And I contemplated: Look at this knife. I made it recently from foraged steel I found along this exact trail. I have a truckload of spring steel, silver steel, ball bearing and tool steel at my disposal. I make other people´s knives from that, and for other people that´s just fine. Few people could understand why I "need another knife". Of course, the answer is, I do not "need" another knife. I have many of them. Most of those I have made recently, however, are more than just that, and I do not "need" them, but I need to make them.
No, I do not "need" another knife. But I need to make them, for each and every one of them is an exercise. It is an exercise in wondering, in listening to the sublime voice of the other world, of speaking the other world´s words in a fairy tale made steel. Noone believes in fairy tales anymore, but it is hard not to believe in the razor-sharp edge of a knife. A fairy tale of steel makes the Baba Yaga more plausible. No, it is not altogether a sweet tale of roses with a happy end. It is a violent song that is sung out of the earth, an earth that is writhing under the chains of pollution and waste. It is a silent menace, and a revenge for all the life that cannot be lived anymore, of all the fairy tales killed and all the wonders neglected. But it is also the answer, if we are able to listen, the answer to our peace and our agonized asking. The answer is that it is no answer. The answer is that that will happen happens according to a scheme, to a plan, and in that, makes perfect sense. Other things might happen, and their possibility is just as valid as the one that happened. It needs a strong character not to get lost on the way and return to court or even staying in the woods, as Merlin, Myrddin, Lailoken and Suibhne Geilt did.
To be honest, it is a practice of magic. I have long since become something very different. I think along strange lines, I think and believe deep and darkly, just like a tree sinks its roots into the ground. It is a wasteland soil where my roots are writhing, sinking into. But still, this magic prospers. Well do I know where the Hanged One left His eye!
No, those knives are nothing special, not at all. They are made from junk. And the symbol of our times is not the sword, the symbol of chivalry and nobility. It is the tank, the whip and the credit card. But if you listen closely to the violent song of steel, you will laugh aloud at those grey manacles they want to bind you with. And "they" can take the steel from me.
But the song will remain.