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.
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