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.
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