She followed the Seven, Guardians of the Lore into the innermost depths of the sanctum. Torches glowed with a preternatural brilliance. Here was housed their most sacred lore, memories emanating from an era when neither Light nor Darkness existed in that Universe. A time when the Omniscience held a germ of all that was to be in their thoughts. So did life and death unfold. They showed her the way, then the Holy of Holies emerged from thoughts and soundless voices. Thus was she shown the beginnings of her people, of her kin. The images played out before her, of a time and place not of their world: Continue reading
I came across this suave gentleman whilst looking for an image for another blog. He intrigued me and I wanted to know more of his story. Who, what and where, raced through my mind. At one point I thought he looked a little like the late Argentinian jazz saxophonist Gato Barbieri. Hm, maybe not. Perhaps I want this man to have a history filled with all manner of adventure, loss, love and creativity. Magic even.
Writers have spun concoctions from the meerest scrap of an idea, why shouldn’t I from an image found out of thousands? People interest me, I love observing them, at rest, work and play. Human nature repels me (and many others) when it manifests in ugly hatred, malice and selfishness. On the other hand, It enriches my spirit when the true beauty and poetry of the soul shine through. I digress. What of my mysterious stranger? I named him the Master of Ceremonies for a good reason, which will be explained later. His demeanour and roguish good looks hint at, a life infused with spiciness and whiskey flavoured jazz melodies. A little overstated? I can’t help myself.
An intriguing photo from Sue for this week’s photo prompt Knock #writephoto. What a magnificent creature I think, redolent of deep and ancient magic. Great Pan, is that you? Guardian of the portal into Nature’s mysteries.
In the mind’s eye I see your temples of green, mighty forests stretching far beyond the horizon. Pure and sweet streams wind through glade of green. My feet take me through flower filled meadow and deep river valley. Sweet thyme and oregano crush underfoot and honey bees sway drunkenly in nectar and heat filled flight. What a marvel of imagination! Come forth Great God of Nature, long have I waited to glimpse your face. The question must be asked, will fear shatter the dream, Pan-ic drive me from your realm? We have defiled your memory much, shaping sacred into demon birthed forth from intolerance and religious zeal. Your world has not banished but stepped back into the shadows, it waits in our dreams, our hope and our yearning.
Come, come, Great Pan! Open the door to mysteries beyond. I wait, draw circles in earth and call forth Sylph, Salamander, Undine and Gnome. Air, Fire, Water and Earth. Should I come before you innocent as a child, free from guilt and hardened perception? Soft, soft are your footsteps through gold tinged forest, such sweet music sweeps before you. Reed pipes, how hypnotic their sound is. The memories come fleeting, tinged with sweet and sharp, bring on deep thirsts. I glimpse your face briefly, you persist in playing this game but not in cruelty it seems. I feel you close now. Arcadia is close now. Ancient hymns echo in my ears. They praise you primeval god, petition for fertility and joy. They sing of times lost, when only mist existed after chaos withdrew from night.
He comes closer still, pipes lulling fear and Pan-ic. I feel your gaze mighty Pan, dare I turn my head and look? Closer and closer you edge. I reach out and knock on the door, a pause and then it swings open. Bright eyes gleam in the gloom, they move closer, is that you Great Pan? Beyond lie green temples, flower filled meadow and deep river valleys. ‘Come hither he says’ and I can only accept, knowing great mysteries lie ahead.
The Storyteller and I parted ways some time ago; amicably it has to be said. Only a temporary situation you understand. We both relish our personal space and the time apart reinvigorates the spirit. We share the same corporeal form but encapsulate twin creative souls. Some writers adopt a pen name to create works in a different genre to their main output. It seems I’ve gained another Muse to perform that function. Her true name is yet to be revealed. This is deliberate, for a name is a thing of power and more so one’s true name. Only the Jackal God and the Storyteller are privy to such a secret. Her journey is my journey; we seek each other and meaning in the trials and tribulations of our chosen goal and path. We also seek them in the moments of stillness and joy. I invite her to partake of tea and conversation. Continue reading
Fellow bloggers and old friends who attended the recent Silent Eye workshop, The Feathered Seer, have written far more eloquently than I of their experiences. This is my attempt at making sense of the weekend’s events, my guide Anubis will walk beside me as I recall all and perhaps nothing. I ask my Muse and Guide, The Opener and Walker between the Worlds what he makes of this tapestry woven from our histories. He gives me an inscrutable look (haven’t seen that one before) and whispers:
We carry in our DNA the sum of all existence and memory, from before time existed and beyond the ending of worlds. Linking with others to form gigantic DNA chains in the body of something beyond comprehension. Purposefully flying towards evolution and completion. Harmonious and beauteous in all ways. All return to the point of origin, from whence they came. Then there is no-one and no-thing, we just ARE but our conscious minds are unable to understand this concept except only in dreams and moments of true insight. Continue reading
My response to‘s Stream of Consciousness prompt. I haven’t indulged in a while, so this is a wicked pleasure. Linda’s prompt is below:
It’s Friday today, and this is your Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt. Life is crazy, isn’t it? Between being glued to the news and doing everything I can to avoid it, I’ve finally started reading “Game of Thrones.” It’s very compelling! Hard to put down, which sucks, because I do most of my reading before bed. Ah well. Here’s your prompt for this week:
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “bear/bare.” Use one, use both, use ’em any way you please. Have fun!
This is a tale of prophecy and choices, of far memory and other realms. A Seeker and Bear Shaman meet in a place between worlds.
The light pierces like a knife, searing memory and flesh like nothing before and after. You see your world reflected in my eyes, in the stars, in the depths of the primeval ocean. I am the Great Bear and Walker through the gates of Birth and Death. My feet fled over burning seas to bring knowledge of what was to be, what was not to be. Seeker, you have no understanding of higher laws. Visions that do not suit your desire you discard, yet you insist on seeking my counsel. So be it. The bones shall speak and such foretelling will unfold, whether you listen or not. Why the hesitation? It is too late to retrace your path human child.
The man watches the great being before him, the figure shimmers briefly like an apparition in the desert wastes. It is as if time and space are being pulled apart. What sorcery is this?, he thinks. Then a silence descends upon the place of foretelling. The bone oracle reveals its message slowly, aware of the indecisions and fears assailing the human.
The Bear Shaman rematerialises and gazes at the figure sitting before him. His voice speaks of a time when the world will be held in thrall to rivers of ice.
The breath of the ice giants shall immobilise all in its path and bring forth an age of forgetfulness and exile. Humans will not be spared, their time will be at an end. Blood shall freeze in veins and shadows taint souls.
He smiles without humour and gestures for the human to come closer. His voice remains strong and takes on a steeliness. There is more to be unveiled and it is drenched in blood.
The world perishes in flames and the Universes are set alight in battles inglorious. You human child are at the centre of such conflicts. Or not. Make your choice, what path are your feet planted on? Your choices will write the histories of future generations. You shall be reviled, you shall be honoured. You seek us out, we the holders of knowledge and wisdom, but knowledge is not enough to survive that which emerges from the depths of your own darkness.
The man listens in horror and shame. The message the oracle offers up is not what he wants to hear but knows is the truth. A side has to be chosen.
My response to Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt Cracked Ice. I return once again to the realms of fire and ice to face Odin and see creation unfold. Creation of the Cosmos and more. Or is it just a dream? Does any of this make sense? Seek beneath the surface dear Reader.
Odin, what say you on the fate of this world? Fire and ice have conspired, have melded, have given birth.
I too must emerge from the belly of the Nothingness that existed before Names. Mist is my Soul, Time is my name.
Resurrected and Sacrificed, being at once one and the other. Riddles must I speak in, for there is no other way to impart that which has slumbered in eternal silence and darkness.
See the abyss before you Child of past, present and future. For that vision must you pay and pay dear. Ginnungagap, therein resides perfect silence, perfect darkness at the centre.
Primordial Ice, Niflheim flows forth and Primordial Fire, Muspelheim rises. Shall the twain join, mate in an eternal embrace. Flows forth from their coupling ice unbound from its fetters. Dewdrops of life, filled with potential.
What see you to be One-Eyed and freed from blindness? He stirs, life reflected in water, birthed from fire and ice. Ymir, it is He that we have waited for. See your world bound in fire and ice, mist shrouding all. Knowledge is hidden, you seek it? Pay, god of seers and prophesy. Trickster are you, weaver of fate. Ruler of the Runes.
Life arises out of sacrifice, Ymir shall go forth, offering himself. All after must be hidden from you, you must seek for yourself. Creation does not seek to reveal itself to your eyes. Seek it yourself, pay, for knowledge always demands sacrifice. Dream now, Time itself enfolds itself. I wait, I have all eternity.
My response this week to Linda G Hill’s prompt Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Linda’s prompt was:
‘Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “in/out.” Use one, use both, use ’em any way you’d like. Enjoy!’
He was sorting his wares in the market square, an unassuming man in threadbare clothes. I watched him from behind a column. Silently and surely did he contemplate each item. It was as if he meditating upon the message each imparted to his inner being. Totally focussed and serene. I was taken aback, wanting to know more but hesitant about approaching him. People barely glanced at him, dismissing the man as a beggar. Didn’t they see the light within him? It flowed out like a clear mountain stream. The Universe had finally sent their messenger, I was sure of it. How long had I waited for this sign?
Time passed slowly around us. It seemed like hours that I sat and viewed him from my vantage point. The song of angels rang in my ears. How strange and rather awe inspiring. A memory hovered briefly, of great illumination, of stars and planets. This Self was one removed from the earthly plane. She/He being an emanation of the Great Consciousness. Messenger and Keeper of the Records were they. Then the memory vanished like mist in the sun. The Stranger lifted his head and looked straight at my hiding place. He knew! For an eternity it seemed each stared at the other. His light flowed forth and gathered before me. For a brief moment it held the gift of Grace. Magi. He was a Magus.
Legendary beings spoken of in hushed tones. Guardians of humanity and the Light. Something unknown swept through me. I could see the blood rushing through my veins, its power intensifying with each breath. Points of light sparkled within the crimson rivers, gold flakes were they. Then the vision faded. He was standing before me. He was the figure who had haunted my dreams since before birth.
‘You are the one I have come for. Come, ready yourself neophyte’. His voice was deep and melodious, it spoke to my Soul.
I had little in the way of possessions and family. No ties to this place. The horizon beckoned. I glanced at the Magus and knew what my destiny was to be. The trials and hardships had lead me to this point. The Alchemists say that the gross matter of the Soul is purified in Fire, finally to become transformed into spiritual Gold. I looked IN the Book of Life and saw what wonders and trials lay ahead.
White Rabbit is looking quite unlike his usual self these days. Gone are the white jacket and strides. In their place are things most primal, edged with a fine trim of mischief. The Stag in the Stubble is making his presence known and I’m quite intrigued to be honest. I watch him from the safety of my so-called civilised world. He knows of things that I’ve forgotten. Mr Hare, Mr Hare, the wild places of my heart are calling and I want to follow. Dare I step over the threshold? My civilised world is filled with as many dangers and traps in the natural world, or so I’m told. It has to be said that the living are to be feared more than the dead in my experience. He wonders how the conversation has turned to thoughts of the dead. Mere chance I reply, although my alter ego did have a literary brush recently with the great Angel of Death, Azrael. Mr Hare gives me a most peculiar look. Strange woman he mutters. He then proceeds to agree with my comment about the living. What a capricious nature!
“I agree with you on that matter. At least the dead are quite honest about their intentions, unlike the living at times.”
Nice to know we’re talking from the same page. He winces at that comment. On reflection it sounds too much like ‘corporate speak’. Oh, well. Shall we forget I ever made that comment?
Talking of dead ‘things’. Mr Hare gives me a withering look as if to say ‘back on that subject are we?’. Yes we are, but not in the sense of truly dead things but things metaphorically dead. If you get my meaning. My world is currently filled with stalled plans, stalled studies, taking exams, waiting on exam results and a body desperately needing an MOT. Do I sound like I’m moaning? He lifts an eyebrow and tries to hide a smile. Mr Hare shakes his head and gestures behind him. I look a little puzzled and wonder what’s going on. A figure emerges out of his shadow. Another hare. What a surprise! Wonder where the third hare is? Not the right time it seems for the Triad to be in one place, yet. I respect their decision. The second hare then melts into the shadows. I can sense him running through the cornfield and jumping over hedgerows. He leaps and turns in the fields. There’s a wild look in his eyes. They convey the passage of time, the turning of the seasons and old memories. I stand in a strange world, one in which the inner world is at odds with the outer. Convention is stifling my nature and as the cliché goes ‘I’m a round peg trying to fit into a square hole’. Quelle horreur!
Mr Hare scrutinises me intently. He’s aware this was going to come to light eventually. I tell him it feels like I’m standing still, not quite rooted to the spot but ‘waiting’. Anpu did say to be self-aware and not to feed the fear. Mr Hare’s lips curl into a smile. He’s up to something. I ask him if we’re going down another rabbit hole, as my knees are a little painful at the moment. He shakes his head and points to the woodland in the distance. Where did that come from? I roll my eyes. It’s magic and anything can happen in this little adventure. He runs off and stops periodically for me to catch up. We stand at the edge of the wood, the air shimmers briefly and then we step over the threshold.
‘You wanted to follow the call of the wild places of your heart’ he mutters as we stand in the middle of a clearing. I’m wondering if it’ll involve any running, as it could be a problem. He seems to have a skill for reading my thoughts, hope he didn’t hear my previous thought. Oh dear. There seems to be a lot of fly agaric mushrooms in this place. Mr Hare stands to one and just watches me. This place seems far removed from the noise of human activity. All I can hear is birdsong, other unidentifiable noises, and the movement of animals through the wood. There, it sounds like a stream. The wood doesn’t feel oppressive and enclosing. There’s a lightness and great age about it. I realise how shut off I’ve become in my daily life. Only to keep out the noise of other people’s thoughts, erratic and emotional energies. I don’t think I’m the only person in the world to feel like this. Like Mr Hare’s alter ego, White Rabbit, I seem to be constantly racing against time. Time. Perhaps I should step outside of Time and its constraints. Who first measured time and forced us to follow its regimented schedule? ‘The wild places of my heart are calling’. That phrase has journeyed with me throughout life. It’s remained hidden at times and then emerged into the light to remind me to wake up and live. We should all heed the call of our hearts and find the wild places. Gosh. This is turning into one of those art house films filled with existential angst. Mr Hare looks a little surprised at the art house reference. I feel like laughing.
Suddenly the mood changes and we sense the presence of something wondrous and unearthly. They’re coming. The sunlight streaming through the canopy highlights a myriad of golden sparks. We sit down on a fallen tree and wait. It takes me back to an experience I had at a lakeside in Onatrio, Canada many, many years ago. We were camping by a lake in one of the national parks. The sun hadn’t risen yet and there was a mist rolling over the lake. It looked quite beautiful. The only sounds we could hear were the call of moose and coots. The noises didn’t distract from the immensity of the either silence or the sense of being a part of something greater. Great Spirit was truly present in that place and time. I was fully present in that moment. A voice whispers in my ear, ‘find that place within yourself again’. I look up and there they are. All that populates the wild places of my heart. What are they? That would be telling. Mr Hare agrees with me. With finger on my lips I keep it a secret and journey back to the threshold and into the real world. Not bad for a day’s work.
photo credit: Rijmpjes en versjes uit de oude doos j 30 ill pg 21 jan Wiegman via photopin (license)
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/32299138@N08/5416279989″>P2041521 – ‘Hares’ via photopin (license)
He’s a very different character to the entity that had come through previously. The power and sense of presence are stronger. I’m not sure what to make of this new relationship. He was offered as a gift, one that I couldn’t possibly refuse. The sculptor who fashioned him was a friend, now ‘walking with the ancestors’. A new statuette of the Opener has entered my life and the old intuition is telling me a life change is on its way. Forgive me for rattling my bag of bones and muttering dark and terrible things. Or not. The soothsayer has consulted the bones and pronounced their findings in typical cryptic fashion. It’s a form of divination performed by the casting of bones and has been practiced by humans for a very long time. The origin of bone oracles has been attributed to many locations including Africa, China and Central Asia. At this point there is no sense in debating its origins, much like shamanistic practices this topic could end up filling several pages. I suspect this may not be to everyone’s liking. What of the Jackal God? Anpu is an entity with strong shamanistic overtones, a being bearing roles of Psychopomp, God of the Dead, Initiator and the Opener. Perhaps they’re titles that are significant only to me. The archetype of the jackal god and indeed guardian dogs has ancient beginnings. The canine’s relationship with humans is long-lived and I suspect will continue to be so. In its role of guardian it has watched over its human charges and portals leading to realms both sacred and infernal. Continue reading