In Utero

 

It’s a scary thing sometimes, the world. Wars and rumours of wars. But we should never forget our mothers. Especially now. There seems to be so much extremism on all sides these days. Righteous indignation, increasing polarisation, the obliteration of nuance. We seem to be trapped in our own little bubbles in a world that is increasingly online. Increasingly denatured, bloodless and virtual, fed by a self-reinforcing algorithm curated to make us feel a variety of unsubtle emotions. We’re encouraged to feel rage, disgust, or even morbid curiosity. Anything to keep us clicking, keep us scrolling, until the next dopamine rush or synapse-hijack.

It’s terrifying to consider that our thinking is largely not even our own anymore. It’s a hybrid, hyper-mediated construction designed by billion-dollar corporations and social engineering interests. To my mind this seems to be a perverse, toxic version of paternity. A conquering mindset, not a nurturing one. Not to belabour the point, but this algorithmic version of existence seems to have created a flattened, slightly inhuman affect—part AI, part overstimulated nervous-system. It’s an odd, distinctly twenty-first century malaise. It’s not just apathy, or nihilism. It’s a strange blend of cynicism and innocence.

We’re cynical because we can no longer tell what is real. And with advances in AI it’s only getting harder to distinguish truth from lies, fact from fiction. So much so that the language around those topics is becoming increasingly outdated. A new lexicon is needed, and it will emerge even if it’s by accident. This is the way of societies on the cusp of terrifying, monumental change. So, yes, we’re cynical. Tired, burnt out, overstimulated and distrusting of all forms of so-called authority. Lost, distrustful of our fathers, and craving a connection to our mothers that we seem to have traded away. In this regard we’re incredibly innocent, plunging headfirst into a world we can barely comprehend. A world soon to be filled with technologies we still don’t really understand.

Unless you believe in recurrence, lost advanced civilisations, or time travel—then mankind has never been here before. Not at this exact point, in this exact way. A dangerous threshold between self-extinction and an oncoming digital revolution. Quantum computers, data centres, faster-than-light technologies, interstellar travel. All these things once seemed like science-fiction. But we are already designing and building the infrastructure to make these exotic technologies a reality. Perhaps not globally or commercially. Perhaps not even outside of classified private or military-intelligence circles. But soon, and with an alarming lack of foresight.  

Even with intermittent or partial success—these advances have the potential to alter the course of human development on a long enough timescale. It doesn’t take much. For me, this is why the natural world is more pertinent and necessary than ever. Gardens, forests, parks, rivers and lakes. Green spaces of all kinds. Especially in the cities, but in all places were human and animal life resides. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that we’ve become uncoupled from nature in profound and disturbing ways. Our lack of accountability and oversight for some of the largest corporations on earth is proof enough of this. We’re no longer stewards of the Earth in all the ways we should be.

This vital lost connection to nature isn’t the whole story, of course. It’s also about our humanity in general. Our increasing lack of insight. Our lack of depth regarding empathy, parity, and tolerance. Do we seem like a particularly tolerant species right now? Inhabiting a world filled with genocide, vitriol, and viciousness of every kind? These words aren’t meant to upset or deflate you, my friends. I know how difficult it is to gaze into the abyss. To peer into the depths of a black hole. You can feel hopeless, and powerless. I’m only writing this to make a general point about humanity, nature, and our overreliance on tools. Humans have fashioned tools since the beginning. Tools for action and tools for contemplation. Scientific tools and artistic tools. Spears, knives, bowls, medicines, papers, and ink. Wood, metals, and plastics. With these tools we were able to expand our societies and our collective knowledge.

We survived the agricultural revolution. It gave us grain, a new relationship with the land, and a new ability to harvest and store food en masse. We also survived the industrial revolution too, but with great casualties. Our tools became far more sophisticated, but so did our weapons. Leading to wars and conflicts on a scale hitherto unimagined. In three hundred years—the blink of an eye in geological time—we leapt forward in greater strides than we had done for millennia previously. If you believe the official accounts of accepted history, that is. But what happens when most if not all our tools are digital? Virtual? What happens when Artificial Intelligence has finally crept into almost every facet of modern living? Make no mistake, a digital revolution is coming. We’re in the early stages of it already, and it will continue to gather pace long after each of us currently living is dead.

If iron, steel, and plastic took us to such unimaginable places… if it laid the groundwork for things like electricity, flight, nuclear fission—then where will AI take us? Where will quantum computing, genetic manipulation, transhumanism, and evolving models of higher-dimensional physics take us? What will it lay the groundwork for? There was a time when mankind never imagined flight, the internal combustion engine, or mass-communication. Those things were fantasies and fiction. Sci-fi. But nothing ever stays the same, and it seems to me that Imagination tends towards manifestation over a long enough course of time. What can be imagined can often be achieved with a combination of creativity and the right tools, but those tools can often make us slaves in the process. Beholden, anxious and denatured. So, this is why I reiterate the importance of maintaining a connection with nature and each other however we can.

This connection will look a little different for each of us, depending on our circumstance and struggles. But friendship, faith, and artistic endeavour is a good place to start. These things ground us in the now. In the physical. They reorient us toward one another, and the numinous. Our connection to the natural, the spiritual, and ourselves needn’t be separate relationships. We came from those green places. And it’s to those green places we all return. Mud, rivers, seeds, and stars. We were born in the shared womb of our mothers and the earth. Made in utero, from carbon and water—fed by the light and electromagnetism of our closest star. And we have femininity to thank for that. Our green spaces and secret gardens. We need masculinity too, of course. We need fathers as well as mothers. Truth be told we need both, now more than ever.

This is not a luddite tract, or even a warning about overreliance on technology. This is just a gentle reminder to seek the soft, the nurturing, and the kind. All those things within and without that tend toward healing and growth. In a virtual, plastic, denatured world obsessed with profit-driven incentives, there isn’t much value placed on true paternity. There isn’t much value placed on green spaces either. So, it’s on us. We must be the ones to think beyond counterfeits and colonies. We need to understand the connection between womb and wisdom, seed and star. Our inner lives depend on it. And soon, quite possibly our daily physical lives as well.      

Writing in the Garden

 

Hello, my friends,

Welcome back to Amid Night Suns. I hope you’re all keeping well. This is just a quick post to share another short story of mine. Or, perhaps more accurately, a short novella. I’m just trying to hone my craft and explore writing from various perspectives. If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you’ll know I adore storytelling and the general art of fiction. You also might know I have a particular fondness for Victorian and Edwardian literature, having studied it at university. This is a lengthier piece, around 20,000 words, inspired by that fondness—and more specifically by the work of Frances Hodgson Burnett. A British-American writer who wrote some of the most beloved pieces of children’s fiction. Including A Little Princess and The Secret Garden; two of my favourites. This piece of mine is inspired by those stories that kept me so delighted as a child, and then fascinated again as an adult. Please forgive any mistakes or typos I didn't catch. I wrote this story for my friends, as a labour of love. For anyone who appreciates or resonates with the work I try to do here. I had you in mind when writing it, make no mistake. For courage, kindness, and adventure. You can read it here at The Night Sun, or download and it read at your leisure as a PDF. I hope you’re enjoying your summer, as best you can. And I hope this tale entertains, inspires or uplifts you.

All my love,

Raj

High Fidelity

 

Hey, guys and girls. Welcome back to Amid Night Suns. This is just a quick post to share my latest video from my YouTube channel, The Oldest Magic. This one discusses adventure, romance, storytelling, and all the connections therein. I hope you get something out of it. I really enjoy doing these pieces directly to camera. I feel like I’m just chatting with friends, and it’s a nice change from the free verse stuff I often post here — or the more elaborate, time-consuming video collages I love to make. So, I’m going to try to post more of these conversational videos moving forward, as and when the muses move me. Anyways, I hope you’re all keeping well. I hope you’re out there chasing adventure, romance, and meaningful stories... whatever that means to you personally. I wish you nothing but love, autonomy, and magic.

Love, Always

 

Never is a frightening word. Especially where loved ones are concerned. As a boy I used to think that word held great promise. I still do, at times. But my thinking has evolved. Experience and maturity. I used to think I could hold all the joys of childhood suspended in a single breath. In the atemporal imaginings of a psychic, or a sorcerer. And it worked for a while. Long before these pages I had a way about me. I could beguile others into a world of rapture and imagination. A world where we got to be heroic, nuanced, and free. Till the wolf found his wending lantern, and suddenly everything changed.

It’s a difficult thing to explain, Kara. My darling angel. I don’t talk in artistic conceits. Even my fictions stem from very intimate truths. I used to think bravery and adventure was love enough. If I meant it in the moment, then it was real. I wasn’t wrong, of course. Just short-sighted. But as I’ve gotten older, I realize love is more than adventure or imagination. These are key aspects indeed, but ultimately a real love story is about presence. Showing up. A shared journey containing a thousand small gestures, each intended to delight and intrigue. If this isn’t true romance and devotion, then I shall never know what is.

As I said, never is a frightening word where our loved ones are concerned. To never see them, to never hold their hand, or hug them. To never again feel their kindness or their kiss. As I got older, I realised that flights of fancy weren’t enough. Adventure without genuine care became meaningless. Even pixie dust has its limits. But I also realised it didn’t have to stay that way. I could choose something different. I still had time. Courageous one, I know you sometimes doubt that I’m a time-traveller. A mysterious boy only growing older on the outside, still running for his life. But I am. Always seeking artistic companionship in this strange river of temporality. And I need you to know. I love you. Always, and forever. Beyond second stars, pirates, or wraiths.

There is a melancholy at the heart of me, but it isn’t tragedy. Far from it. I chose well. I turned my back on solipsism. I turned toward courage, kindness, and love. Amid the stars I heard a girl singing, and I flew. I followed her song till morning. She is an old and dear friend. Kara, I don’t love you simply for what you’ve given me, though you’ve given me so much. I don’t love you just for the songs you sing, though your voice cleaves my soul. No, I love you for who you are. Who you choose to be each day. Softness and strength in equal measure. Quietly perceptive. Canny and kind. And wilder than they know. But I know, Kara. I knew you among forests, beside rivers. The mid-river thimble around my neck, etched with Saint Christopher, is more than just the memory of your kiss. It’s the reminder of everything you mean to me. Everything we taught each other, in this world and many others.

You taught me things about life and love that I honour to this day. However, I taught you things too. So, men may say that they know you. Or remember you. But if they don’t recall you in your fullness, and try to lead you to greater vistas of possibility, within and without… then they don't know you at all. You once told me that you wanted adventure and contemplation both. Wildness and wisdom. Strength and sweetness. You said a boy didn’t have to betray his inner fire to soften his heart a little. That you would love him all the more if he could embrace you, himself and others in a thousand creative ways.

If he did this with a joyful, self-effacing swagger then he would remain an adventurer even as he matured. Pirates have no code, you said, and thieves no honour. But the souls who men and women wish to love ideally have both. It’s something I think about to this day. I’m not afraid to grow up anymore, but I seek to remain worthy of love. Yours especially. Love is expansive and life-affirming, you said. Not constricting and oppressive. You taught me well, in that brave but gentle way of yours. I hope you never forget it either, my adventurous girl. It will stand you in good stead, I’m certain. Choose wisely, live vibrantly, and love those who deserve it with your whole heart. There is no higher form of flight, believe me. You still have time.

Signs of Smiling

 

People ask for signs all the time, but then often ignore them if they don’t arrive in the form or with the level of comfort or seriousness they expect. It’s a curious thing. I don’t exclude myself from this phenomenon. We all fall prey to it from time to time. As human beings we’re fascinated by and very skilled in pattern recognition. We’re good at noticing the obvious stuff. In art as well as life. However, I think we have both a desire and a great fear of more esoteric patterns. Caught between a rock and a hard place, we crave depth but are frightened by it too. Much like the search for God, we vacillate between viewing these more subtle signs as either visions of a larger reality or utter madness. We’re never quite certain if we’re identifying a signal amidst the noise, or just mistaking that noise for signal by listening too hard. To speak colloquially, many people would say, “It isn’t that deep.” I would disagree. Life is experience and perception. Multidimensional, layered, and infinitely complex. Sometimes we think of the quest for meaning as a solitary pursuit. An almost mythic journey that requires isolation and calm. This aspect of sign-searching or signal-scrying has its place, of course. But sometimes we forget that signs can come among a crowd too. In connection, through reciprocity. In other words, we often expect signs from the universe to be serious. Solemn, or filled with gravitas befitting of the situation. And sometimes they reach us in exactly that way. But often, the best signs come laced with humour. Wrapped in comedy, or wit. What do I mean by this?       

Well, how often do we notice something glimmering in our perceptual field when we’re with another person, but because of social convention we ignore it, pretending it isn’t there? An object, an observation, or the restrictive convention itself? I often think we miss out on so many possibilities for connection, affection, and play. We forget to comment good-naturedly on the obvious thing. Calling out the elephant in the room. Or we remain silent on the amusing observation that only our particular outlook can provide. But when we encounter those who still see these subtler signs—and act on them—we often feel charmed, delighted, and reanimated. We relax, becoming less stiff. We are invited into a world of play. Moments like these respectfully defy convention, shattering the boring, obvious framing of a situation—and suddenly we feel more human. The best friendships and relationships have elements of all this. And casual encounters too. Wry observation, recognition of absurdity, playful reframing of situations and conventions, all shared in a spirit of openness and affection. We comment and riff and magnify. Human beings can bond far quicker when we’re able to do this. “Hey, look at this weird setting, this bizarre unspoken assumption, this colourful object, that unique item of clothing. Let’s share a little humanity and amuse ourselves by humorously improvising together about them.” When done in the correct spirit these interactions can include set-ups, payoffs and callbacks that rival the best standup comedy. And now people are searching for those signs, and finding them, together.    

So, how do we open that circle? Through inclusion, I’d suggest. Who in your life usually gets ignored? Reduced to background characters? Streamlined into virtual non-existence? Often it’s people just like us, but providing a different narrative function in the story of our lives. Random customers, service workers, or cleaners. People at different levels of the social hierarchy. How often do we remember to make others feel included, or in on the joke, or part of the conversation? We often forget, don’t we? Lost in the endless busywork of our lives. Sometimes opportunities present themselves, but we ignore them. But when we do remember to humanize others in this way, we can create a brief or sustained dynamic between us. As individuals and as a group. 

Have you ever been in a situation when everyone present recognised the funny thing? Or the ridiculous assumption? Or the amusing occurrence? Perhaps it was something as innocent as a child being uncannily perceptive, or saying something sweetly inappropriate. Waves of quiet laughter ripple amongst the group. Suddenly strangers and friends are sharing amused glances and smiles. That’s recognition. That’s our shared humanity brought to the forefront of all our minds for a moment. And suddenly we feel a little more alive. The human spirit sparkles a little brighter. Often we recall that moment on the journey home, or we discuss it with family and friends at a later date. That act of shared humanity is akin to a moment of implied friendship amongst people who don’t necessarily know each other. You all saw the sign, glinting like a star in the mud, and the shared recognition of that sign briefly connected everyone. For just a moment, you were all behaving like friends in a kind of assumed familiarity. Suddenly the emotional distance between everyone was lessened. These moments always bring a great deal of comfort and delight to our day. We are reanimated for a while, and we feel warmth towards those we shared that moment with. So, if the divine intelligence that people call God really does exist, maybe it’s not that he doesn’t understand the seriousness or gravity of any given situation, but like us he enjoys connection. Like us he wants to see us at our most human. Perhaps he wants to see our spirits sparkle—and perhaps he understands the power of a sign sent with a smile.

 

Walk the Sky

 

My name means king in certain tongues. Light, and Heaven. But so does yours. My dearest Esme, we are so much greater than these dark ones understand. We are sovereign, each of us -— yet bound together under the most ancient of covenants. Protect the weak and wounded. Be a voice for the voiceless. Anchor the light in the darkest places. It’s a pledge we both undertook. A long, long time ago. We live in an infinite multiverse, my dawn treader. It’s not just an artistic conceit, or some imprecise understanding of quantum mechanics. No, I’ve lived this. Many lives. Many worlds. You have too. It means more than multiplicity, or eternity. It means art is the oldest magic because all stories are actually happening, in that place we imagine as the eternal present.

That infinite, endless now is the bearer and bringer of Light. Ausus, Eos. Rey. She has many, many names. I should know, I fathered her oldest epithets. She stood by my side, shoulder to shoulder, in the War of Imagination. The War for All Souls. When a third of the angels rebelled against Creation itself, and the sun went dark. But there is a secret about darkness. Something even the blackest wraiths don’t understand. Perception is a crossed and spiralled thing. Of the skull, as at Golgotha. Of the sabre, as with Excalibur. And of the hand, as with friendship — palm to palm. If you journey deep enough into the darkness, you’ll find a holy ember hidden. A divine spark guarded by nightwalkers. Magi of the bravest sort. Even a lost soul can regain the mantle of light if they so choose. But they must face the truth. Guilt, horror, and each sin committed turned back on themselves. It is no easy oblation. The Hanged Man is not a painless redemption, but it is possible. Even in Hell.

Esme, my love, the sky is full of stars. I’ve sailed among them in my dreams. But more than that, I was once the very Lord of Dreaming Stars. Suns, we call them. And Daughters. I chose to build this gate when you were still a child, because I remembered your name. And I knew of the battles to come. Walk the sky with me now, my warrior. The war is very real. I have the scars to prove it. There was a time when I lost all faith. I could no longer see the dawn, or feel the radiant. But then you were born again, like a miracle. I fell to my knees, thanking my Father in prayer. And I wept. Your name means Light in many tongues, my bright one. But to me it has always meant hope. Old and new. 

The Pilgrim's Door

 

How often do we stand at the threshold like Alice, and how many times do we knock? It's a frightening thing, this place below the world. But even more unsettling than this vale of subtle grammar is the refusal to seek at all. Tacit consent in the rewriting of our own interiority by forces cold and colonising. Those who style themselves kings, and counsel. So, dinner with Dante or claret with the curious? Well, I think the answer is obvious. Hellscapes get repetitive after the first six thousand years. Gehenna or personal accountability? I know what I’m choosing. Gnosis is far more beguiling than demonology. Take it from a professional meddler. But sometimes we don’t get to overtly choose these things. We only get to respond. Living as best we can in a frightening, uncertain world. Refugees of war know all about it, and some of the more sensitive souls too. It was bright once, the earth entire. And despite the shape of these shadows, we still walk on sacred grounds. The Court of Lady Grey and the Crimson King once belonged to all of us. I know because I was there among Akasha's first dreaming. These astral influences still leave a mark, don’t they? These stars within. A teleology of time. I didn’t craft the hours themselves, but I keep them. And I certainly made midnight what it is. Doors within doors, in this defining black. Most people are scared of the dark. I understand why, believe me. But I was never afraid to go down.

I needn’t explain myself too much. Beatrice and Eurydice shall speak on my behalf, I hope. Or, at least, they’ll leave a legacy of light for those who follow. Just know that imposters stole the thrones of your imagining. Convinced you that you were nothing more than beggars and thieves. But that is a lie. The subtle grammar responds to meaning. And the letters of your soul are greater than any malefica. Please know this, my friends. History isn’t too fond of happy endings, but I am. I fell down. All the way down. But I am returned, with elixir. I might not be the next big thing, but I’m dedicated. I’m a little broad and awkward, I suppose, despite the swagger. Still the broken boy of the forest floors. I’ve mastered human flight though. And dreaming. What have you done lately, Fallen? Besides tearing down the weak and killing the kind? It's nothing to be proud of. Yeah, I’m earnest. Not perfectly curated. Perhaps a little too guileless for these fractured, cynical times. But who doesn’t like some honesty now and again—for variety if nothing else? Art is an honest sort of fiction, and the oldest magic. I admire the dreamers. Those paying attention to the subtle grammar within themselves and each other. I'm with them all the way, till the end. I often write love-letters to those cherished ones. 

I can't force you to step across the threshold into a wider world, of course. I can only invite you to the door. It's terrifying to even knock once, not knowing what lies on the other side of ourselves. It's a horrifying, nightmare realm we live in at times. We must never make ourselves numb to these very real and brutal inequities. But there is also incredible beauty and light here too. Hell and Heaven. I’ve found that the existential dread of this broken chronology melts far easier beneath a playful smile. It's an adventure, this cultivation of insight. To know ourselves and the world around us with nuance and depth. A fine line to walk at times, I grant you. But we have to try. We must remain brave and bright, no? Thoughtful and playful. Both are necessary in times of war. And this is indeed a War of Imagination. A War for All Souls. I don’t mind being judged anymore these days, or appearing a touch too earnest. What do angels and star-sailors have to prove anyway? I have no idea. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. I have no competition. I’m a singular being. I try to spread knowledge, love and uplift as best I can. I try to tell interesting stories to the best of my abilities, even if I fail sometimes. I can laugh at my mistakes and be proud of my successes. After all, I’ve only ever been playing against myself. And so far—I'm winning like a champ. You are too, my friends. Please don't give up.