It is another beautiful, sunny day in what continues to promise to be Spring. The sky is misty blue, and light pours into the garden, illuminating the accumulated dust and grime on the other side of the wall-length living room window. I have a cold, but it’s comfortable. No complaints.
In February I wrote a post about the term “warlock”, which has turned out to be my most shared post ever, and the most viewed in a few years. I have to thank Storm Faerywolf for picking up the post and sharing it, as that was what gave it the big kick. I’m very happy that it proved popular and meaningful for people. Maybe this is a good time for me to come back and say what being a warlock potentially means for me.
We all walk paths between categories that help to define each other, that we learn from, and refine understanding and value through. For me, to be a warlock is to be able to walk a path between the right and left hand paths (something which I touched on here), and in the roughly paraphrased words of Austin Osman Spare, stray from the path, and in doing so find the path directly.
It is to walk into one’s own direct experience, with the primacy of imagination, desire and individuality above the demands of history, society and supposed necessity. It is to burn bridges, negate unwanted bondage, and open doorways to the chosen home. It is to demolish politics and arrive at love. To bring roses to the goat master, anointed with sweat and semen, and breathe the night air, in freedom. It is to have congress.
“Between the worlds” has become a cliché, but the Sabbat Incubus is no cliché. Draw the curtain if you dare, and if you have devotion. Follow the dark road that is written in your flesh and in your dreams.
To be so loved. One needs it; to arise in the morning, able to give freely.
I declare poetry, not war, but free poetry. And His darlings will be back in their beds by dawn.