Monday, April 30, 2012

Witchnight


  The fire is lit and spread on the ground like wildfire forming a distinct pattern. The pentacle is large, five meters across, easily seen from planes high above us.
  I stand at the center of the pentacle, its flames surrounding me. It’s an amazing feeling. Everything is so clear. I feel the energies and see the flames dance. They don’t touch me, even though I sense their heat. It’s like they’re far, far away, but I can hear their whisper. I see the people outside the circle, see them strangely clear as well, see their shadows, not only the skin and where the fire dances. I can hear them. They don’t move their lips, but I can still hear what they’re saying.



  Beltane, Witchnight, the night to May first (western, christian time frame):

  This is a dangerous night, a time of undiminished joy, one mirroring our dreams and nightmares the same, uninhibited way, older than christianity, the church or any worship of gods. This is a celebration of humanity, of life itself. According to ancient legends it is a night where the boundaries between the visible and hidden world becomes diluted and sometimes non-existing. There is a shadow world very close to the world we know, a mirror image - mysterious, wonderful, exciting and terrifying beyond imagination. Yes, we know this world well.
  Not in the civilized part of us, the part always sleeping and dying. The modern world, the one those imagining they govern the world call the physical reality is the illusion, not in the sense that it doesn’t exist, but in its significance. Life is, fortunately so far more than this pale version of it, the ongoing nightmare failing in every way to please us.
  We are so… specialized today that we can’t see the big picture. One can never remove, deny a part of life, without diminishing it. There is no Shadowworld, no «real» world. Everything is a cohesive whole. People adhering to today’s narrow perception of reality pick and choose only tiny parts of the whole and claim that is all there is. They see reality as property, one fenced in and guarded by both four-legged and two-legged dogs. As if the Earth or even a tiny part of it can truly be owned.
  Yes, a part of us has always known the world, the part deeper than any civilization, any advanced technology, undisturbed by an existence as a farmer or city dweller. We are there when we dream and not dream, when we sleep or don’t sleep. We can sense it without senses, a world of life and shadows, where human and animal, life and death is one, life itself in its undiminished form.





Friday, April 27, 2012

A witches’ brew, blood of the gods and two witches


  From a Witchnight four years ago…

  We sat on the ground with naked butts, chest against chest.

  I’ve known Ruby for a long time. We met in London an eternity ago. She has lived in Thailand for a few years. We visited her there in 2003 and wild and unforgettable events ensued on a small, abandoned, nameless beach. Now, she’s traveling across the world to meet up with old friends. In these bright summer nights she’s here, with me.

  We make dinner together, do everything together. A witches’ brew can be anything, really, everything from fairly ordinary hot spicy food burning in the stomach to the totally exotic. Ruby had brought her own spices, both for the food and for the side order… I turn inspired long before we actually consume the food and the side orders. It just takes off, like I knew it would, as it does even more as it spreads from our burning stomachs to the boiling blood flowing through our veins.

  It’s a very special feeling to prepare food together and even more so to prepare a Witchnight together. You can’t really describe it and the description will always be a pale shadow of the reality. We stand there on the kitchen and our Journey has already begun, before we’ve taken a single step. She kisses me and chuckles teasingly. She is quite the tease. We carry everything up the stairs to the attic. What we see on the table not long after that is the same we saw before we began, something close and familiar, but also new and exciting. The table is black. The walls are black. The cutlery and white plates flash in shadow. We sit in the attic, inside the pentacle we’ve drawn on the floor. The witches’ brew keeps steaming in the kettle. The scent of red wine rips into our nostrils when I fill the glasses. Only candles throw shadows in the darkened room. All electrical lights are switched off, all over the house. Ancient times are with us, inside of us.

  We sit down on the low chairs, facing each other. Eyes meet eyes and we nod.

  - Blood is the Life, she says with a hoarse voice. – Life is the Blood.

  I repeat it and we speak simultaneously, and there is an echo in the suddenly vast space the room has become. She picks up the razorblade from the table and cut herself in the meaty part of the hand. The blood flows slowly into the glass in front of her, and spread like wildfire. I pick up my razorblade and cut myself and the blood flow from my hand and down into the glass in front of me. It hurts, in a distant and familiar and dear manner, and I forget the pain the moment I feel it. We put band aid on each other’s wounds. It’s a very intimate act.

  - BLOOD OF THE GODS, we choir aloud and raise our glasses and have a toast.

  We put the cold glass to our lips and drink, and the wine and the blood burn on our skin. The meal begins. The heat and the spices burn on our tongue and everything explodes in our stomach. The fire burns with a low flame on the table, but is erupting within. A spark turns to an inferno. We have conversations about the past. It becomes alive in the flame dancing between our meeting eyes. The future comes to us, like an endless row of possibilities. I, we scribble something, on a piece of paper on the table before us. We cannot read the letters, but it doesn’t matter. We know what they say, what they tell us.

  I notice and I notice that she notices, feel it when the spice of life reaches the part of our brain that was the goal of its journey. Our visions started long before that. The chemical influence is, as ever only an extension of what’s already there. The shadows and the fire dance in a joint effort in the room, in the air, on the distant walls, the tall ceiling and the non-existing floor. We are there by the table. Aside from us and the table, there is nothing else. Everything there is dances behind closed eyelids. The distant beach where we and our friends celebrated life in all its shades becomes alive again. The distant beach, the giant park at the heart of the big city, deep into the wilderness is reborn in our minds and core. We rise up, into the center of reality and the entire existence is at our fingertips.

  It’s hours, or perhaps only a few minutes or seconds later. We can’t say for certain. Days and weeks pass like brief moments in our consciousness.

  - This is my number eight, I say.

  - Your number eight in an endless row, she cries across the divide, the abyss before us.

  The eight time I drop LSD or a cocktail of that and other stuff.

  We walk into the mountains, into the forest. It isn’t far. I would say it takes us about half an hour, but I don’t care. Neither time nor space concern me, except like hooks where we leave behind all unimportant aspects of existence. The wilderness becomes alive around us, becomes real and true. The sounds of the forest reach us in an almost troubled and invasive manner, for a few seconds, until our surroundings fall quiet once again. It feels completely natural, like making love or breathing. We draw a pentacle on the flat, dry ground, in the small forest glen. It’s quite the easy task. We have done it thousands of times before, a million times in the light of a dying star. We undress and sit down at the center of the pentacle, I turn towards the point, she towards the seat. The soil pushes against the skin. We sit there and touch each other, skin against skin, eyes to eyes, thought woven in thought. We sit on the ground, face to face, lips against lips and skin glowing in the twilight summer pale light. We speak strange words and phrases we don’t fully understand.

  - Let the Earth crack open, I shout.

  - Let it devour us and embrace us, she adds.

  Something is familiar, while something is new. We can feel the Magick rise within us, even more powerful, flow at us like a wave. There is no fire here, except what’s dancing in the eyes, what’s always burning on a low flame inside. Known and unknown words are spat through swollen, meeting lips. Magick might be words, might be «logos», but words are like nothing without the energy, passion driving us from we draw breath for the first time and perhaps even before that, on dark plains, a starless sky before time is.

  Everything is touch, a total surrender to the senses. She’s everywhere on me, I’m everywhere on her, also where no finger or toe can ever reach. She shouts or I shout, quiet in the night. I see the pentacle be lit, see it from above, see the shadow and fire of the night surround the two sweaty creatures. There is no thought. Thought explode in fever-hot minds. Ideas and boundless inspiration rise from the abyss and the pain and the joy within. Everything becomes meaningless and more valuable than ever. I fall down on her and embracing tightly we rest on the ground and gasp for breath, while the sweat covering wet skin slowly turns cold, and the dry and inviting ground devours us, and the Earth takes us in its embrace and whisper small, infinitely important and unimportant secrets in our beyond sensitive ears.



Tuesday, April 24, 2012

The wanderers in darkness


  My sister walks by my side, in the mirror floating to my left on the trail through the Wasteland. The snake dances on her beautiful skin and coils around her curvy body. My sister is dead. She is rotting in the grave. I sit in front of the fire and stare into its fire-red, dancing surface, and I scream into the dark, throw my Magick at the night.


  I see the wolf pace around me. Its howl rises from my throat and into the air with the dancing embers. I hear the raven flap its wings. Its dark, invisible wings are mine. They glow in black and gray and fire. The witch wanders in the forest. I wander and the dead and their remains wander by my side. My Magick is Death Magick, like all Magick is. There are no angels, no creatures of light, but spirits in all forms and of all kinds are all around us, both living and dead. They travel in the dark, like we all do. The mirror not a mirror is an echo of everything that is, everything we are. We are the shadows of the raven, humanity’s outcasts and deep mind.


  Nothing is hidden to those wandering in the darkness.


  Everything is there, in the quivering air, the whispering forest. I walk backwards, and in my own steps I find myself. Three steps to the left, three jumps to the right, and the trail is no more, and only wilderness’ claws and fangs remain, and the dull knife is no more.


  I make love to my dead sister in the heat of the night, and fuck her brains out on the bed of fading embers, and I feel an ecstasy greater than I have ever before felt.


  In death there is life.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Doing it with mirrors - tyranny style

  Those in a charge use extreme violence and threat of it to hold on to their privileges. They have countless uniformed thugs at their disposal. We call them police and military. Their most important task is to defend tyranny against any opposition, any group or individual that might rise up against it.

  Tyranny and its ongoing cleverly constructed propaganda is very good at turning this on its head, of course, easily fooling those easily fooled, making the general population see the legitimate protesters as the threat, the instigators of violence, not those making it as common as grass on the ground.

  Most current protesters are non-violent. One reason for that is quite sensible. It’s the uniformed thugs that have the guns, the clubs and the shields and challenging that overwhelming power is very often very dangerous, and most people fighting the Machine see no alternative to playing the game, the illusion of benevolent democracy where it is said that people have a right to protest.

  The other most common reason for protesters not being violent is that many of them have bought into the transparent propaganda. They swear to the downright ridiculous ideology of «non-violence», depriving themselves of one of several ways of fighting tyranny and thus aiding those in charge, especially when joining in on the choir of condemnation against «violent protesters».

  Everybody knows deep down that the government propaganda is bullshit, of course. Most people aren’t that stupid. But intelligence and its power isn’t really the force at work here. The propaganda is far cleverer than that. It makes most people ignore the power of their observations and adhere to a complex (not complex) web of loyalty in a given population, an adherence to old processes of mainly nationalism and religion. Increasingly aiding this process is the established media of any given country, locally, domestically and internationally. With those beasts on your side you can move mountains… or keep millions of people from doing so.

  When obviously peaceful protesters have their skulls cracked and bones broken in brutal assaults a majority of a given population totally disconnects their common sense and see the victims as the aggressors.

  Steve Biko, the South African freedom fighter said that the most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed, and he was clearly correct. Most current human beings have become the tool of their own oppression. Democracy is the slickest tyranny in history, because it gives people the illusion of participation and freedom. No one is more enslaved than those wrongly convinced they are free (Goethe). It’s a genius setup.

  The day government and corporations renounce violence they may demand that others do so. But that will never happen, of course, since violence is the only way tyranny can stay in power for long. The propaganda, the sleight of hand approach can only work for so long. Violence is always tyranny’s final defense. Don't be fooled by its downright ridiculous and transparent rhetoric.


A few of the other relevant articles on Midnight Fire: 
Bullies' ball
Society's method of crushing opposition
Occupy the world 
Living by the sword 
The sheep fooled again 
The joy of rebellion 
Ten days in and outside Nottingham 
Illusions 
Right to protest 
Politics of hatred 
Beyond insane 
To ruffle people's sensibilities 
Unprovoked 
     More sickening support for militarism
Provocation 
Path to power 
1984 
The Battle of Gothenburg 
The Fourth eState 
Media censors those criticizing it 
Police heavy-handed at protests 
Riots in Copenhagen - truth victimized yet again 
Fifty bullets 
American skin - 41 shots - by Bruce Springsteen 
The usual lies and deceit 
Watchdogs 
Tyrants' manual - advanced reading