me a monster. What else is there to say? Enjoy your kingdom of shit. I have nothing left to threaten you with
except hope.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230628_140744_276.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Obu_Jw6ABVg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-13394804236212671962023-06-14T18:34:00.001-07:002023-06-14T18:42:58.359-07:00A Thousand Years<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeaOA6plGfSeOtCAra1swY20-LsfQFBrL8A3iw4vMz64VDzCJ4KMBACCvVMWsdGqMKl8SieHGQftam-V6b0KXXC88hghXt5e2sYHSTNjz_whXemHUKUWVDv3fnnkhiGX9_OfIMAQbyB8jhFU8t3ERH_yOMQhJVQtxil2U0Pjcrxz2ERSuUDevvazDcoQ/s1280/A%20Thousand%20Years.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeaOA6plGfSeOtCAra1swY20-LsfQFBrL8A3iw4vMz64VDzCJ4KMBACCvVMWsdGqMKl8SieHGQftam-V6b0KXXC88hghXt5e2sYHSTNjz_whXemHUKUWVDv3fnnkhiGX9_OfIMAQbyB8jhFU8t3ERH_yOMQhJVQtxil2U0Pjcrxz2ERSuUDevvazDcoQ/w200-h200/A%20Thousand%20Years.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Shadows for millennia. Imagine it.
A thousand years of broken magic and altered chronologies. False histories. I know what that’s like. I’m a storyteller after all, and once a
refugee. Sometimes when you're lost or
homeless you try to make a mark in any way you can. Reminding yourself that you really do exist, praying
for a miracle, imbuing your apparently futile actions with an imagined mystical
significance. Desperately hoping that
you're connected to something greater, in ways you cannot see or understand. I was no different than any refugee, Esme. A very lonely boy trying to hold on to what
was left of his culture, imagining himself strange and enchanted. A thing of ghosts and trees like the girl
from his dreams. Like the colours that
folded and danced through the polar evening skies. As if such imagining would get me through
those terrifying nights. And it worked,
in a way. I had no real idea what I'd lost. Not at first.
Yet I felt it. Deeply,
agonisingly. It put me at odds with
friends and family. And with those brazen
occultists of bleakest vision. The boy
who saw. The boy who knew. Kind but wounded, naive yet insightful. Prophet, they called me. Acolyte. Destroyer. Really I wasn't any of those things. Occultists do love their drama, don't they?
Their hyperbole. I was just an artist
beginning his craft, that's all. Someone
who could sense the hidden threads between us all. Someone who could gather and tease such
threads in a number of ways. The fallen
ones can call that magic if they want. Maybe
it is. I prefer to think of it as a side
effect of a full and open heart. You
see, I knew I'd loved someone and that I was still reeling from the loss of
that love. But more than that, I knew
there had been a war. A strange and
terrifying war. I knew that I'd lost her in such an awful, unjust way. I'd been a husband once, and a father. A teacher and a keeper of pages. More than anything I wanted to meet her
again. To speak our secret names once
more. To make her smile, to craft poems
and prose in her honour. It might sound
saccharine to someone who knows nothing of the higher realms. Those valleys and cathedrals of light. But to a traveller such love-letters make all
the sense in the world. I didn't think
I'd get to see her again, Esme. But more
than this, I never imagined that she would arrive dressed just as I remembered
her. The same eyes, the same smile. The same melody and mischief. My darling, the moment I saw you I knew. I knew it my bones, Esme. I'd never been more certain of anything in my
life. The moment I heard your voice I
thought, "How on earth is this possible? How is she here in waking life? The shining star of my youth. Have I imagined with such depth and ferocity
that I've actually breached the veil between waking and dream?" I know I can be very intense sometimes. These words and visions of mine. Sometimes I would worry that I was just too
much; that you would have no way to orient yourself amid my onslaught of
imagery. But now I realise we share a
common work ethic. You are almost always
on your path and working towards a project of sorts. I'm the same, Esme. I can't sit still when there are adventures to
be had and wonders to experience. I hope
I've been able to share some of that with you, my love. All talk of angels and secret names aside; I
just want you to know as plainly as possible how much you mean to me. You're told this all the time now by beautiful
souls who are nothing but sincere. You've
touched them, empowered them. Gifted
them with meaning and strength. I'm no
different. Just a lost boy guided
by your heart. A child of the wraith-haunted
demimonde staving off despair with poetry and half-remembered visions. I've been here a long, long time. But I have a light with me, sweet one. Your light. I was lost for what seemed an eternity and so
I diligently prayed. Eventually I was
granted a sacred connection. The
recovery of something I'd lost long ago. And to this day it still feels like an
absolute miracle. Esme, hear me. You have helped me make a mark in this
world. Amidst a millennium of
darkness. You're helping me to help them
in a number of ways. The vulnerable and
voiceless. I'm so grateful for your
integrity and your valour. I will always
try to honour you on this day. It might
seem bizarre to those who don't know me. After all, we're nothing more than strangers. But you know full well that we're far more
than that. Don’t you? Sometimes it feels like we’ve lived a
thousand lives together. I'll continue
to keep my distance and honour our promise but I'm not really a stranger, my
shining one. I'm one of your oldest,
dearest friends. Beyond space or time. And I love you very, very much.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p><br /></p><script src="https://player.vimeo.com/api/player.js"></script><iframe allow="autoplay; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/834590321?h=efdd82bad6" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-52178631905585435602023-05-28T18:04:00.001-07:002023-05-29T03:32:17.660-07:00A Silent Song<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-FX7b16t-LqzLCAHTW-CnY9Hg6Hz6333NK39nftqyGV57Am8gC2JtWcGVvIKveAAQ2t6y4fNIB3OnqQ_2UDr2FzupEMcJSQb6EdshAls25rJ9vGd-eKkeT9eKOXIb3dfaO6A5eUicDoO6M__GTToGNzcfNk8yAfBQaGoVvPGfvze3n4Qab5E-MJc4w/s1600/A%20Silent%20Song.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-FX7b16t-LqzLCAHTW-CnY9Hg6Hz6333NK39nftqyGV57Am8gC2JtWcGVvIKveAAQ2t6y4fNIB3OnqQ_2UDr2FzupEMcJSQb6EdshAls25rJ9vGd-eKkeT9eKOXIb3dfaO6A5eUicDoO6M__GTToGNzcfNk8yAfBQaGoVvPGfvze3n4Qab5E-MJc4w/s320/A%20Silent%20Song.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It's a strange thing, singing in
silence. Throwing voices. Talking through the whispers of others. It’s strange but it affords many graces. A kind of contextual luminosity. The bright ones gather just beyond the edge of
ordinary sight and if the heart's intention is noble they exalt this quiet
communication. I’ve felt them before,
sometimes even glimpsed them clothed in dream, lullaby or a warm, playful
smile. They take this lateral speech,
this tongue without words, and lift it to a higher, more expansive realm. It is they who make poetry of our prose, delighting
our inner ear with some insight or turn of phrase. I've spent a long time doing this, always
silently. Living with and through
subtext of all kinds. It's how some of
my greatest magic was wove. Their magic
really. I act only as a channel, I
suppose, or a medium. But I've made some
beautiful friends this way. And those I
hope to soon befriend if they feel a kinship. Can friendships truly exist without ordinary
speech or shared experiences? How genuine can such a connection be if it's formed
entirely of glimpses, imaginings and dreams? Well, some of the people I love most in all
the world are still connected to me in this way. And I to them. I treasure those connections with all my
heart. Sometimes a gossamer thread of
silent conversation is all that connects you to an old friend, or a lost love. None of this happens by chance, you know. There
is a plan, divine in its majesty, where souls who once loved and laughed
together return to do so again. Missionaries,
nurses and teachers. Artists and
explorers. I've known a few. I still know many of them in this quiet way,
scattered about the realm. Threading
music and light like jewels on a through line.
Isn't that the very rhythm of creation though? Breath and death and life itself? Moving apart only for the glory and thrill of
coming together again. Ebb and flow,
lead and follow – the many turns of a sacred dance almost beyond mortal
imagining. I say almost because mortals
are so imaginative. We grasp so much,
despite our doubts. Every heart that
touches ours in some unique and lasting way – we knew them once. Some measure of genuine love and camaraderie
was shared between both. And we shall
know them again. Sometimes briefly, or
for a lifetime. In this world or the next. This is truth I speak, my friends. This is our Father's grace, made manifest even
here in this harsh realm of polarities and frozen light. Whether lifelong allies or ships passing in
the night, our Father never denies us an encounter with an old friend. Hear me now, beloved ones. Think of the kindest stranger you ever met,
or that brief encounter with someone you were certain you had known before. The heart has such wisdom. It connects affection to affection despite all
odds. Across space. Beyond time. It’s our passport to eternity. I miss my friends dearly, gifted and cursed as
I am with the burden of recognition, but I'm so glad to be among them once
again. Even at a distance. They’ve taught me courage and kindness,
composition and scale. But more than
this they’ve shown me wonders. I once
asked my Father if it was hubris, this desire for awe. This craving for magic, mystery and endless
unfolding revelation. He chided me with
the sweetest, most gentle touch. And
then he stirred a song in my centre. A giddy
sparkle at first, then a rousing flame. A
mutual delight. Birthed within me was an
ever-deepening joy. My recognition of
this holy mystery ebbs and flows, of course, but it never leaves me
entirely. Even in my loneliness I’m
grateful. It might seem a difficult
thing to understand and yet I’m sure you’ve experienced some of this too. I think we all have. Those of us with faith, empathy or a delight
in creative expression. It reminds us
when we’re lonely, doesn’t it? It heals
us when we’re hurt. Quietly, silently,
like a hidden song. We were never
without faith, my friends, even in our darkest and bleakest moments. We just called it by other names.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gUzvvG0bC1U" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-82662612172321384512023-05-24T06:14:00.002-07:002023-05-24T06:26:24.745-07:00Left of Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7e1g2Jmqvwi27PkOe1VDoEkLOiCbEglVoJTRxss6H9tDueV5XQCB6v56RSYqsn2dGP6gjjdR00E-8hYRRwJZ0w47vQVjBjTFe-bzOWv7GC0ZGX2dOymVsRrSMTI9sFmArNtZkpzgi94SZkDXSYHEct7maT2APEq1rq1MW8GsRGHOaZucxdxWUJpn3w/s608/Left%20of%20Love.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="608" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7e1g2Jmqvwi27PkOe1VDoEkLOiCbEglVoJTRxss6H9tDueV5XQCB6v56RSYqsn2dGP6gjjdR00E-8hYRRwJZ0w47vQVjBjTFe-bzOWv7GC0ZGX2dOymVsRrSMTI9sFmArNtZkpzgi94SZkDXSYHEct7maT2APEq1rq1MW8GsRGHOaZucxdxWUJpn3w/s320/Left%20of%20Love.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Bleeding the moon, enslaving the
anima. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chains upon the wrists, ankles
and throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this where interplay was
first imagined?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black holding white,
holding dark?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A half-remembered atrocity
perhaps, recast now as axiomatic, enthroned as some ancient creation myth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end all goddesses become black, then
white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But is she more than this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we indeed all more than this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps we are liminal Victorian ghosts, pregnant
with fatal knowledge of our own deaths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
thought long about this mirror in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The way it shines, or bleeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
way it hangs upon the night like an eye, or an overseer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, writers, I commend the urge if not the
truth of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I respect the poetry if
not the prose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Genocides are so often recast
as heroic quests for freedom or sovereignty, depending on who commands the
pages and the scribes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I understand
the desire to make demons of our doubts and legends of our loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We still want to believe in heroes and
gallant knights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a beautiful aspect
of the human spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That urge in both
men and women to save the princess, to protect that which yearns and deserves
to be protected by her beloved. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t
that so many of us, angels and mortals alike?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is still a place for softness, gentleness and empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It has always been a favourite of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Waterhouse’s painting of Lady Shalott, drifting down the river to her
death, a crucifix and lantern at the prow, desperate to keep the light of her
beloved in her breast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though he knows
her not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unrequited or lost love, it’s
still about pain – the profound ache in the soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the Magdalena facing Christ on the
cross, knowing with full agony that her love is leaving. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the oldest lament in the world, isn’t
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least to an angel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My love is leaving, or, my love does not love
me in return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this what turns black
to white, and white to red?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I think
perhaps violence against this holy muse, this imagined femininity, is what
streaks blood across snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Red crosses
upon white robes, drops of blood upon an unwritten page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What happens when you slit the throat of
primordial light, when you turn hierophant into whore? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Templefell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Dark churches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A frosty morning
well aware that violence and injustice is coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am here, she cries, and my heart is
broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elaine of Astolat will merely
fade from view in death, joining again the primordial light in the trees and
the river, in the birdsong and the rustle of leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Maria will become something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Albigensian caution, a wandering Victorian
wraith, as dark forces marshal by turns to deny her and to commit gleeful
atrocities upon her dreamflesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
sickens me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does she know? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can she sense it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did she look to that dead star in the sky and
wonder why she was now drenched in her own desecrated life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poet’s moon, they say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The key of souls and tides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did nobody protect her when she walked
those gas-lit nineteenth century streets?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cobbled stones and alleyways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where
was her never-met truly beloved?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only
monsters came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vampires and folding
cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me, I should know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell prey to them too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I said, chains upon the wrists, ankles and
throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t be deceived, dear
ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was not simply then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yeru-shalem is right here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fallen place of peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassiel is all our
imagining, not mine alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alchemy and
gold and oblique saturnine mockeries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
I want you to know that within the heart of the rose there is purity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truth, warmth and hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ashash’el, known for her fury, has a deep
sadness in her core, a howling cry for cognizance from her beloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Play with me, she yearns, tease and dance
with me, but understand and be kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly
but conversely in the fair one, within Elen, there is a restlessness of great
power hidden beneath the sweetness and the calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold me gently in your heart, she asks, but
take me with all your passion if such vigour be noble and true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this way the sisters share a shadow, and a
light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They weave as one, quilting and
stitching the infinite fibres of imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is this where interplay was first dramatized?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black holding white, holding dark?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Switching skins and eyes and souls?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever the case, I pray always for mutual affection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pray that we’re more than mere atrocities
in some ancient war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to believe
that a spirit of genuine union still counts for something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We exalted each other once, didn’t we?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We kissed, danced and teased, and found
ourselves in each other’s eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we
were so glad of the embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me,
sisters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The colour of our kindness,
our passion and blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me how to
save what’s left of my love.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N_rDn5C6Qbc" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-6520431933262050542023-05-15T16:29:00.001-07:002023-05-15T16:29:55.231-07:00A Diamond in the Flesh<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBV8tvzZcNJNrLUgc7HMmjov8QTtq1tv8KqvX4uHkhus64cy_hJOhXRE8RtdzframMmQmr8PuRZ89c3xZonJoE2bjW9WsJMpwBz1hnV8QTsBTazAg292U3tVlbKyChnViPHria-hUY_ia33QVfxKnULZ-FpL4uwQ4SSEeBeh_R6UCd8FP-au3SKdoyQ/s850/A%20Diamond%20in%20the%20Flesh.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="850" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBV8tvzZcNJNrLUgc7HMmjov8QTtq1tv8KqvX4uHkhus64cy_hJOhXRE8RtdzframMmQmr8PuRZ89c3xZonJoE2bjW9WsJMpwBz1hnV8QTsBTazAg292U3tVlbKyChnViPHria-hUY_ia33QVfxKnULZ-FpL4uwQ4SSEeBeh_R6UCd8FP-au3SKdoyQ/s320/A%20Diamond%20in%20the%20Flesh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Familiarity breeds contempt, they
say. Even among princes and kings. It's a pity. I really did care, you know. But nobody can say I was a populist, back
when I burned the world. The earth of
your imagination, Fallen. Scorched to
cinders and ash. A thousand years ago, I
think. Or yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows?
Time is such a sly, mercurial thing. Still, it wasn't a hateful act. Such fire of the hearth was not a choice I
made lightly. Some of the most
terrifying decisions ever are made in the name of love, aren't they? Some misguided attempt at protection or
immortality. Making our beloved ones sacred
somehow. Transcendent. These things still hold true for wraiths and
darker shades. After all, who is left to
haunt – if not the hearts of those we once loved in some lost golden age? Ghosts are nothing without context or lore. But legacy isn't just family, or tomes in a
library. A true haunting is like mist. There and not there. Half-imagined whispers like glimmers on the
edges of a quartz, shaped by the minds of men. As I've said before, I care little for these
imposter thrones. These callow and violent
lies of succession. The new, altered
world. Perhaps one day soon I'll tell
you the nuances of a real king and queen. Brythonic, Saxon, Norman. And all else besides. Maybe soon I'll tell you
Jennifer's real name. Oh, savage ones. How you so gleefully elevate these hollow
phantoms to godhood; it’s beyond me. Your
royal cults of black blood and inversion. Would you like to meet a real dark angel? A winged thing of midnight sun, perched among
branches on the tree of life? Whilst you
scurry about below with your silica and sigils. Would you?
I wonder. Also, I want you to
know that as you continue to poison everything there are those among my
brethren who honour the tree and seek to reclaim the land. To heal and rejuvenate the dreaming earth. No earthly king in a thousand years has cared
enough for such a task. The ghosts, books
and precious stones still whisper secrets if you know how to listen, and they
hold nothing back. Such cruel, mocking
monarchs. Perhaps I've already said too
much, Callous Ones? Perhaps I'm far too
generous in my romance of your pathology? Evil is just so fucking banal. But as an enemy in the struggle against such
banality, I have to say – what's life or struggle without a little magic? We all need some pixie dust from time to
time. It's been said that I'm far too
liberal in my use of it. Purple prose
and tall tales all a-glitter. Perhaps
that's true. But Kashi only shines
because his loved ones shine. Flight is
meaningless without friends, even if you're able to touch every star in the
sky. Hear me, Fallen. You reign from the earth whilst imagining yourselves
gods, but I search from the sky whilst walking here among men. Fly for long enough and you'll discover the
stars are infinite, believe me. When all
is said and done, who of sound mind would really want to reign or soar alone?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230515_114317_856.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/b7QlX3yR2xs" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-38511995545321906182023-05-05T08:53:00.001-07:002023-05-05T08:57:43.223-07:00Stories in the Sun<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG6V6hOtAVR92jVCmi1LCexVcEp-9PUMNo_FnNVO-QzVTgeEvTmkK9hUxhmECtkO1-mKXWbsz8vVfxEk7Z9F8P5lHlfxmhchnlAZCV1KW-p3l-E8XupUoJ-jpbGDQVsUfPiUj3_OUo04EvLM3HkZJPU02TCWOvSEoQYXwB3a3jpvKpe_odFLzQdnChA/s320/Night%20Sun%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="320" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG6V6hOtAVR92jVCmi1LCexVcEp-9PUMNo_FnNVO-QzVTgeEvTmkK9hUxhmECtkO1-mKXWbsz8vVfxEk7Z9F8P5lHlfxmhchnlAZCV1KW-p3l-E8XupUoJ-jpbGDQVsUfPiUj3_OUo04EvLM3HkZJPU02TCWOvSEoQYXwB3a3jpvKpe_odFLzQdnChA/s1600/Night%20Sun%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Hello, my friends. It's been a while
since I've addressed the readers of <i>Amid Night Suns</i>. First of
all, I want to thank everyone who's stuck with me over the years. Whether you
read the blog regularly or just check in from time to time, I really appreciate it. I hope my
free-verse writing and video collages have brought you some comfort or inspiration. I hope they've quickened you in the best possible way. Nothing
is going to change here in that regard but I wanted to let you know that
moving forward I intend to post more of my fiction pieces on
this blog's sister-site, <i><a href="https://thenightsun.wixsite.com/thenightsun" target="_blank">The Night Sun</a></i>.
You can find it by clicking the sun icon
on the right or through the Allied Informers tab. The formatting there is just better for
narrative purposes. I've always been a
storyteller at heart and I'm constantly inspired by art and mythology, as well
as the incredible work of others. For
me, art in general and fiction in particular is the place where the full
spectrum of human experience can be expressed in all its depth and multiplicity.
Stories have always been a source of passion,
nourishment and healing for me. It's in
that spirit of adventure that I hope to share these things with you. So,
if fiction is something you enjoy as much I do, then I hope <i>The Night Sun</i> will be a place you'll
visit with me in the future. With all
that said, here's a link to my latest piece:<a href="https://thenightsun.wixsite.com/thenightsun/post/little-bird" target="_blank"> Little Bird</a>. I'm not a professional writer by any means but
I've worked very hard on it. I hope it
intrigues, engages or moves you in some way. Be well, my friends. I wish you all the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://thenightsun.wixsite.com/thenightsun" target="_blank">https://thenightsun.wixsite.com/thenightsun</a><br /></span></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230505_162015_497.sdocx-->Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-26008041509531885102023-03-31T03:49:00.001-07:002023-03-31T03:51:19.350-07:00Wars of Imagination<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQPtw2mOfSFjZtH0vG9B2E9ZzWl9jdkG6r9XX3LNenP-bb23xPICEydhu5eVNt3LEuDaz8pCo3z0aqcdk-qfew_BsOds9zy1Em8tnBhSOYyDFsCfN1fcAWvKrRCVeWA2Gl7MMcntg5PCPt9E0rVDOwm5tFmdWQ_7GvhB9o7b58GhiG0WO-u5n905R-w/s654/Wars%20of%20Imagination.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQPtw2mOfSFjZtH0vG9B2E9ZzWl9jdkG6r9XX3LNenP-bb23xPICEydhu5eVNt3LEuDaz8pCo3z0aqcdk-qfew_BsOds9zy1Em8tnBhSOYyDFsCfN1fcAWvKrRCVeWA2Gl7MMcntg5PCPt9E0rVDOwm5tFmdWQ_7GvhB9o7b58GhiG0WO-u5n905R-w/w309-h320/Wars%20of%20Imagination.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sometimes, for hatred to spread, all
it requires is a whisper on the shoulder of some confused or vulnerable soul. A seed of doubt planted that then festers into
something far darker. It takes a brave
heart to survive the unjust cruelties of this realm. The needless, meaningless hatred can seem
infinite sometimes. It's awful that we
should have to, but if we remain steadfast we can at least learn from such
conflict. We can learn about the ways of
the lost and fallen, how they manipulate the ordinary – so that we are further
armoured in our quest for liberation and light. I know this is frightening but I want you to
understand something, my friends. This
is indeed a quest in the most romantic, literary sense. All of us who fight for truth and justice; we
are warriors in a war of imagination. A
battle for love, compassion and inclusion. It isn't fought in the ivory towers of the
rich and powerful. It is championed
among the poor, the destitute, the unseen or unacknowledged. It’s shared by those from all walks of life
who genuinely fight for love. It is
gutter magic, hip-hop, poetry in motion, the most punk rock of all
pursuits. This care for the less fortunate and the eventual betterment of
all mankind; it means everything to me. A
way of life that I’m still struggling to fully embody. Inspiring genuine positive change is a task achieved
slowly through repetition and hard work. Through music, art, rallies and protests. Gestures of solidarity, numerous acts of
kindness and fairness. Unfortunately,
when someone becomes a true player in this war of imagination there are dark
spiritual forces that will notice you. I
call them wraiths, but you can give them any name you want. They will try to find all manner of ways to
bring you down. To sully your name and
rob you of your vitality. Resist this gas-lighting
at all costs, my friends. I beg you. The people need their champions. The music of the spheres is symphonic with the
bravery of every single soul who chooses to stand and give voice to the
voiceless. This music lives and
breathes. It has a pulse. And if these wraiths hate one form of art
above all others, it's music. Believe
me. The elders and wise ones have always known this. The transformational, healing power of sounds
in harmony. These wraiths though are nothing
more than cowards. Opportunists and flitting ghosts. They don't need a reason. Only an advantage to exploit, and a place to
hide. These entities and shades wander among the living and the dead. They revel in wreaking havoc, sowing seeds of
confusion and hate. Preying on
insecurities and doubts. These hideous
phantoms have their disciples in the physical world, it's true. Orchestration and provocation. But often they
needn't even go that far. Sometimes all
it takes is a shadowed whisper on the shoulder of some confused and vulnerable
soul. A spark, a lit match – and
suddenly a dark fire is raging out of control, taking on a life of its own. You begin to recognise these things in the
streets, in the gutters. Happening all
around. The discrete poisoning of wells,
the co-opting of causes. The rampant militarism and corporatism disguised as
well-meaning policy. But Kashi was born
in these streets. I've been walking this
city for a thousand years. I know who my
friends are, and I know whose hearts are truly wicked. My friends, I want you to know that I love
you. Each and every one of you. And I'm grateful for the work you do. And I also want you to know that you're part
of something bigger and more beautiful than I could ever convey here. Rest now, and gather your spirit. Surround yourselves with loved ones and
remember who you really are. Don’t let literal
or psychic attacks break you. You are
far stronger and more cherished than you realize. I’m so sorry that good intentions can come at
such a frightening cost sometimes, that it can attract such enemies, but it is
only proof of the power of love – proof of its potential reach. Our friends know us, our beloved ones know
us, and they know the legacy of light that we are trying to offer to those who
need it most. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230331_104311_413.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4CmcnWQ-754" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-67764437025750498372023-03-14T09:43:00.001-07:002023-03-14T10:01:29.710-07:00Little Victories<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWIXQwP-334gPNZDK_QV4WUts_eSUKXNbnB4G9M3QMcQaP9i8_YzcPaHnvoG3pqbb3VMmofRAJEWtLtIgKkDheSPaVAIuauv9ZtQYTQ3HZUIWpEGVO-QJecvSj4slmQS5H8MPSnmy4l5pWC7Fxi1fVY3IQtewierCpU00K1pOS1BRFUYaxJA1B64QHzg/s1200/Little%20Victories.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWIXQwP-334gPNZDK_QV4WUts_eSUKXNbnB4G9M3QMcQaP9i8_YzcPaHnvoG3pqbb3VMmofRAJEWtLtIgKkDheSPaVAIuauv9ZtQYTQ3HZUIWpEGVO-QJecvSj4slmQS5H8MPSnmy4l5pWC7Fxi1fVY3IQtewierCpU00K1pOS1BRFUYaxJA1B64QHzg/s320/Little%20Victories.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sight
before certain, depth before fall. Aside
goes the curtain; stand, walk or crawl. This
legacy of living, this love as a sin. My
mistress is happier. I'll take the win. Pages for decades, close to the breast. Song-lines and essays at Mother's behest. Fathers so furtive still waging the war. A tempest now gentler, hugging the shore. Oh, if I could give in, or love through my
lovers – I would be silent, akin to all others.
Though your light is brighter I reflect nonetheless. These ways of the daughter is anyone's guess. The ghosts of my Ever. My damage undone. Sight before certain through the eyes of the
son.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><iframe allow="autoplay; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/807994776?h=f42e95f6aa" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-21135182949185841242023-03-08T18:12:00.001-08:002023-03-08T18:17:15.339-08:00Murder Song<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGXkfAaeWv2RL_WKkhWzycKVt1esMX9N2n5y-JCPmHfBhgJ3iozrEaGjPcycvB2TEYIMcs9I71VF_7juYVrRhaPIBzq73AdlKQA3n3qRjWxkWrdH2pDmduR4m1yVp8VABlIxB394VWsOAdPEFjLk1PN-atnrvPFVfl9yIBKf_44tSObXGu_JpojB88A/s1066/Murder%20Song.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="1066" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGXkfAaeWv2RL_WKkhWzycKVt1esMX9N2n5y-JCPmHfBhgJ3iozrEaGjPcycvB2TEYIMcs9I71VF_7juYVrRhaPIBzq73AdlKQA3n3qRjWxkWrdH2pDmduR4m1yVp8VABlIxB394VWsOAdPEFjLk1PN-atnrvPFVfl9yIBKf_44tSObXGu_JpojB88A/s320/Murder%20Song.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I've often found that mortals have no
real grasp of what's really happening around them. Even in quieter climates, but especially
during times of crisis. They cannot
recognise the stage, nor the players. They cannot speak the language of
the birds and so they confuse fiction for fact, wry truth for metaphor. They
think this false chronology is real and they don't understand the stakes
involved. But we do. Don't
we, Fallen? Players in this renaissance
game. At least, that's what I wanted you
to think. That you understood something.
Truth be told you have no idea. There are many kinds of occulted vision. Many kinds of chorus, and you are not the
experienced veterans you imagine yourselves to be. Where is your nuance, your dexterity? I'm not talking about the ability to model a
possible outcome. Or skill enough to
encode some fourth-dimensional mockery within your rhetoric. Any fool with an understanding of true physics
can do that. Kashi isn't impressed with
your dark magics and supposed hyper-sigils. This isn't about information, or mathematics. This is about knowledge. Maha-mahtica. Truths beyond truth. Dreams within dreams. From a distance birds can be confused for
angels, can't they? Dreams of feathered
flight spread aloft, or folded at our backs. I wonder how many mortals recall the truth of
literal human flight. Or immortality? For the longest time I counted myself among
the dead as well as the living. Lost
cultures and chronologies. Wandering
through the three-dimensional ruins of psyche. But death isn't what it used to be. Such is always the case when oppressors begin
to lose their power. Things start to
shift. Subtly at first. Like a half-imagined tremor. But eventually these changes gather pace. The veils begin to thin. Even fracture. Suddenly communication of all kinds is possible.
And believe me, the human spirit has a
way of beautifully gaslighting the Fallen. Driving them mad. Because we protect our young and honour our
dead. Unlike the demonic energies your
wraith-priests call forth. Do you have
any idea, Fallen, what it means to be a Father? Or a friend? To be a mentor, a student? No, you don't. Because you can't even grasp the truth of song
and centre. The veracity of presence. If a winged eclipse is all you can understand of
the infinite, then it's no wonder I outmatched you the day I crafted the
feathered tongue. Any callous fool can
commit murder. An act that is ugly,
banal and thoughtless. But Kasi has a
special way of killing. I can do it on
the inside, and you won't even blink. None
the wiser. Held suspended in a single
breath, the final breath, for a thousand years.
The very last beat of your heart. I know what that's like because I lived it. Oh, Fallen. Still so ready to debase and enslave? Still confusing truth with metaphor? No matter.
Even the dead don't live forever.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p>
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230309_014058_929.sdocx--><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/805976957?h=625fe1c69c" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-85708966125069701122023-02-20T12:25:00.000-08:002023-02-20T12:25:40.948-08:00The Voices of Others<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIqbLZzpXQTbwpHqCViW7R8peR-1_Uk4PH0zcARINp5Iad_ek9L1Y_388DbbXsnUL7m1BLL8-aV6D_vmhFzORUtVXfka8mcbQh4F9wOq_-E8cQeB4_sV-261TKxHdzVKqjO_ozE93W56EwVUdrtyMSEWttSUhJo_uqZLzOWUuUyUj4allQAU8cvqVFw/s640/The%20Voices%20of%20Others.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIqbLZzpXQTbwpHqCViW7R8peR-1_Uk4PH0zcARINp5Iad_ek9L1Y_388DbbXsnUL7m1BLL8-aV6D_vmhFzORUtVXfka8mcbQh4F9wOq_-E8cQeB4_sV-261TKxHdzVKqjO_ozE93W56EwVUdrtyMSEWttSUhJo_uqZLzOWUuUyUj4allQAU8cvqVFw/s320/The%20Voices%20of%20Others.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I have never had a need or a desire
for blind faith. Even in stories. Even among dancing weavers and shades of the
dead. I wandered once through such
mythologies, sightless and unreflective. But my faith was never blind as I was. I thought I was gifted and agile, interpreting
my experiences correctly. I thought I
was heeding the signs, open to a far darker and stranger reality. But I was simply prideful. Lost, angry
and entitled. In those legends I was a
spiteful, vengeful fool living out my own distorted notions of romance. I thought I was madly in love with the voice
and soul of another. But, like Narcissus,
I was only entranced with my own image. My
own concerns and pretty grievances. Indulgent
and vain. Attempting to create a false
reflection. Trying to mimic a human
heartbeat. My beloved sang to me sometimes,
but there was no music that could move me. Instead I expected reality to twist itself to
suit my will. My reckless whims. Indeed, in those stories I cast all manner of
black magicks to aid me in that colossal arrogance. I imagined myself darkly liberated somehow. Sexual and sorcerous. Dynamic, dangerous and wild. But I was vampiric. Utterly unconscious. The living dead. A demon without guilt, hope or recognition of
sin. I was the literal definition of
spiritual blindness. Not only had I
damned myself, I had enslaved the very soul I claimed to love most in all the
worlds. But he freed me from that
damnation. She freed me. She was able to soften, grieve and learn, and eventually
she managed to create a fracture of recognition in my cold, eclipsed heart. A sliver at first. A mere glimmer. But that's all consciousness needs when it has
an eternity to play with. Of course, this
is purely symbolic. A fiction. In the real world I'm just a writer. A quiet storyteller trying to cultivate
insight. None of this actually
happened. Unless it did in some strange
multidimensional sense. Fictions are
like that sometimes. Mercurial,
paradoxical. Myths and archetypes. Primal cosmic energies seething in the tempest
of our psyches. Straddling the
borderland of reality and dreams. The
fall of morning. The war in heaven. But let it be said, plain and simple, that
Kasi believes in higher powers. Angels,
demons, and the continuum that connects them. After all, I'm living proof of my Father's
infinite mercy. I get to tell stories as
if they were real. As if they were true.
As though I had lived them. So, my faith was never blind. Even when sightless. Mine is a faith tempered by experience, both
dark and light. A faith cultivated
through knowledge, growth and dance. I've
mastered nothing yet but I'm a willing student of everything my Father has to
teach me. And I'm grateful for all of
it. I'm grateful for any work or pathway that nurtures healing. Any form or expression that allows us to
become more than we once were, aligning our reason, compassion and creativity. No man is an island, sweet ones. Not even the blackened sun. We live beside and in relationship with one
another, always. My brother taught me that. Do you know who my brother is? My voice is only the echo of other voices, my
work the echo of other works. After all,
I am the sum total of all who came before me. Those who wanted to tell
intriguing, multi-layered stories. Those who wanted to offer insight and art concerning
our shared humanity. Those who danced,
sang and gave voice to the voiceless, choosing to explore the heavenly kingdom
within. And it's better, isn't it? To acknowledge the warring forces inside us,
to nurture balance, restoration and health? It's far better than these endless, exhausting
dichotomies. Art, love and friendship –
such is the true alchemy of the spirit. I know this because I didn’t find my way back from
unconsciousness on my own. I was offered
help by a number of kind souls. Once, a
long time ago, a princess met me in a cathedral of stars at the very edge of
creation. She offered me healing, and
wisdom. She shared with me her wit. A wry vitality that made me laugh from the
depths of my soul. She kissed me there,
among those stars. Amid the infinite blazing
corona of life itself. I was twice saved
by the man of my dreams. The woman I
loved. I see myself now in the
beautiful, dynamic expression of others. Those who found deeper strata of
storytelling just as I did. Those who
take their struggles and find the strength to stand, just to show others who
are suffering that it's possible. Life
is possible. Art is possible. A terrifying, beautiful alchemy. The dance of creation may be tumultuous and
painful but there is great wisdom to be found in it. I thank my Father for the opportunity to know
these things, to experience these things.
And I thank him for the guiding, hopeful voices of others.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230220_192638_493.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/s_nc1IVoMxc" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-63198634122221720502023-01-29T18:14:00.002-08:002023-01-29T18:20:20.173-08:00The Raven's Call<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_Qs-6j2EkNWPIOcQHSv7FICRlVr2T8CJPXteR-Ww_plK2EhUPwLAJ3PgnijtGf_u2dhyH-CaLB5m428AzIqsoC0t4pHIB7Wt3Y9-yrbNtbCIMg016ZhmMMG3zqVyNaoQC9EDKg2hCt8cYUcZeJ44pADIIbhXr2lh_3kT1vtKdQtmTgNbmQDQs5mG9w/s1041/The%20Raven's%20Call.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="1041" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_Qs-6j2EkNWPIOcQHSv7FICRlVr2T8CJPXteR-Ww_plK2EhUPwLAJ3PgnijtGf_u2dhyH-CaLB5m428AzIqsoC0t4pHIB7Wt3Y9-yrbNtbCIMg016ZhmMMG3zqVyNaoQC9EDKg2hCt8cYUcZeJ44pADIIbhXr2lh_3kT1vtKdQtmTgNbmQDQs5mG9w/s320/The%20Raven's%20Call.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Perhaps I'm fooling myself, Kara. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These words. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These countless visions I create. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe they mean nothing in the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t really believe that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still need to believe I serve a greater purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think I've earned your respect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if only through craft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A professional courtesy from one artist to
another. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet it’s more than
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I feel like such a fool
for daring to imagine that you half recognise me, like something or someone
from a dream. An old friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lost
love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps imagination is the only
place where magic can be truly known or truly felt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's why these pages are so sacred to me. Where else can I hide my wonders? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The echoes, allusions and stunning
synchronicities? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, Kara. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me if I occasionally project my own
struggles onto you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me if I
sometimes confuse my own demons for yours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know we're not exactly the same. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That terrifying gulf between the sky and the
abyss. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling like I was denied a
middle path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my God, if it isn't
like looking into a mirror sometimes. Perhaps it’s the loneliness talking, or
the fact that I always found my imperatrix rather beautiful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promised you a rising sky, didn’t I, old
friend?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think I delivered on
that promise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But did you know that you
once promised the very same thing to me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You make good on that promise every time you dance with me, in
dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time you pull me back
towards life with your kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
sincerely thank you for that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I
had the middle path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days it
almost feels like I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not delirious
or wild, just steady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the
inevitable descent begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know my
struggles are different to yours, but I think there is enough similarity to
find a common ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me that ground
is a battlefield. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A ruinous and sometimes
beautiful wasteland strewn with dead warriors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those like ourselves forced to live with extremes of one degree or
another, unable to walk the middle path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just want anyone who has ever felt lost on this battlefield to know
they are not alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want you to know
that too, Kara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my inner vision
I've seen shadows and shapes flitting among the fallen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like wraiths, or crows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their cawing becomes a dark siren song as they
announce the dead and the dusk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old
legends say these half-dreamt forms appear among the fallen not simply for
annunciation, but as guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come
to guide disembodied souls into the afterlife. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Into the drowned, hidden realm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some say this realm is nothing more than a
dream. For me it's so much more than a dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's everything I am, everything I was,
everything I'll ever be. It's a frightening thing to recognise that in some
of my most powerful dreams I'm drowning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under the water, closest to home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wished-for embrace of everything I know
I've lost but can never prove to anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Few would even care to hear the call. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I mask the truth of this endless
immortality. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clothe this extremely
long life in oblique free-verse. Studied
ambiguity and purple prose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I'm
dancing wildly amidst a flurry of worried gazes, writing all these words but
not really saying anything at all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
that isn't the truth, Kara. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not
even close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am never more alive and
hopeful than when I'm here among these pages, sharing these things with
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend, I think I finally know
why I dream so often of black stars and midnight suns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's because I'm one of the dead. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet I’ve been gifted a kind of charmed
half-life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm more than just a knight
errant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a prince of wraiths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life and death, past, present and future -
they are all so intimately intertwined. Especially
here, in the depths of me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These dreaming
threads of identity, interconnection and fate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that someone even cares to notice;
how can I not find it thrilling? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furthermore, how could I not be utterly intoxicated
by the piqued interest of someone I still so fondly remember, even if she no
longer remembers me? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me my
indulgences, sweet one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come from a
loving place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the truth is I'm
more than just an image-maker or a failed poet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than just a lonely dreamer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm an angel, Kara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm one of the wandering dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bring messages to the cherished living. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words and visions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fables and stories. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tales to uplift the heart and quicken the
spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason I do this is because
the living need stories even more than the dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have such life in you, Kara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I want you to k</span>now that you are forever cherished, and I
hope this kiss finds you well.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /><iframe allow="autoplay; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/793801867?h=e499b375a7" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-63007535579341812922023-01-25T06:57:00.002-08:002023-01-25T17:14:06.835-08:00Knight Errant<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjVKGxlwl-pajZLFnBak3rz6JYf0iDcoK7Hh1jCBZHFh5-GCG93QwGUlZMrCwCWN_nzb2wNy6FqpkFyHk6KlK89XUTPOw-4lo_uKzYPRFRXrhT9ogRpFxQ_O5GcrdgxeYYZRl-PZ4ZJcxpmnuWK_bGkwJq_RsjWB0f5daBizR8Q6oM97zm2G3xv4AFw/s1005/Knight%20Errant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1005" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjVKGxlwl-pajZLFnBak3rz6JYf0iDcoK7Hh1jCBZHFh5-GCG93QwGUlZMrCwCWN_nzb2wNy6FqpkFyHk6KlK89XUTPOw-4lo_uKzYPRFRXrhT9ogRpFxQ_O5GcrdgxeYYZRl-PZ4ZJcxpmnuWK_bGkwJq_RsjWB0f5daBizR8Q6oM97zm2G3xv4AFw/w199-h200/Knight%20Errant.jpg" width="199" /></a></i></div><i><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s not a conceit, Kara. This black star of mine. This ravenous vortex at the heart of me. Sometimes I liken it to Foucault’s Pendulum. A wry, vicious tempest that gives as much as
it takes. And it does give, my darling. Often freely and without limit. We have this in common, I think. Our wide and difficult horizons. But I hope you are not the outlier that I
am. I hope your life is the better for
it. I would hate to think my sweet Val’kiir
was as lost in the mists of the demimonde as I am. A girl still struggling with the burden of
coronation, just as I struggled. The incalculable
weight of a paper crown. Legends are
purely ethereal, they say. Stories have
no mass. But that isn’t true. Legends have a different kind of
gravity. They warp the fabric of reality
around them. The deeper the myth, the
stranger the magic found at its shifting edges.
You know this to be true, Kara.
Don’t you? The changing of the
guard. The birthing of a star. A knight errant, kind and true. After all, a kingdom can fall to corruption
but a true chevalier holds themselves to a higher code. The wisdom of the old world. The shining realm. Before dark magic altered our chronologies
and rewrote the very threads of fate. The
weaving sisters were banished, some say.
Or murdered. Or cast into the
raging furnace of the midnight sun, lost forever. None of these things are true. Legends don't die. They only transform. Sometimes they simply hide, tending their
tasks in other ways. Do you suppose a weaver
ever truly forgets the way of hidden things?
The beauty, craft and dance of creation?
I doubt it. Mortals sometimes
forget, but not storytellers. Mankind,
for example, imagines the fay are simply stories. But life itself is built from stories. The confabulation of threads, notions and
forces. A continuum of narrative
interplay. The fay have legends all
their own, Kara. One in particular a
shining jewel among all others. A legend
of silence that sang its own song. Dreamt
its own heart. A holy star both brother
and sister, both darkness and light, human and otherwise. They say this song is the grief and hope of
all oceans. The death of lowlands and
lakes. Birth of the haunted deep. Those fabled, half-remembered days when the
sea fell from the sky. A thing of elven
blood would ask men questions. It would ask, who among mortals recalls the
veracity of the golden age? Who really
remembers those days before brutalism and theft? Those moments before the
construction of time, limitation and loss. Well, I think the weaving sisters half-remember. Even if only through how they
would ideally like the world to be. Like
Blake I’m still half-conscious of those ideals, certain that we lived them
once. I am haunted by these newer,
imposter cities. These dark engines and
empires. Chronologies of Los. Pretending the sun, as the sun pretends the
star. And the Evenstar is only a motif,
a placeholder for home. The home
within. Oh, Kara. We are so much
more than Mar’kanna’s madness, or Kiskuh’s wrathful hand. We are the water and the well, the tree and
the star. Immanent, transcendent. And we are not special in this regard. All children of the living light were made in
such fashion. Immortal or
otherwise. But I’ve heard you ask in
your sleep, “Eth’iir, my friend, where are we now?” I shall tell you where we are. While the Earth roils and writhes a thousand
failed poets hold back each lost soul from the edge, protecting comprehension
and sanity. Safeguarding the last
glimmers of spiritual hygiene that shone so gloriously before the cataclysms. Kasi is only one among such poets. Kara is only one among such sisters. Many of these brave warriors are anonymous
and unremembered. But M'ithriin can move
mountains in his sleep, dreaming of Vivian.
As can T'alis, the night-bard. It’s
a druidry of stolen years and brighter climes barely hinted at in the
soft-edged neopaganism of modern man. Oh,
my vivacious rose-maiden. I wish I could
always show you the best of yourself. You've
slain dragons in your dreams, you know. You’ve
ridden with them too. I know because I
watched you. You once asked me to be
there with you, just out of sight. And I
was. I am. I watch you plunge those fists into bitter
earth. Into poisoned soil, in hopes that
our blood and mythopoeia might gift a little vision to these children of the
fall. This lineage of ruptured clay. It isn’t just calm you seek, my love. Or peace.
It’s also care for all the others.
I see it in your eyes, my regent.
And it’s part of why I love you so.
On a good day I try to be the difference you would like to find in the
world. A modern gospel of the living
waters. Passionate, courageous and
kind. This quiet giving of one's self,
it's not what a pagan god or sylvan shade does. It's not even necessarily what an angel of
Christendom does. But it's what a
brother does. A father. A son. It's
what a man is always prepared to do. To
bleed a little for his kith and kin. We
learnt that quiet skill from our women.
Each princess, indomitable. This
is humanity at its most selfless. Its
most nurturing. Shall I tell them, Val’kiir? Shall I tell them the truth of things? Hear me, Fallen. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. There is a hidden war all around you, and a shimmering
bridge of multi-coloured light. You want
to know about sacrifice? Real sacrifice?
Men, women and children give their lives
every day in this hidden war – for the people they love. Such valour has no gender, age or social
standing. It has no racial or sexual identity. It has no politics. It is simply the depth of love in action,
faced with awful and sometimes impossible choices. I've seen that kind of bravery first-hand. Many of us have, and we are always moved. Often to tears. In this apothecary of unearthly delights such
beauty is an invaluable treasure. These
are the old ways. They will be our ways
again. Tell me, Fallen. Are you a bard? Do you vouchsafe your secrets to slaves? Well, I was once a slave. A peasant and prisoner. In many ways I still am. But I am also a storyteller. A king, prince and knight. A father, brother and son. And I tell you this; a man or woman’s worth
is not defined by the tip of their sword but by the breadth of their insight. The edge of their wit, the depth of their
love and the quality of their courage. If
in the end I have to bleed for what I believe then it is no more than my mother
bled, or my sister bleeds.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230125_122730_669.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wULeXeQkqd0" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-12525078785267499752022-12-31T08:39:00.000-08:002022-12-31T08:39:59.931-08:00The Winged Grammar<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVenx_7gB24oL5ARNnJufOiePeHhFxvseqdu3uEW144E4R8lSXD2FPfol5c8IizHHrGKfrd-pT-_BBwU0mqRekyIDsacr7w_2L1BOr60V40QfAC2zOo9rj9SFI2avTj6zT9tAc2Rn9HF5EmkXK91AIAsKwt_4u9RCNc30qIjABCvdOIB2doJF1XynudA/s1828/The%20Winged%20Grammar%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="1828" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVenx_7gB24oL5ARNnJufOiePeHhFxvseqdu3uEW144E4R8lSXD2FPfol5c8IizHHrGKfrd-pT-_BBwU0mqRekyIDsacr7w_2L1BOr60V40QfAC2zOo9rj9SFI2avTj6zT9tAc2Rn9HF5EmkXK91AIAsKwt_4u9RCNc30qIjABCvdOIB2doJF1XynudA/s320/The%20Winged%20Grammar%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_221230_210750_232.sdocx--><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sometimes, in their dreams, the
fallen seek counsel with M'ithriin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
winged one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Serpent and staff. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The living waters of a twinning river. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The elect come shuffling to the twilit place
near the shore, seeking the angel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chanting
a thousand garbled versions of his many names. Sometimes penitent, sometimes laughably
brazen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm never sure what they're
seeking exactly. A truth beyond fiction, I suppose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely not something as parochial as
'reality'? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I think we're all
slaves to the grammar of our time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
own particular storytelling instincts. Those tales that grip us despite our
learned ways and better judgments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's
strange how the fallen come in droves to the dreaming, seeking the
thrice-blessed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or seeking powerful
kings with magical swords and wizards who never were. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoping to find something beyond the brutal
self-made histories of realpolitik and theft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bright-eyed and earnest, like children with a
treasure map. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These men of renown.
Warlords, occultists and titans of industry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rapists and murderers all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there anything uglier than such monsters
deluding themselves worthy of genuine revelation? I would never deign to
compare myself to these shambling trespassers. Those who forged my iron collar
in those early days of the fall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
slave would be bold enough to suggest parity or even superiority to his
masters? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perish the thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in dreaming I just sit on the sands of
the shore, or wait beneath the waves, and smile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, Fallen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I pity you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I laugh at the
quest you think you're on. Your prince is a monster. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A cruel, obsequious wraith. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dutifully clawing its way up from the void
through an infernal hierarchy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poorly
realised and crudely imagined. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only a
lesser king, once little more than the half-dreamt shadow of a black star. How
do I know this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I to speak on
such matters?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m nobody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a humble scribe of the innermost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I speak for forces and persons larger than
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, a true sun shines
darkly in an inverted realm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A world of
echoes, traces and ghosts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the while
you fallen ones wish to supplicate at the stygian mouth of desecration,
pretending the true light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What ghastly
dreaming you've forged in your hideous guild of sorrows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you suppose the Syrian, the magician
himself, is a Hellenist? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Greek? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A conjurer at the mountain of chymic fire? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s said he likes to travel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I told my brother; it isn't as simple
as owning the essence of a numinous thing, or turning a key in the navel of the
land. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not be reduced to epithets,
or rudimentary corollaries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anonymous or
otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing, art and magic has
always been a form of hybridity. The past is but a ghost and every king a
composite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no moment but this
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no eyes but modern
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Antiquity is a dream, and I am a
winged messenger of dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Callous
Ones, you claim to know the true depths of the mysteries, yet where is your
compassion? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your empathy? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Denatured and disarticulated, you sacrifice
your brothers and sisters for coin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For supposed
occult secrets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paltry mechanical
knowledge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mere trivia. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What good is apotheosis when all your brothers
and sisters are dead? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, but these
castes you cling to, these infernal hierarchies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don't really believe the beggar is your
brother or the nurse your sister. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
truly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you did you would recognise
the mingled dreaming of antiquity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
would understand this very human urge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
exalt our favourite stories and re-inscribe the tales of others in the
intimacies of our own particular speech.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We cannot help but see through the lens of our cultural milieu whilst
claiming exclusive rights on the supposed truth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've seen this retroactive continuity in
action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men claiming the angels of others
to be demons in the ultimate gnosis. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Claiming
another's heroes to be mere harbingers of newer legends. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, at best, assuming another's god of love to
be only primitive glimpses of their own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the modern, endless war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout history all eyes are modern eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The windows of complex living souls who live
and die by the cultural markers they cling to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Antiquity has always been a shapeshifter, an
idea inflected by the shades and nuances of the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prisca theologia; perhaps it exists. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if it does it might not be exactly what
you expect or hope to find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now we
attempt to thread our way like cartographers through a thousand shrieking
truth-tellers all claiming to be definitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps we imagine the terrain into being, negotiating both text and
context. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unspoken, the quietly
implied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dialogues and dramaturgy for
the immortal, questing soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those
ancient parchments and tomes – many of them are no older than the eyes and fears
of modern man. After all, such men are so often unable to distinguish
between the seer and the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
healer and the healed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe sometimes
that’s a good thing, if it tempers our arrogance and softens our hearts.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GrpSjXo6ah0" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-68608911048868912082022-12-21T19:13:00.001-08:002022-12-21T19:13:32.588-08:00The Mirrored Sea<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWBpU4TSJJKjafvRhyupm9apByn9tbmWLo8Y5Fk7kCsTY75LBZaCUbXklV3-oMXkUoSi-0vur-RUI91YVvt0jCuzyIo6IZms9wUV66zJJV15ny53IZpYT8uC116Z2ymrPgBvwecTFARjSQTV-GSq_nrRkELMShdLttJawE9XN2hcu-hz-lCAzS_NzNA/s680/The%20Mirrored%20Sea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="680" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWBpU4TSJJKjafvRhyupm9apByn9tbmWLo8Y5Fk7kCsTY75LBZaCUbXklV3-oMXkUoSi-0vur-RUI91YVvt0jCuzyIo6IZms9wUV66zJJV15ny53IZpYT8uC116Z2ymrPgBvwecTFARjSQTV-GSq_nrRkELMShdLttJawE9XN2hcu-hz-lCAzS_NzNA/w200-h200/The%20Mirrored%20Sea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I once cut my palms on the edges of a
raging sea, then let myself bleed for a thousand years to assure its depths. That sounds like fantasy to most, doesn't it? Mere fiction. Blood, clear as glass. Seawater red as the beating heart. But stories are where some of the oldest
things dwell. Things more ancient than even the first mariner. Do you really think the one whom the healers called
M'ithriin is bound to anything at all? To Albion, or some other enchanted isle? The antlered prince pretends the sky, does he? The winged elder. First angel.
You should know that I'm a tempest old as creation itself, but there are
things even older than creation.
Beautiful, wondrous things beyond any distort. Forms from the first dreaming, that live now
only in imagination. That lost, fabled
time when the temples still shimmered and sang. There were lowlands once, and lakes. Yet since the fall there have been so many
terrifying gods of the sea. Things
emerge from the deep – wounded and wild.
Believe me, I should know. Perhaps
that's what grief is. The gutting of a shining star to flood the earth
and drown the heart. But even in such a
storm there are pockets of refuge, and rest. A daughter’s beatific vision. A father’s fervent hope. Mortals think the land is locked. That it's the sea that moves. But the land is simply the sea, frozen in
doubt. Awaiting augury or avarice. Another fall.
A reason to be swept away. Even
the mountains are only temporary arks. The
wrecked cathedrals of your forebears. Still,
with enough true magic the sea can be sated. Calmed. Made to reason. The dreamwalkers of the first light understood
this. The wisdom councils that once
tended the very soul of Earth and Man.
Even angels of the sea, who pretend or endure the sky, can be turned
toward love. True love. Once, every thousand years or so, the waters
themselves might contemplate the solstice of a star. In doing so they might be moved to reorient
the very definition of life itself.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_221222_020741_942.sdocx--><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/783394366?h=cbaea6c753" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-35653394037395847162022-11-26T04:19:00.000-08:002022-11-26T04:19:32.872-08:00The Truest Aim<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcqwSnytLidkn4shmMsqa8qIjwPTirvuII_hHTdrO-zxQ78x962lj1NH-7NCxBupkZ-kiD8eL7lvDHaHqVzxmd2wZnFoNgIytpDOvodw4ZQATY-EBWzn2QE98wQjeKrIefK41Vy4OrNLGw4eA0_45DP7XIt7Eu7L6vI4UlXIgp7uHt5dTw-sOnJIIQA/s750/The%20Truest%20Aim.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcqwSnytLidkn4shmMsqa8qIjwPTirvuII_hHTdrO-zxQ78x962lj1NH-7NCxBupkZ-kiD8eL7lvDHaHqVzxmd2wZnFoNgIytpDOvodw4ZQATY-EBWzn2QE98wQjeKrIefK41Vy4OrNLGw4eA0_45DP7XIt7Eu7L6vI4UlXIgp7uHt5dTw-sOnJIIQA/s320/The%20Truest%20Aim.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My Lady, I hope you understand the breadth of your reach. The depths of our genius. The grey between what was, what is, and how much I had to lose
to assure this anonymity. You can hide
in plain sight now, in a way that I never can.
I miss you terribly but I'm glad of this exile. Does
that sound like a lie? A conceit? A gifted stranger making time and tempest with
the spaces in between? Shades talk as I
do. Recursive, mercurial tongue. But I'm not
really a ghost, Kara. I move like one,
speak like one, but I'm something much grander. You don't really desire me, my darling. And that's as it should be. You crave the idea of me, on occasion. The angel at his most potent. And why not? I'm a thrilling idea when all is said and
done. A storied forgery truer than the thing
itself. Apotheosis in a minor key. The beginning and the end. I want you to know that I appreciate every imagined kiss, and I resent nothing. You were always so kind to me. Shall I speak our old promise, my wildest valiant? Then hear this. The idle rich have no need of coin, but the
blessed poor grow stronger on a diet of gold. Princess, I made a mountain for you once. Before you became regent of the evermore. I built a hill and put a star in its hollow. An archer's curve unlike any other. As it was with those legends of the Yeoman and
the Marian. Wild spirits of the trees. The hooded prince and the graceful, erudite young woman. The shrouded god and his consort. The One Who Is Three. Healer, weaver and dancer. Heretic, they call her now. Witch, Catholic conjurer. A dark sophomore of the May Queen casting at
the forest's edge. How times and dreams have changed. But I needn't fancy myself
a prince of thieves any longer. Not when I
trade in a phantom's grammar. What use
is theft when I give every piece of my myth-making away for free? It's just Kassi's broken hell, my sweet one. Just a twelfth century fever-dream. A Victorian's thoughtful treason. Comfort calls late it seems, but it does call.
Because I love you. I want you to have agency, freedom and a sense of these depths. I want you to kiss the real me, however
briefly. Kara, I saw the weaving of northern lights
in your fingertips when you were just a girl. But I sensed far more than that. The breadth of an entire life. It hurts to pretend I'm brazen and blasé
where my beloved ones are concerned. Especially
when I know I can never be cherished in the same way. But what else do you expect from a time-traveller?
From an archangel? I'm not the only lonesome god threaded in mist
and curio, casting at the forest's edge. We ran together once, in dreams. Outlaws, fugitives. Protectors. Your aim is true, Kara. Truer even than mine, perhaps. It takes a certain kind of nobility to pin a
Watcher's heart to the headboard. But we kept our estate. I tried and I tried to
protect the hidden, shifting lore. The world
behind the world. It's written in your
names now, that estate, though we've never known and never kissed. It is written in the grammar of fletch and
quiver. Golden thread and the needle's eye, like an arrow through the
heart of my own disbelief. You see, my Father graced this fallen prince
with an insight he didn't deserve and a chance to remake the world. A blessed exile. He gave me the tongue of a ghost and a Valkyrie’s
heart, hidden in green. I’m a thief of
pages, stealing only from myself. The
rich have knowledge but so little wisdom.
The poor have wisdom yet so little time.
And so I give them time, and comfort. The riches found only in stories.
In doing so I hope one day to be wise.
I keep nothing for myself, my Lady.
I pass every penny on to those like you who would walk with a certain grace. Not this lonesome wraith pretending an angel
of light.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></p><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_221126_031149_157.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-JJAXwAaA2w" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-20751200730109533682022-11-24T03:32:00.000-08:002022-11-24T03:32:44.370-08:00Micah's Kiss<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSmbzNiPaFWvi-JGVQ71fZuMoqPoczLBS0uUmYB4VZdtNxHpBngioAP9ssGHRgpE3CuoRLvdai5Ixxex5mddZiigMsm4x0js101dpPtET35x1xq0YugpBYDt7UEr_ENsJEW9ZP4I3E5KOYSez41j2L1ZWhcSHe4kEO2jerFLW328IUXE8-NKOJz63DQ/s3198/Micah's%20Kiss.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3198" data-original-width="2652" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSmbzNiPaFWvi-JGVQ71fZuMoqPoczLBS0uUmYB4VZdtNxHpBngioAP9ssGHRgpE3CuoRLvdai5Ixxex5mddZiigMsm4x0js101dpPtET35x1xq0YugpBYDt7UEr_ENsJEW9ZP4I3E5KOYSez41j2L1ZWhcSHe4kEO2jerFLW328IUXE8-NKOJz63DQ/s320/Micah's%20Kiss.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Lost one, I know you better than
these neophytes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let's not pretend that
I don't. Tempest, fury and fractal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rim of dark light from the shield of your supposed
victories. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dressed for success like an
armour of mysteries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You think life
stops and starts with a gold coin now, as you court this legion of fools? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Demented shallows, all of them, shorn of wing
and worth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truth be told I never
imagined my beautiful Thomas so pedestrian. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hear me, my love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I too can turn a cross, or the sky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can set a fire in hidden places the likes of
which you’ve never known. Except with me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when you burned the garden you knew
nothing of flame. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smokeless radiance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A light without ashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lucerna Matutina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wounded, feckless thing making waves in the
waveless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes an ex-priest to feel
truly faithless, as I unfold my hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still
a feather on your collar, I wonder? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still
a Roman through and through?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell them
of seminary, Fallen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How we lay
together. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wild concordance of mirrors
and scholars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, this mortal world
still means something to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its people
mean something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You and I, brother, we’re
but dreams of their ink and imagining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pre-existence
doesn’t mean that you are not made by those who love you, those who carry
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the knowledge in the world,
dear one, and yet so little understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m not afraid of my softness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
love for mankind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t see them as
evil, or chattel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me they are beautiful
and brave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You blame me for these
hauntings, these fractures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But soldiers
can lose their minds without forgiveness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When the heart hardens and darkens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even you know that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dare you
admit how much you miss me? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light of
life between your teeth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fair warning;
such an admission might kill you in the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Annihilation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You ask me how one might
annihilate the absence of light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
want gold, dear one? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truly? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A shimmering coin for the turning of the
world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, sometimes angels bury
treasure on the shore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even God buries
treasure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Galleons, medallions, paper
planes and glitter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll happily give
you what you think you want. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eternity,
gilded in Aurum. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But nobody wants it for
long. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please hear me, brother. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stolen kiss in the shadows doesn't make me
shiver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm a druid and a thief and a
blood-borne altar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crooked in the
king never made me falter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's not as
simple as turning a key in the navel of the land, or owning the essence of a
numinous thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who do you think made
you what you are? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not our Father.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave you choice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave you gravity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you kiss me, Samael, I watch you go all
the way down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you better because
I loved you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still love you, despite
myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let's not pretend that I don't. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But one day soon you might no longer exist. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps you never did, except in my dreams. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sing to me as I once sang to you and I'll fill
your mouth with gold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me again,
just once, how prettily you thought of humanity when we kissed, and I'll tell
you how you die.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2GhPUAVgHZc" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5203606348119370565.post-61168173288134327982022-11-01T06:16:00.002-07:002022-11-01T06:31:00.550-07:00Saints & Souls<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vP6xG1IBbPfUKscYOGstUIM-lYsI5c3ZA2PZr32Yhsm6JwcF8mYmjU1t3wKhtsRkwRbp9rODt-NWBsU05aHgLbg-DrnDVmndEL7Y_Tr4Pxba2r1THA7_LjD4qgWBtvDfeJAz7IUKCdaz0I1JklXLNaZ58oq6k6-nLj6MEQzkdP9XE7FEYnuqjJ40ZA/s1200/Spirit%20of%20the%20Night.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="1200" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vP6xG1IBbPfUKscYOGstUIM-lYsI5c3ZA2PZr32Yhsm6JwcF8mYmjU1t3wKhtsRkwRbp9rODt-NWBsU05aHgLbg-DrnDVmndEL7Y_Tr4Pxba2r1THA7_LjD4qgWBtvDfeJAz7IUKCdaz0I1JklXLNaZ58oq6k6-nLj6MEQzkdP9XE7FEYnuqjJ40ZA/s320/Spirit%20of%20the%20Night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sometimes a smile can slip through
the darkness like a spectre through an open barrow. Like a wraith through the river. T'was not always so, such joyful ease. But what is holy, really, without a sense of
fun? It isn't just demonic things that
you find grinning in the dark. Brighter
things smile in secret too. At the
depths of human ingenuity, or divine stewardship. We've made a secular thing of all this play;
jack-o-lanterns, hobgoblins and fay. Shimmering
shades. And yet, still we seek the higher language. A holy frivolity. The chance to stand unafraid in the gate, even
as darker forms swirl about unseen. Such
things can be noticed if one has vantage.
Watching from the roofs and spires of the city, or perhaps even the
sky. I adore this aspect of human
consciousness. This desire to find fun
even in the darker half of the year. Modern
man is not the first to notice the phantasmagoria of autumn. The harvest of the fall. Burnt-orange, brown and gold amidst the green.
The forests aflame with the promise of
their own rebirth in these days of the dead. It's funny how a century can pass in the blink
of an eye. Perhaps it's the academic in
me. One spends an entire career studying
rhetoric whilst life itself is far more pragmatic. The strange overcast genius of Poe, Bronte or
Machen, yet all the while children are born. Mocking despondence with their bright-eyed
wonder. I remember walking London's
paths during those gas-lit evenings and nineteenth century nights. Children don't notice shadows the way we
adults do. Pomp and ceremony. The mummery of our gilded Victoriana. No, they see a brighter, truer world. I prefer their modern mischief, as all angels
do. Those hideous workhouses torn to
nothing, at least here in the west. Longer
lives, greater health, a wry vitality – even in these darker, occulted months. Sadly, the poor and destitute still line the
streets of my city but far greater numbers have warmth and comfort now. The youngest among London’s working classes
aren't heart-breakingly wan and barefoot. Warmth and shelter are nothing to be sniffed
at, friends. Believe me. As the young rush door to door with delirious optimism,
dressed in folklore whilst seeking sugared treats – I'm so grateful that this
is now the tenor of October's end. T'was
not always so. Sometimes a change for
the better can slip unseen through our history. Even a trained eye can forget to notice the
glory and hope swirling all about in the darkest of days. I still pray for the homeless, the vulnerable
and forgotten. Indeed there are beggars
at the gates of every shining city. But
there is a level of dignity here among the less fortunate, a level of safety
and pleasure that wasn't always afforded. It was fought for, desperately, by the best among
the living and the dead. Basic human
rights, for all souls. The sacred fire
of the hearth. I see it carried in so
many hearts these days. Before, in the
old cities, the darker cities, there was virtually no talisman against winter's
icy chill. At least nothing so
egalitarian. Misery began at summers end
and found its way into the bones of the city's least fortunate. But now so many more are safer, warmer, sated
with stories. Preoccupied with the sweet
luxuries of dress-up and shadow-play. This
brings such comfort to a historian. Especially
an angel. It means not everything is endlessly
ugly and despondent. Sometimes we can be
playful, with the optimism and wonder of a child. Shine can exist with shade and light can slip
through the darkness like a trick, or a treat.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br />
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_221101_115009_562.sdocx--><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JgffRW1fKDk" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Rajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12817085450834465555noreply@blogger.com0