The Moment of "We, Together"...

I dreamt last night of a lost civilization, on a dying world.

An immense vista of impossible sandstone spires, surrounded by a glittering, crystal sea.  Wind, and the grate of sand sliding over sand, the only remaining sounds.  An empty world, like a giant child's forgotten sandcastle, left on the shore to be washed away.

I dreamt last night of the last of its people, an ancient King and Queen, left alone in their crumbling tower, to await the inevitable end of their once proud land.

He, in robes of purple trimmed with gold, wearing a crown of shells.  She, in robes of white trimmed with silver; on her head a diadem, the oil-slick colors of abalone shell.  Their subjects now all fled or perished, the King and Queen sat alone on driftwood thrones, bent and weary with the weight of their years, their faces lined and cracked and sagging; they could've just as well had cobwebs for eyes.

In the orange-gold-lavender glow of twilight, as the old sun began to set behind the sparkling sea, they rose together, and crossed their hall to the open arches at the far end, overlooking their empty kingdom of impossible towers.  They watched as the sun set, and below them, the first of their towers began to crumble and fall.  And then another.  And then another.

The sense of loss and regret and longing and sorrow and even fear that they felt at this sight was overwhelming, and the Queen, overcome, reached out and took the King's hand.

The King was startled by this sudden event.

He couldn't remember the last time they had touched one another in affection.  It felt like eons ago.

All at once, the King began to stand up straighter, taller.  He felt stronger.  He felt bigger.  He felt more alive.  He turned to his Queen, and saw that she was standing straighter, as well.  Her hair shifting before his eyes from the wispy straggles of grey straw that they had been, to the long, golden flax of her youth.  The lines in her face began to fade and smooth, and her eyes absolutely lit up and began to shine bright and blue the way they once had long ago.  Oh, those eyes!  How he had once lost himself in those eyes!

But, wait.  What is this?  What is happening?  The King was suddenly afraid.  He let go of his Queen's hand, and stepped away, fearful of the strangeness of the event.  And when he let go, he felt the life and strength drain from him.  He felt his back twist and bend under his weight again.  And he watched as his beautiful Queen withered and wilted back into the crone she had been moments before.

The Queen looked at her King, lost, and confused; afraid and alone.  Please, her look said to him.  Please don't leave me.  Not now.

Not ever.

The King couldn't bear that look.  Their world was lost and forgotten, crumbling around them under a dying sun; this he could endure.  But that sight of pain and fear on his Queen's once-beautiful face, the plea in her eyes, he just couldn't abide.  Whatever else was happening, he was The King, and she was his Queen, and they would stand through this together.

He reached out, and again took her hand.

And again the sense of strength and life returned to him.  And again he watched as his lovely Queen aged backwards towards her strong middle-life.  And she, too, watched as her King became again the powerful and handsome man she had loved so fiercely.  His hair the silken auburn she had loved to run her fingers through.  His chest and his arms and his hands - oh, his hands! - as big and strong as she remembered him to be so many years ago, as if he could pick her up in one arm and cradle her like a child.  She remembered the years it must've been that she spent with those strong arms wrapped around her, feeling as if all was right in their world, and that their happiness could never possibly end.

With their renewed sense of strength, they turned together again toward their view of the city below them, spread out to the sea.  And they saw that the towers had stopped crumbling.  And upon closer inspection, that not merely had the tide of destruction ceased, but that it had stilled in mid-act.  Clouds of sand hung frozen in the air beside minarets in mid-fall.  Massive blocks of sandstone wall the size of boulders appeared to float in place, as if held by some unseen hand.

Confused, but encouraged, by this wondrous sight, the King reached out and wrapped his strong arms around the Queen, holding her close to him.  Oh, stars and oceans!  How could he have ever forgotten the feeling of holding her this way?  How could he have lost the memory of this sensation, their bodies pressed together, the feeling of her warm breath on his chest, the scent of her hair?  And if he could forget this, then what else had he forgotten as the centuries had swept past?

And in amazement, they watched, as the towers began to rise again.

Dervishes of sand spiraled high into the air and worked themselves into stone and wall and spire, pointing up, up, up into the wisps of clouds streaking across the bruise-palette sky.  One-by-one they rose again, crumbling backwards up from the ground to become again the glorious and majestic kingdom-on-the-sea they had loved for so long.  Over the raspy sounds of wind and sand, in the far, far distance, they heard the cry of a gull; a sound so long lost that their ears had grown unaccustomed to the hearing of it.

The King ran his powerful hand over his Queen's head, through her hair, and cupped her delicately behind the ear, cradling her head in his soft grip.  The Queen looked up at him, this beautiful, powerful man that she had given her life to so long ago.  And the King lost himself in her eyes again, remembering that this was all he had ever really wanted all along.

And as he kissed her, and she kissed him, and the wave of life and love and memory washed over and through them, the roaring sound of the crowd in the castle square below rose up to ring in their ears forever.

It's Not A River, It's A Bullet...

"Denial is how it kills you," he said.

They were sitting on the beach, watching the waves, the Sun setting behind them, feeling the cool, salty air on their faces, and discussing their respective abuses.  They were three days into their week-long vacation, the first the three brothers had taken together since the youngest was still a baby, and the first they had ever taken together as adults.  The youngest had just recently graduated college, and this trip was a sort of present for him from the older two.  At that moment, he was back up at the cottage, enjoying his girlfriend, while the older two were on the beach, the eldest trying his best to educate the middle brother with whatever bullshit-wisdom he'd managed to glean by that point in his life.  He felt it was his duty, in some way, as the oldest.  Especially now that their parents were gone.

"Yeah, it's the denial that gets you.  That's the one thing they got right in those meetings.  You can have a relatively easy time of things, and keep using for a long, long time, so long as you don't start lying to yourself about it.  But the second you start thinking, 'I don't have a problem,' then the drug's got you, and you're done for."

The waves crashed on the beach in a constant rhythm, like the slow, steady heartbeat of the world.  A young family flew a kite together some yards away down the beach from where the two brothers sat, and a man fished the surf down in the other direction.  The middle brother sat silent, listening, not knowing what to say; not sure if he should.

"It starts off, you're just having a good time.  Being young and reckless and free, and feeling as good as you possibly can.  Nothin' wrong with that.  But, it's inevitable - at some point, it's going to change you.  That 'want' is going to slowly turn into 'need.'  And it's so hard to tell when that's happening.  And if you're not looking for it, you'll never see it.  So that's the thing - you have to always be looking for it.  Always.  You have to be constantly asking yourself, 'Am I addicted to this?  Am I starting to need it?'  And the first time you're not 100% certain that the answer is 'No,' then the answer is 'Yes.'"

The waves crashed, and the breeze kissed their faces.  The little girl screamed happily as she flew her kite, and a gull cried somewhere over the water.  The middle brother stared out across the ocean at the blurry blue line of the horizon, feeling sheepish and guilty, and more than a little stupid, as he so often did when he talked with his older brother.  He realized he'd never even thought of these things, let alone asked himself these questions.  Am I an addict?, he asked himself.  And he realized, he didn't know the answer.

"So, that's the key:  near-constant self-reflection, combined with brutal honesty.  It's the only way to do this shit, and be able to enjoy it, and not end up fuckin' dyin' from it.  'The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.'  You have to be able to look at yourself and say 'I'm an addict.  I'm a drunk.  I'm a fuckin' junkie.'  You have to be able to recognize that, and to accept it about yourself.  That doesn't excuse it, of course.  Doesn't make it ok just because you can admit it.  But, if you can't say that to yourself, then you'll never even have a chance to make it right, because you'll never even know that anything was wrong."

The sky was slowly progressing from yellow to orange, and the breeze was starting to pick up.  It was going to be a beautiful night.  The middle brother didn't think he could ask himself those questions.  And he was sure he couldn't answer them correctly.  His whole life, his brothers had always seemed to do everything better than he did. And he looked up to them both, and loved them both so much.  He felt surrounded by their greatness; almost comforted by it, in a way.  But that only made his feeling of mediocrity that much more acute by comparison.  He's talking about this like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world to do.  But I can't stand to think about myself at all, so how the fuck am I supposed to be able to do it constantly?  Hell, that's one of the reasons I like getting high so much in the first place, so I don't have to think about this shit.

"That is the only thing that keeps this urge in check.  Without it, you've got no reason to resist at all.  Remember, getting high is a constant downward slide, and at the bottom is degradation, at best; death, at worst.  You wanna stay up near the top of that slide, where it's all still fun and games.  Where it isn't consuming you, taking over your whole life.  And that honest self-reflection, that willingness to admit to yourself, and the world, that you have a problem, is the one and only tool you have to keep yourself from sailing off down that slide and into nothing."

A constant downward slide, huh?  Well, thanks for telling me that now, big brother.  He watched as the fisherman down the beach wrestled to bring in a sandshark, and remembered the first time he'd gotten high.  He'd been fifteen at the time, and it had been a Summer night, a lot like this one.  Big brother had said, "Yeah, I guess you're about old enough now," as though he were answering a question that no one had asked.  Then he'd said, "Follow me," and they'd walked out into the woods behind their family's house.  They'd sat down against the base of a big tree, and passed a joint, watching the fireflies come on.  To this day, it was one of the greatest nights of his life.  He couldn't help but feel that this warning was coming a bit too late.

"Drugs are a tool; they serve a purpose.  They're not inherently good or bad.  It's all in how you use them.  But they're a dangerous tool.  Like a gun.  And like a gun, you have to treat them carefully, and with respect, or they'll kill you.  If you don't ask yourself these questions, constantly - or if you can't answer them honestly - then you're done for.  You won't have any reason to slow down at all, and you'll use more and more, needing more and more to get less and less out of it, as it eats away at your body; your mind.  Your soul, even.  You'll lose your Self.  And then what've you got?  Because that's all you ever had, right?  I'm speakin' from experience here.  It's so easy to think you've got everything under control, and it's everyone else who has the problem, not you.  But that's the Need talkin'.  And you can't listen to it.  You just gotta keep asking yourself those questions, never stop wondering if this is the day it's finally happened to you - because it will, eventually, some day."

He'd heard this gun metaphor before.  It was one of big brother's favorites.  He honestly didn't know if he had a problem or not, but how could he say that out loud, to this man he'd looked up to his entire life?  This person whose approval he had sought for as long as he could remember, almost even more than he had their parents'?  He watched the little girl flying her kite, as happy as a person ever could be, and he thought about it, really thought about it for the first time.  He knew he didn't use anywhere near as much as either of his brothers, but he also knew that they were both a lot more successful than he was, and that they didn't struggle with anything the way he always seemed to.  And this had always seemed to come so easily to them.  But lately, it'd been all he could do to make sure he didn't get sick at work.  He could even remember a couple of times where he'd had to choose between getting high and getting groceries.  It hadn't been that hard to bum food off of people.  Easier than he'd thought.  Definitely easier than bumming dope.  He was sure his brothers had never been in a similar situation.  They'd never allow it.

"But as long as you can do that, as long as you can ask and answer those difficult questions without flinching, then you'll be alright.  You'll be able to see the bottom of that slide coming at you, and you'll have a chance to do something about it.  You'll be able to say, 'Whoa, hold on a minute here!  This isn't what I want.  I gotta cut this shit out for a while.'  But you have to be able to recognize that there's a problem before you can hope to do anything about it.  Ha, don't look so worried, little brother.  We come from a long line of drunks and junkies and users - it's in our blood.  Their voices are inside of us.  Listen to them, and they'll tell you what to do.  They'll steer you right."

He didn't know what to say.  What could he say?  He understood, and on some level he already knew.  But he couldn't do anything about it.  He wasn't like them.  He couldn't be honest with himself that way.  He didn't want to.  He knew he felt safe when he was with his brothers, like they'd be able to take care of everything.  And he knew he never felt that way when he was by himself.  His whole life, he'd wanted nothing more than to be like the two of them.  But he knew he never would be.  And now, he also knew, that would be the end of him.

I need to say something, he thought.  He watched that little girl with her kite and he remembered those days, what that felt like, and he knew they were gone, and he wanted to be like her.  And he felt the sting in his eye and he felt his lip begin to curl and he thought, I need to say it, I need to say it now, I need to say it right now... And he felt the breeze come on strong all of a sudden, in the opposite direction, a gust of moist brine blowing through him.  And he saw the kite dive from the sky in the sudden reversal of force, saw it dive straight at her, saw it smash her in the face and knock her to the sand.  Her shrill screams filled the beach, and the gulls took flight in alarm, screaming with her, as if they knew.

"Come on," big brother said, standing up and brushing the sand from his legs.  "I bet those two're done by now.  Let's see if baby brother has any of those joints left.  We'll get twisted before dinner."

...

This story was inspired by a piece of my dreaming last night.  In the dream, I was one of the two characters on the beach (not saying which), but I decided to write it in third person, just as an exercise.  As before, I just let it come to me, one piece at a time, sort of letting the story tell itself.

As much as I enjoyed writing this, I can't wait to have something else to write about.  It can't all be drug addiction and death.  I know I must have something else to say, some other story to tell.

Patience, child...

May Day Dawn Hippie Magick...

I've always had a fascination with the ocean.  And for me, the sight of the Sun rising out of the ocean at dawn is one of the most beautiful and magickal experiences a person can have.  Every vacation as a kid, I would try to get up early enough (or stay up late enough) on at least one day just so I could see it.  It's simply amazing.  Witnessing that majestic sight, it's easy to understand how we came up with an idea like "god."

This year, my Temple was lucky enough to be able to host the IOT's North American section's annual national meeting at the beach.  As soon as I found that out, I knew I had to present a Sun-rising-from-the-ocean ritual of some kind.  When I found out that the meeting would fall during the Walpurgisnacht (MayEve)/May Day holiday, I had my idea.

Solar rituals are, kind of by definition, pretty hippie-dippie.  And so's the beach; just something about being at the beach makes you want to light a campfire, grab a drum, and pass a doobie.  So, almost by necessity, the ritual I wrote was pretty hippie-dippie, too.  But I really, really fucking enjoyed it.  Not all sorcery is about black robes, midnight, and demons, and it's good for us to remember that from time-to-time.

Normally, I'm not very happy with the rituals I bring to the national meetings, but this time I was so pleased with it, I felt I needed to share it with my you, my readers.  Both of you.  ;-)

I hope you enjoy reading it even 1/10th as much as I enjoyed performing it.

May Day Dawn Ritual.  (Google Docs)