- All Soulís Night 12051 - The first year in the time of The Crimson Tide.






   Nine new strangers came to our place of antiquity and power, power and antiquity, this night. This night special and not special. One came... and turned and ran almost immediately. Poor fellow. Eight were left then, to join our company of strangers. Eight seekers, potential fire - children. Only three of them were known to us, the company of strangers. There is always more mutants and/or witches out there.

   We rejoiced and set forth in our celebration of life, of the night. All of us drawn here by a feeling we no longer need to explain or try to deny. The rain poured down outside the old house, the wind howled from the fireplace. It suited us all well in a way.

   The way we see it we all lose ourselves in the damned process of growing up in a technological society. Therefore we need once in a while, to isolate ourselves from the shit, in order to gain insight and find more of what was lost. All of us are lost. We are so far away from home, all of us. So very far.

   All souls present gathered around the fire pentacle. On a table, a field of green grass, a mountain top, inside the bewitched forest. Incantations of summer rose through the dissolving roof. Words followed by deeds, neither good or bad, right or wrong, a Hunger that defies description and we nevermore will foolishly cast out and deny. The rain fell over us but we didnít get wet. And we did get wet. We blew out all the candles, all the distorted lights and awaited the deep night, like a traveler, traveling for so very long. We are nomads, birds flying in the dark.

   Then it happened. Suddenly as a rose, painful as a thorn. Rose is our name. Thorn is our name. There is no mystery. The mystery lives on. Clouds shifted, the sky cracked open and we did cast our eyes on the waning moon. The Festival of Samhain, The End of Summer, The All Soulís Night, begin with the staggering night sun. Now itís waning. But we know beyond any way weíve known before, that one night it will stagger again and we will find ourselves anew. Again and again. Again and again and again we do, in our dance outside, inside. In our talk and our dance, both equally inspiring, none can in any possible way put into words. Description may be a preparation, but experience is the milk and the blood. Blood is the life, life is the blood.

   Ancient drumbeat rises from the earth. We throw away our clothes, every bit of the life - hostile armor the servants of machine has clothed us in since birth, since death. May the dead discover theyíre among the living and forget nevermore. There is prayer for the dead, the living, with words, without words. We know weíre still alive. And we act on it.






And the night is forever!

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