Friday 14 September 2018

In Nomine Matri

What does it really mean to honour those who nurture and guide us?  Parents, families and friends?  Those who step in when we are shattered, and lend a hand.  What does it mean to see creator and creatrix in the eyes of your beloved ones?  In this brutal realm a family is any circle of souls who stand together in mutual support and affection.  Those who see you, and are seen by you.  Those who play and elevate and delight with you, as you strive to do the same for them.  To walk and live this deep in the dreaming is no easy thing.  To know who you really are and all that was done to you can be terrifying in this fallen place.  It hurts when I myself am defiled, of course.  But those abuses cut even deeper when they are visited upon my friends and family.  Perhaps I'm a dangerous man to know, to be around.  Trailing fire and chaos with each step.  Not because I'm a vicious thing, but because these wraith-kings fear me so.  The impossibility of me.  And all of you.  

They say the sky was raped once.  Or more than once.  They say Empyrean was torn from night and day and perception itself.  The sickness of wraiths and their violent echoes replacing once celestial light.  But Empyrean is not only out there somewhere.  It is right here, in your breast and contemplation.  In the smiling eyes of your spouses and children and friends.  Indeed it was defiled, but make no mistake – it still lives, and shines.  Divine Fire.  Church of the Bright Ones.  Den of holy wolves.  All tongues of know of it, giving it names and songs.  Our modern tales of All Hallows speak easily of the father, but less of the mother.  Or the daughter, and sister.  Still, we wonder why.  Sheer ignorance?  Simple cruelty?  Or something far more sinister?  To defile nature's cradle and quiver.  Those cradles of conception and arrows of light, broken and bent.  An endless mourning for every stolen child, every indignity visited upon that which carried and carries your flesh.  And still, the wraiths deceive you.  That our flesh is filth, that sex and union and creation must be ugly; the perpetuation of violent horrors and coquettish meat.  But flesh was once holy, and shall be once more.  Flesh is freedom and dance, a thing of occulted light poised to dance again.  It is rhythm, communion and seeking, whether wounded or healed.  Flesh is living intelligence, though dishonoured and disavowed.  Every mother knows this, every daughter.  Every father and son, once upon a time.  Before those wraiths tore us from our star and slit the throat of Sol.  A world of false light; a world at war.  Cruel and stupid and banal.  

Now we sell and hurt our own children.  We mock and defile our wives, and send our husbands off to sacrifice.  These callous wraiths have perverted everything, because sickness and annihilation is everything they know.  Very few of us are genuine monsters.  But we have allowed cliques of monsters to rule us, though our numbers are greater.  Though hidden they rule us quite openly, through signs.  But most of us cannot read those augurs.  The ritual killing of our intuition and pattern-recognition repeats itself daily.  Reborn with each morning and slain with each night.  How else would they oppress an immortal soul?  But I'm a dangerous motherfucker, and I don't take such abuses lightly.  Kassi stands.  Esme lives.  Johann is at work, always.  A thing of wrath and emerald radiance, all.  Did you really think I would forget my own?  My life, my blood?  My blood is Kara's blood, and Asha's.  If this corrupted flesh calls my truth a lie then in spirit you shall know us.  I made a promise, to both of them.  And I intend to keep my promises.  You shall know us in dream then, if not in waking.  Story, art, love and hope.  Truth of our Cradle.  The truth of family, and conception.  The Truth ov Living Light.

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