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
didn’t 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 Soul’s Night, begin with the staggering night sun. Now it’s waning. But we know beyond any way we’ve 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 they’re among the living and forget nevermore. There is prayer for the dead, the living, with words, without words. We know we’re still alive. And we act on it.
