It’s funny, comparing who I used to
be with who I am now. A boy afraid to commit, to grow, to choose any path
beyond those delights and adventures of the moment. Wise beyond his years, some
said. Yet not wise enough. It’s easy to be brave most of the time. A simple trick
of perspective. Just don’t fear death. But not fearing death doesn’t
necessarily mean a soul is enamoured with life. It can seem that way to an
untrained eye. An adventurer; bold and brilliant. Like a second star in the
firmament. Righteous, and straight on till morning. Skating along each
glittering surface, leaping from world to world. Never investing beyond the
briefest encounters. Hoping charm and imagination would be enough. Often, it
was. Often, it still is. Especially among pixies, tinkers, and maidens of the
sea. Eye to eye with pirates and wraiths, tomorrow is only a distant, hoped-for
dream. Sometimes the morning ended in terror, spilled claret, and the evening
came like a devastating shadow.
Is it still an adventure when you must
bury your brothers on the shore? It wasn’t for a lack of care, you see. Never
for a lack of love. But it’s easier to brace yourself against the terrors of an
infinite dreaming by turning your back on boredom. Choosing to engage not at
all with the banalities of the waking world. Growing up, paying taxes, the
cruelties of realpolitik. Or even worse—the simple joys of ordinary
consequence. No, I wasn’t enamoured enough with life for any of that. Better to
be a flighted dreamer among dreams. Rebel, trickster. Architect. But things
change, my friends. Never is such a long time. I thought I could halt such time.
Suspend causality itself. If I was imaginative enough. But love often cracks
the firmament and upends everything we thought we knew. Wolves, and the wending
lanterns that steal their hearts. There’s a reason we howl at the moon. The
silver sun of the night sky. We’re calling to the Keeper of Dreams. Moira, I
call her. Angel of Hours and Fate. My angel, and my darling.
It makes me laugh when I think of how little we
grasp of storytelling. How true our fictions have always been. Hear me, beloved
ones. You share worlds with beings of paint and pages, celluloid and screen. A
different order of reality, but no less true than our own. I once dismissed the waking world just as many of you dismiss the world of dreaming. Briefly
entertaining, but worthy of no real regard. The joke’s on me, I suppose. I fell
in love more than once, and the world of consequence came knocking. I could do
nothing but commit to it. The wending lantern of All Saints still has this lost
boy’s heart. Do I regret my time amidst the trees and chlorophyll, as a
feathered native of the First Dreaming? Not at all. Time, even when suspended,
defines us. It helps us measure ourselves. Our growth. The nuance and evolving
depth of our love. And it’s the measure of our love that allows us to tell the
most beautiful stories.
I am a night-angel. A Nocturne. There
was a time when I wove among my former brethren of the light. But long ago there
was a War of Imagination. For all souls. A third of my brothers rebelled, and
the sun itself went dark. In horror at my catastrophic failure to help halt
this rebellion, I chose to leave the realms of Eth’iri. Despite the pleas of my
brothers. A self-imposed exile from the Fullness. The only home I’d ever known.
And so I became a wanderer in a thousand-year darkness. The world between
worlds. My wings remained, but my divine fire was dimmed to the faintest ember.
For what seemed an eternity I
staggered delirious and blind through ruptures in dreamtime. The ruins of
psyche. A realm of perpetual shadow. Until one blackened eve, I heard a dying herald
sing. A figment, I thought, conjured by the endlessness of my isolation. Or the
haunting memory of my former abode. But this distant voice was no figment.
Indeed, it was the herald of the Morn. I found Dawn herself, bleeding fatally, singing
with her last breath of wounds and wisdom. Curious, she gazed into the eyes of this
little boy lost. But I was a girl once too. Bright, with skin pale as
alabaster. Eyes brown and blue. Sensing this hidden aspect she took pity on me,
I suppose. Or remembered the place beyond the mirror, where I once remembered and
took pity on her. The boy she once was, bruised and black. A disgraced angel of
the Choral just like me. Either way, she chose to gift me with a secret,
feminine magic. The very last of her light and her life. A burst of brilliance tore
the black—and both my sight and sanctity were restored to me.
She died in my arms, but a
revelation was granted. I couldn’t change what had happened a thousand years before.
The rebellion. The war. But I could undo the death of the girl in my arms. I could
reignite the sun, making radiance more than the dreaming augurs of Ethri-sol. I
could resurrect the dawn. But I would have to die. Every night, for another
thousand years. Like a moth to a flame. If not, I would be the only thing that remains.
Immortal, wandering this ruin of shadow and salt alone. But I fell in love the
moment I heard the herald’s voice. She beguiled me with her healing grace. How
could I not offer her the same? Love asks more of both a Nocturne and a
Star. We play all roles in the end. Do you know what I chose, Fallen? What both
of us still choose? We are within you, even now. Each one of you. Hear this. Perhaps
alone I cannot halt a war in heaven. Or undo a genocide on earth. But I can bring
back the light, even in darkness. I can try to heal the ones I love. Even if it
burns.
Calesvol is written upon the brow
of the first angel. Just above her left eye. It was tattooed there by the
Myriad itself, in the time before the world was begun. Did you know that,
Fallen? It is written there in all the colours of continuum. A promise
and a warning. But Vivian’s music is heard even beneath the surface. Through
the pupil, below the iris, in the waters of perennial vision. Niamah. The
Radiant One. But there is something most so-called scholars of these tales still
don’t understand. The writhing breach and the eye of the deep are connected.
Twinned beyond mortal grasp. A teardrop on the fire, a raindrop salted with
soul. Most faithful mirror indeed.
I told you who I am, Callous Ones.
I didn’t come here dressed as her. She came here dressed as me. And still you
ask why? I’ll tell you why. The waters belong to no one and everyone. All sinister
gods of the stolen sea shall be slain at the turn of the First Dreaming. When
the stars find their correct places in the sky once again, and men are taught
all the science and secrets of the moon. Mortlake, really? Like that pretender
Dee? There is no death in my waters. Only life and lumen. Oh, Fallen. Your
grasp of Lune and Ebura is utterly feeble. As is your knowledge of
higher-dimensional physics. You still search the heart of stars for gates and
doors, but sense nothing in a seed. Or a budding rose. There is a reason we are
at war. Because your greed outmatches your gnosis.
Access to hidden texts and occult
knowledge doesn’t make you wise. Just ask Kiskuh. She was a healer once. Until men
and madness and unhonoured menses turned a healer into a wicked witch. Turned a
Keeper of Awen into the Scourge of the Inverted Eye. There is a price for
seeing, but an even greater price for unseeing. Neither price is paid in coin,
or even flesh. These tokens are taken in dreaming, mythmaking, and world-bearing.
With or without child, ruin of the soul is an ungodly thing to invoke. Trust
me. I broke the world once, for love. Don’t make me do it again. Excalibur? The
hard cleft? You have no idea. Men make indulgent thrones from their whoring,
scattershot ways. In the meanwhile they murder their mothers and daub their own
foreheads in the chrism of ancient vampires. That’s your idea of kingship? Fuck
that. There is a better way.
M’ithriin addresses you now. Kashi,
and Prosper. Vivian’s music is a mighty thing. Of courage, and kindness. Enough
to fracture worlds and bend time itself. We have seen our tales told in a thousand
ways, and still we guard these gates. Tell me, Fallen. Where does your garden
grow? Because you don’t know the first thing about mine. Maidenhead? These endless
Wars of the Roses? If only you knew the true price of defiling something so
precious. Hear me, you sickening little wraiths. Love is the most powerful
thing in creation. Kindness can undo causality itself—and courage can bring
empires to their knees. There is something in the water. Men have often called
it freedom. I really do hope you grasp this by now. If not, let me spell it out
for you. The stories shall never die. Because the sword is a radiant gate of
perennial vision. It belongs not to the king, or even the queen. It belongs to
the people. All of them. Every single one. And it shall only ever be wielded on
their behalf.
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.
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.
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.
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.
