Friday 31 March 2023

Wars of Imagination

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.   

Tuesday 14 March 2023

Little Victories

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.

Wednesday 8 March 2023

Murder Song

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.