a dream for midsummer

Scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Titania and Bottom - Edwin Henry Landseer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Evolving a path is I think a fascinating and rewarding thing. Construction (or reconstruction) is so mundane, compared to the emergence of something from the pages of books, snatches of poetry, film, dreams, deep desires, and the fount of the subconscious.

We have been trialing our own “black mass” – not the iconoclasm and parody of either Christianity or fashionable beliefs that often characterise a modern black mass, but a more direct communion with Satan, the god of the witches, and the buried treasures of blackened and forgotten deities and demons. It is a lovely experience.

Aside from Walpurgis Night and Halloween, we haven’t paid too much attention to festivals (apart from our birthdays, and enjoying the seasons naturally), but I had a thought. The place of the midwinter solstice is well established for both Christians and neopagans (and to our ancestors according to solar alignments at New Grange and Stone Henge), and has entered our consciousness as the time of the “rebirth” of the Sun, the turning point of darkness to the return of light, the mythical birth of Christ etc. What then of midsummer? It also occurs in alignments of ancient monuments, but the emphasis commonly seems to have been upon winter solstice, although in our modern, hedonistic age Summer Solstice has taken over at Stone Henge as an attractive festival.

If midwinter is the birth of light, midsummer is the yearly genesis of darkness. The very force that matures the year, bringing both fruitfulness and decay, the high heat of late Summer, the glorious and fragrant shedding of Autumn, and on to the barren clarity of Winter, and the rebirth of light. It is a trippy time, silly season, a touch of the fool, milky nights gone almost as soon as they have fully fallen, upon us before we know it, stretching out like a road trip, a vanishing point.

“Birth” would be the wrong term to apply to the dark, for the dark is more mystical than that. Like a walk backwards through time, through Nature, the shuddering calm after orgasm, the lock clicking shut, the expiration of release, the bestial, verdant fuck of the world.

Midsummer, at twilight and midnight, the promise of the Prince of Darkness, the Devil himself, a breeze cool and scented across fields, through woods, and open windows.

 

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