The next Silent Eye workshop in April 2018. Going by previous workshops this one sounds just as intriguing and mysterious.
What is this place between? A state of mind or a state of being? One stands yearning, the other spurning. The space between is heavy with meaning.
Matter looks on, eyes blazing, heart beating. Spirit responds, utters softly, remonstrating.
He breathes on skin, fingers trailing. Her eyes close, senses flaming. She reminds of unions past, of times of ecstacy and of pain. Hands cup face and lips seek lips. What is unfolding?
He is Sun and She is Moon. Reflecting and absorbing. Spirit infuses Matter, shapes and moulds, gives love freely.
Human and Divine co-mingling, Spirit and Matter re-uniting, seeking fulfilment and illumination.
They are in the place between. A space withdrawn, held in abeyance. Filled with possibilities, touched with oracular truth, touched with starlight. Touched with Love.
Achieving immortality has been an enduring goal for legion upon legion of humans over the centuries. Tomes have been written hinting at the existence of wondrous elixirs and arcane rituals giving/offering the chance of eternal life and youth. To what end we may speculate, perhaps to abate our fear of dying, perhaps to prolong our contemplation of matters philosophical and metaphysical. Ultimately the real reason may only be known to the individual engaged in such a pursuit. Immortality is a fable retold century after century, our passion for it undiminished, our longing unquenched. We are born, live and die, a simplistic viewpoint of our existence on this material plane. Yet, there is so much that lies before us. At what point do we lose our sense of wonder about the Universe and our place in it? Continue reading
An ambitious title I think to myself dear reader, but a note to the ‘Lord of Holy Words’ (as inventor of writing and the arts) is rather appropriate at this time. Being endowed with complete knowledge and wisdom he is kept rather busy with all manner of business. Here’s hoping he answers. Tahuti (ancient Egyptian) has gone under the guise of many names throughout the ages, the most familiar being Thoth and Hermes. Totally different pantheons and cultures admittedly. I have great affection for both entities whose energies have been present in my life for a long time. The pursuit of knowledge has been a driving force since childhood and much that’s been gathered over the years has been filed away in (mental) drawers. Now and again I get a nudge reminding me to check in said drawers. Such a time has approached and I’m feeling a little nervous, who knows what’s lurking in there! The mind feels much like a library that’s been neglected for years, its contents shrouded by dust and in need of renovation. A terrible state of affairs because I love books and libraries, my first job in fact was working in a large public library in London. Continue reading
My contribution to Sue’s photo prompt this week sees the return of an old, em, youngish old friend Little Troll. Like many trolls he lives under a bridge in a tardis like home but that’s where the similarity ends. He’s not a typical example of his kind, what troll has refined tastes in food, literature and the arts? Little Troll’s real name is rather unpronounceable by all but the most determined of linguists. That is, one who’s taken advantage of the local hostelry’s hospitality for several hours and now lies blubbering in the corner calling for his mum. A tad overstated you may think but trollish is quite a difficult dialect to master. Little Troll’s human name is Bob. In Bob’s last adventure he treated himself to a night out on the town with friends; huddling over exquisite hot chocolate and treating himself to a lot of books. An ordinary event you would think. These rare forays into the world of humans go without incident. Which was the case on this occasion. Except, his party was being followed.
The lone figure kept in the shadows, their bright red eyes glowing like molten lava. The figure also appeared to be limping badly. At one point when the party were perusing the Christmas market stalls; the mysterious figure took this opportunity to slip a small business card in Bob’s pocket. It lay in his coat pocket for a year until this moment.
Bob was spring-cleaning his wardrobe and came across the card. It was made of the finest vellum and etched in gold paint on the front were the words “A N Other, Plumber.” Surely this was a joke? He peered closely at the card because the words were shimmering and then disappeared. In their place appeared something he wasn’t expecting, “Flavius, Arch Mage, Necromancer and Bookseller. Please email for prices of Exorcisms. Sliding scale of fees for the severely distressed.”
Well, well, it was his old friend and occasional partner in crime, not that they indulged in anything considered illegal. Not by human standards. Just at that moment the doorbell rang, today it was playing the theme from Mission Impossible. His doorbell wasn’t an inanimate object. It was also his answerphone and PA, came highly recommended. The tune was usually an indication of the nature of his visitor’s business. He opened the door and there was Flavius looking like a truck had roughed him up and then went over him again. Now, being one of the undead has its advantages in that you can only be killed by special techniques. Being run over by a truck wasn’t one of them. Bob pulled Flavius in and sat him in an armchair near the fire. He thrust a coffee into his hands and sat down opposite him. The story that was unravelling was truly terrifying. Apparently one of his customers had decided to steal a rare edition of Agrippa’s Three Occult Books of Philosophy from the shop. The burglary hadn’t gone as planned, so his assailant then decided to dart him with poison and run him over with a truck several times. He laughed heartily whilst driving away. Unfortunately for him it as a homing book, one of only two in the human world. It thwacked its kidnapper hard, but only when he’d stopped by a lay-by. Safety was the order of the day here. Very soon the book was back with Flavius, who was looking like his usual self. His trusted customers and colleagues in the book trade had managed to tidy the shop and called in the Special Branch (The Dryad Division) to deal with the burglar.
This wasn’t an ordinary burglary; there were dark forces at work here thought Bob. Flavius looked up and muttered the following words:
“There is neither good nor evil, only intent.”
Flavius looked rather enigmatic. Bob looked blankly at his friend. He sighed. There was going to be a lot of sighing over the next few days as they plotted their investigations. Flavius had a habit of being rather cryptic, an annoying habit it had to be said.
My offering this week for Sue Vincent’sThursday photo prompt #writephoto .
A tale not as sad as it may appear of love’s trials and tribulations. ..
Not everything must endure for eternity. This much has been learned. For I am more than stone and mortar but Folly created giving rise to yet more folly. Illicit assignations and breathy declarations of love untrue, these I have seen. Fevered kisses and tears of shame, these I have seen. Consummated longings and crimes of passion, these I have seen. Their shades return again and again to my broken shell seeking answers, seeking redemption. These I cannot offer, for they must seek to lift the veil themselves. The weight I carry is heavier still. Forgiveness is sought for my part in their downfall, but will they give it? Such tortured histories do we create for ourselves, always seeking that which is unattainable. Such dreams we spin like the weaver of fate, helpless flies caught in Her web. Night falls and Sun rises but memories still seek to imprison me in their embrace. The dying embers of my heart entreat the Luminous One for one last time. Alas only silence deigns to answer. Yet, nature stirs. Something comes this way. Her face is as I had dreamed of, shining and beauteous. Such honour She has bestowed upon me, an escort into the Hollow Hills.
Says She, “ forgiveness is not what you need but healing?”
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
How many masks do we own? Things of mystery, deception and sadness.The mask reached for automatically before we face others, before we face ourselves, before we face the world. Who and what do we hope to become? The drama of our existence has a purpose, either transformation or annihilation of the spirit. How removed from reality that sounds, yet what is reality? Our masks conceal what is beneath and hint at untold stories. They hint at changes, those we willingly undergo and those we are unable to avoid. J E Cirlot comments that this “secrecy tends towards transfiguration: it helps what-one-is to become what-one-would-like-to be; and this is what constitutes its magic character.” Continue reading
I’m sitting at my kitchen table again looking out at the sun bathed garden. The best seat in the house folks. It’s been nearly a week since I took to my sick-bed with a particularly stubborn cold. The kind that leaves you feeling like a zombie crossed with Stig of the Dump. Not a pretty sight. Not totally recovered but at least I feel ready to face the world again due in part to the desire to write, write and write. The words were waiting to be released and they were, in a torrent. The torrent also washed a way a lot that was redundant. I feel a longish ramble coming on and can’t possibly deny the urge to let it take its course. The White Rabbit made his appearance on a couple of occasions as did the spirit of His Nibs. The result being the birth of two new blogs. Hurrah! It means I’ll need to ensure my notes are legible and meet all standards of decency. Also avoid getting the posts mixed up. Illness focusses the mind keenly towards the inner. If you’re immobile and in a weakened state there is nowhere else to go but where the spirit leads. In my case I’m not sure where I’m being lead, not yet anyway. It appears there are secrets yet to be revealed. Continue reading