Image: A tunnel under Paris by Nicolas Vigier

Old Poetries, Faerie, Finds

I saw the wind blow oak leaves from trees like a shower of gold in to the autumn sunlight, and I felt panic for the trees, losing so much so fast—I felt sadness that soon the trees would be bare—no soughing, only the wind against my ears—and wonder at the sight of the rain that fell from the trees on a November.


The best of us are free—and we desire. In “[That Poem You Wrote Years Ago],” you saw the outer edges, glimpsed the second attention’s attempts to remind you and to show you both ends—TTG and TTL, the HW and the LW—

—this has never been passive, lest you risk calcifying, subjecting yourself to your art and the currents/paths and what others would make you. You found—were not ready, could not change and soften to “join us”—but now you hear more clearly raven child—


I went earlier and looked up the two versions of “[That Poem],” and I saw the repeated “Raven Childe” calls, the feminine voice (Morrigan, Dana, C—I don’t know, thought he distinction may be illusory as far as the poem goes), the fear, revulsion, and wonder, the LW setting—and I suppose there in, in part, is faerie for me, even woman, but there is also the call (another call, always the call). For TTL, for faerie, there is also the sense of age, of the eternities we have experienced—that we are free to Death, free to Time, again, Time and Death are limitations we are free from.

TTL is the home of FitE; it is where my roots and foundations are. It is freedom and power and desire and dream—dreams without propriety and in the black heart of innocence. The rites of TTL—

—and TTG, in the HW, is the release and easing of burdens, renewed and rebirth—to escape the enormity of ages and cynicism. (This realm is very cynical.)

But faerie is also blood and bone and dreams and light and shadows, stories, acts—it is in my bones and blood, has always been something I’ve carried with me, hidden/lost behind a mask and seeming.

I feel a poison or—essence, taint,—in faerie, but that may be the human in me—the fear of change, the sense of the uncanny—responding to the not-human, a bit of halthaya—but Ahyaluvan. I want to do the rites of TTL, want to walk its streets and markets.

K says he will help guide me there.


Ah yes. I went on a path I had not previously taken in the woods, finding someone’s ritual site—a multi-walled area that included a crapton of work, moving stones, branches, and more into structures including an altar and throne—a space a god or spirit could be called to inhabit, as well as a holey stone (the centerpiece of the altar), painted markings (a turtle with what seemed to me a solar motif), a fucking trapdoor disguised as part of a foot path (nothing but rocks and dirt and leaves from what I saw), and multiple sections, with branches arranged to form walls. It’s a massive undertaking that was almost trash-free (Only one empty Swisher Sweet package), and it was an awesome find. I paid my respects and departed.


Calling down the Luin into myself as I look into the Otherworlds helps—anchor me into the Otherworlds. I feel more present, and the scenes grow clearer. This makes me think of CC and energy and the second attention. But Calen is also—important, distinct—and empowers my fetch—and augments the sense of body—

Image: A tunnel under Paris by Nicolas Vigier

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