That´s fine and okay with me, for some of my biggest idols were lunatics... say Suibhne Geilt, Lailoken and all those Myrddins and Merlins, and their example shows me the way out. Out to the mountains and the woods, where life still reigns supreme and not that parody that is said to be life - amongst humans. So arrogant has our species become, and thus blind, that it claims that only human society is the measure for life and death... how wrong this is and how ridiculous, anyone who can still feel it, can feel in the thicket. It does not necessarily need to be untamed and wild, and not necessarily a "grave danger with Dave Granger" outing ;-) to feel it. It is just underneath the next holly bush.
There it lies, the "olore malle", the silver chord that leads to the navel of twilight. There it lies, in silence, the place where you can sprout wings and tread in stealth and speak in riddles, giggles and stifled whispers.
And yeah, again, as I did so many times before I followed it, into the twilight and deeper still, along the crags and into the green. With closed mouth and an open heart I walked and climbed the crumbling rock.
Dark and deep lay the crevice, full of unspoken secrets, the nesting place of owls. I talked about it when they asked me. They asked me, and at first I did not want to reply and answered with commonplaces and riddles. And my boss insisted and applied force, and I told the story, for "you can take my past and future / It won´t make you wise" (Lemmy Kilmister). She laughed at me, for there are no owls in her world. Owls are an ornament or something you see in a zoo.
And I laughed with her, against her, with a menacing laughter, that was not entirely human anymore. I laughed with cruel joy. For her ignorance makes her prey to what the owl stands for.
And she rises from her eyrie on planes beyond, rises on stealthy wings, like a whisper in the night. Her claws and beak are eager for the living flesh; she of the mighty wisdom, she of the cruel joy of the hunt, she of the thousand crafts and the mistress of the hunter.
Up rise the mossy crags into the twilight,
For it is not. They want to keep hope from our lives, they want to rout these happy feelings and replace them with guilt and shame-unto we shall consume what junk and glittering trumpery they place before us in order to satisfy our insane greed. And we run, run at their bidding, to fulfil the new first commandment: Thou shalt buy and trash! But beyond the image of a wood, be it as it may, the silver dream road through the iron wood commences, where fairy tales still live.
I found this totem pole at a camp site some locals had set up and had to smile...
To the hills I wandered, and what is the message of this hike?
This is a signpost reading: "The concept of the Kyrill reforestation program"... but you cannot read it anymore...
They cannot win.
