Fimbulmyrk: Into the twilight on a lunatic´s path

Mittwoch, 6. Juli 2016

Into the twilight on a lunatic´s path

I tend to have only shitty days these days at work. Politics have always been somewhat psychologically challenged with a huge ego and stuff, but now it is nearing insane. But I know well it´s all my fault... I just cannot say that the wall is green, even if it´s white, just because I am told to. The lunatic therefore is me.

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,

...up rise the vigorous oaks...

...up rise the mushrooms from the mycel in the dark...

... and from the embrace of twilight I look into the sun.

The weird and the wonderful line this path, and eye to eye is mirrored in the sky that is no sky...

Treetops one can see through the mirror, trees that once were or that might be, but they are not.

In this cathedral I breathe, freely as in a dream. It may be that all will end eventually due to the haughtiness of man... but it is better to live in truth than in lies. It is better to die for the truth than in a lie. These trees are a truth, an asset that is not rooted in economy, even if economy is the reason they grow there. Maybe all is corrupted, even the order according to which the trees grow, planted by a forest bureau and only for reasons of economical value... but look at this picture and tell me this again! Feel the sun on your skin and tell me money is all there is!

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.