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Being A Celebration Of Astarte vel Berylli sub figura CLXXV

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  • I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence, whether much that is glorious, whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought, from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity and thrill in awakening to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches they learn something of the

    wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi." We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence, the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present and to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe and to what I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.

    Eleonora Edgar Allan Poe

  • amael Grigori

    I speak to thee, yes thou who art writing these words and even unto thee who in turn reads these words, from the Boundary Lands I speak. Cast aside all that thou art, for i seek naught that is of thee, from thee, your form but dissolves in my presence. Your Mind, the Reflection which thou art clouds over. The Heart which thou seekest, empties itself into the eternity which thou art. I accept All of this and more, I take only that which is freely given. I grant naught in return, for what in truth would thou, creature of Earth do with such, you alive in your world, I in mine. Yet still you seek me. Look into your world, does not nature, my fairest sister stir from her slumbers, casting aside her mantle of repose. See you not the lifeblood stirring within her heart. The bounty of her body giving rise to the eternal cycle of Life and Death.

    Liber 131 March 2 1992ev

  • And what are your thoughts my dearest 0ne? she asked, raising her eyes to meet his, and in that moment of their eyes meeting he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her question was not one for little consideration. Ah, but we race ahead and like all stories we need a beginning, a sense of time and place, of purpose and destination. Who are our characters? What of their history and what brings them to this moment in time and to this place? Of our characters we will speak little for their story has been told elsewhere within the words and pages of another time. It is enough to know that their meeting was but a short time ago upon the shores of a

    wind swept sea beneath a leaden sky, waves rolling upon the stones that formed this beach that we now begin to envisage. Gulls squabbling over scraps tossed to them by wayfarers, each bent upon their own purpose. He sits, as is his habit, solitary, musing upon the times and those things which have befallen him within this his life and world. Of age, uncertain for he carries the ambience of youth, yet a youth seeded with the fires of travail, of experience beyond his seeming narrow years. Of stature, slight, as though he would erase even this presence from the recognition of others. Muscular, evidence of his pursuits within the understanding of the Greeks. His features fey, as if transported from the realm of sylph or undine. Hair, dark, hanging like a waterfall across his now bent shoulders. And yet it is his eyes that reveal the greatest mystery. Golden stained violet at their heart. The mark of his kind, a token of remembrance within this world of dream and forgetfulness.

    And with these eyes he has witnessed the wonders of a childs laughter, seen the beauty in the folds of a rose and its petals, dreamed upon the cascading fall of stars out of an indigo night and looked into the heart of another in search of belief. Eyes which, as the witness have seen history unfold between the breath of ages, history written in blood and deceit. And now he muses upon these, his last days upon this world. Yes he has known Love unredeemed, yes harvested the bounty and beauty that the world offers her errant children. Known victory and defeat, joy and sorrow in equal measure. Once he had lain upon a golden hill, the earth beneath, embracing him as would a mother her child and above the diamond bright night sky shone, a mantle of stars, each a tiny pin prick that pierced his skin, releasing the ecstasy that dwelt at his very core and with each breath he felt himself erased and cast adrift upon the night air. And now, like then is his breath caught upon the tide, rolling eternally back and forth upon this foreign shore and time.

    A gull, insistent, gains his attention, pulls him back to the moment and his purpose and with the tang of the ocean rousing his dormant senses he begins to remember. A

  • breeze gentle catches at the folds of his coat, which he wraps tighter around himself against the sudden cold. Alone he sits, his heart calls forth in cyphers of blood and bone, calls forth between the folds of his breath, between the beats of his heart and between the passing of each thought until finally he comes to rest in silence. It is then that he sees another. She rises as if from the oceans depth itself and walks in his direction. The sun burns its way through the leaden clouds and forms a nimbus around her casting rainbow light before her, each step she takes towards him etches memory into his awakening senses and were we to look closer, the dawn of a smile embraces his lips and eyes. Her form elven, tall and slender, wrapped in a cloak of velvet, deep as night. Sewn into her long golden hair the tokens of earth and sea. Like his her eyes, when he finally glimpses them, golden stained violet at their heart. Her features though sharpened into high relief possess a quality of mutability, as if she transformed before his eyes into all those he had known.

    She sits beside him, gracefully and honours the silence that unfolds between them. A silence rich with feeling and meaning as if they communed and spoke in cyphers of understanding. Finally she asks the question, and what are your thoughts my dearest 0ne? And we return to our moment of beginning, our tale, a tale now fleshed in some detail of character, time and place. And upon hearing this question his eyes are raised and sweeping the golden veil from her eyes, he gazes into the liquid orbs before him. I but dream, my love, dream upon the currents of the sea, dream upon the cascade of stars falling into the eternal night, dream of hope, of redemption within this the vale of tears. Yes dearest, she replies, dream my beloved for in such ways are we united. I rise from the oceans depth this day to share a moment, stolen from the fabric of space, of time, to embrace you, as ever in this unfolding moment. She offers him her hand and he feels the softness of this fleeting embrace and clutches it in his memory, for as ever it too will pass and he will return to his slumbers within amniotic oceans embrace. My thoughts, my love, as ever dwell with you, in the steps you take within the unfolding of your days. Will greet each new morn with you in the rapture of mystery unfolding. Will catch you as you fall, embrace you beneath the mantle of the moon. Share the joy that informs your heart and the sorrow which bleaches your eyes. Will walk beside you upon clifftops and golden valley until the day death claims and unites us in eternity. She sighs and places a kiss upon his lips, a kiss that burns away the separation, yet burns away the hope and leaves the emptiness that is but his to claim and embrace. And as ever she departs, rising and entering the ocean, into the embrace of its arms she steps and upon the air a diminishing echo, remember and be at peace my April Fool.

  • And who would walk this way with me, creature of shadow and dark repose, who yet yearns to feel the warmth of a human heart. The caress that calls the blood to flow, the breath to quicken, the breath dissolving the flesh in rapture, an angel passing between us.

    Skin soft, warm, bathed in nectar as onward we spiral. For I have dreamed and in that dream a voice reaches out towards me in welcome. Casting new shapes and patterns before my eyes, shapes yet hard of surface, begin to yield, soften, flow in liquid curves, undulating as surface meets

    surface, moistens, liquefies and flows to a greater depth. Shadows pass leaving a silven moon. Upon a hilltop amidst a forest glade, the purple legion of night around and between us. The dark silhouette of arboreal forms. A stream wending its way across rocky terrain in quest of its continuance, its source, its end. For in truth we stand alone, and yet a time, a one whose heart beats to a similar tune. A thought echoed across the aethyrs. The call of natures horn, that her creatures know of rapture and repose.

    To what surface does this call? And from what depth comes forth the answer?

    To you who walks in beauty these words, these echoes are sent. Shapes born of ink and wrought in thought. Each one bearing within itself a heart beat, a dream, a vision.

    Long may we walk in shadows, perchance that daylight beckons. And with this passing thought I bid thee adieu.

  • In Nomine Babalon

  • In Nomine Babalon

    Divided by love, for