These murky woods - thoughts on the civic duty of escapism

 I like to think that I am a thinking man. I like to think that I have a reasonable amount of common sense. I have a day job like so many others, and like so many others I only find space for dreams and things that portray meaning to me in a world where human society subsedes. Of course I like to read fantasy novels, mythology and fairy tales and tales of mystery and imagination. For instance, I absolutely dug the laid Ursula K. le Guin´s Earth Sea cycle and have read all of it with gusto.

But I always did so with a sense of guilt and shame. It did not feel right to lose oneself in tales and dreams, when there where actual creatures of Evil roaming the Earth. Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, that Turkish fucker, that North Korean fucker and all the other fuckers who deserve more than death. Yes, that´s Fimbulmyrk ranting. Yes, that´s Fimbulmyrk hate-mongering. Yes, and Fimbulmyrk hates those fuckers even more so because those fuckers brought him that far. There are about one thousand methods of torture I would inflict on, say Donald Trump if it made any sense. But it does not make any sense. Because all hope for a better world is lost for good and there will be ever worse tyrants. It makes no sense to kill the tyrants or even hate them, because the next ones in line will be even madder and far worse. I would gladly kill myself, but what for? Even suicide would not make any sense any more.

Enter the grand old dame of fantasy. Ursula K. Le Guin, ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ursula_K._Le_Guin) who died on January, the 22nd, said the following:


(source: https://www.facebook.com/authorchrisriddell/photos/a.857902824262731.1073741829.532119136841103/1630039517049054/?type=3&theater)

So many things are deemed escapist. My colleague at work says blacksmithing with children is escapist. Bushcraft is deemed escapist. Walking through nature is escapist. Spirituality is escapist, as is fantasy and literature and striving for an education that is not "push that button and shut up".

Notice summat?

People tell me that blogging is dead, and I was asking why. Because noone has time to read anymore and many people do not have the ability to follow articles that are longer than five lines, because they lack the span of attention required for more, they keep saying.

Many of the people in my acquaintance suffer from one or the other form of depression, most of them, to be exact. One of my friends who is in therapy right now, said she did not know the many things that are wrong with her before therapy, that she did not know exactly how deficient she actually was. So much for succesful therapy, by the way. Many of them cannot cope with the lack of any perspective in our world, with the ongoing warmongering, with the increasing pressure on the individual´s life, with the perverted turns of everyday life where nutrition is the new religion, and any other spirituality is absent and escapist and deficient.

Madmen are heads of corporation, and of city, and of state. Big-term business corporation own us all and do not even try to conceal the fact that they are the one who rule us. It´s not that they would kill you in case you don´t obey... you just do not belong any more if you do not play the game according to their rules. And the rules change like the weather and after unconceivable and absurd fashions.

That sheds an intersting light on the term "deficient perception of reality", innit?

And if you do not belong at all anymore, and feel left alone in the dark, then this post is for you. Because I want to tell you a secret.

They fear you.

They fear the archaic threat you pose.

They fear the twilight of murky woods. They can drive off darkness with the flick of a switch, everywhere, they can control nature to a frightening degree... but they cannot control the wilderness in your mind.  

They fear the other world. They fear God and the Gods and what is lurking beneath. And by belittling everything of real substance, crafts and art and fantasy, spirituality and belief, they hope to free themselves from the nagging doubts that grow like a cancer and grow and spread. They fear the werewolves and the spirits of the dark as well as the light. They are by definition, grey and Evil. They are the worsest of the worst.

The mist fell on ancient hills. After work, I set out for a bimble. So, you say, are you not afraid of wild pigs or wolves or racoons or foxes? No, I say. I am afraid of bankers and economists and politicians. No wolf could do that much harm to me. No wild pig would want to tear my soul apart and leave it throbbing with pain in a darkness that is no darkness but an abyss that defies definition. Then, you ask, are you not afraid, at least, if you are such a superstitious guy, of the spirits of the dark? Of what is lurking in the realm of twilight behind the threshold you so often mention?

But, in a world where light is only neon, and neon alone and thou shalt not relish in the warm flicker of the golden light of a candle, I have no shame anymore of unbecoming human, but something deeper and darker, with gnarled roots in the rock of the other world. I am a teller of secrets untold and unborn. I am the whisperer in the twilight. I am unbecoming human, and I am walking the masked path of twilight fury. I mean no bodily harm to anyone... but I know not shame anymore in telling the tales of the murky woods.

I have no shame in becoming the violent twilight. I have no mercy anymore. I have no guilt in killing with a word of power, a song of insanity, a sword I found in the other world, of killing the souls of the grey ones once and for good. For they fear, and I feed on their wrath and their fear to become even stronger. Yes, fear shall follow them, fear of the murky woods. Yes, peaceless by restlessness they shall become. Yes, they shall have no respite anymore, anywhere. I am a part of the darkness, I walk the masked path through the thicket of my fantasies... in stealth I tread to find a path into their dreams. There, at the threshold between wake and sleep, I will be lurking to ravage their soul. Care to join me?
 

And the most powerful weapon I have is being myself. A dreamer. A teller of tales, a whisperer of secrets, a part of the woods they so much fear. 

Try it. Sit by a stream in the murky woods. Listen to its song. And unbecome human. become the wildness of your mind instead, the clawed and horned animal that thrives in the deepest of the woods of your mind, the sorcerer, the maiden, the warrior, the mother, the child, and man and woman and beast alike. Scream the love of your live into the raging, ravaging storm - and become the storm, laughing as the absurdity of their ways is tattered by your breath.

Find the words that are the weapon of these songs, find the blade that is silence, find the tales it sings and tells. Do not harm their bodies - but strike back with the hardest force when they attack you. Escape from a reality that is not real, escape from a tyranny that is more than a tyranny of the body, but a prison for your soul. And fight. Always guard your dreams and never feel ashamed of your soul.

No, you are not perfect. Yes, you are dyfunctional. Yes, you are escapist.

Make it your sword, and always keep it shaving sharp. And protect your like and kind with every living breath and strive to take as many with you as you can.

Skóggángr

Maybe you know this feeling: The woods call you, call you out into their solemn embrace. They call you in your everyday business, in work and leisure, and some of you listen. But the call grows more intense. You adapt to the woods, that is what you do and have to do, if you want to move swiftly and silently in their realm, and the trees grow into your heart and soul. You watch the animals and listen to the murmur of the creeks, and they tell you tales alien to mankind´s endeavours so far removed from the actual world. The wind in the treetops cradles you in its eternal lullaby, and something happens to you.

In ancient times in the North, people found guilty of severe crimes were banned from the community of man. In times when life was at bay at a blink of an eye, this was absolutely necessary to ensure a working community. They were deemed inhumane, called "vargr" (a grim connotation of "ulv", meaning wolf) or skóggángr (woodsroamer). Science is still going on about the term skóggángr, but it seems to be referring to someone deliberately leaving the community of men.

In our times something has happened. The tides have turned. While in former times survival meant to fight nature for survival, now we are faced with an altogether different matter. We as human beings have deprived the world of all magic, have exploited nature to an extent that the desolation threatens our own life. The seas are littered with toxic and nuclear waste, and it might be argued that the recent shift of the poles has something to do with the erection (pun intended) of super-high skyscrapers on critical balance points. No wolves roam the woods, and if a bear chances to come by, it is called a psychotic problem-bear and shot to mincemeat. We even try to kill nature in ourselves by domesticating and stupefying humans to an extent that many youth are not even capable of survival in a civilized surrounding.

But it is YOU who is called by the woods. They might be subject to forestry commission and business. They might be domesticated and seem to be tame, but believe me, they are not. Their call is violent, and tragedy and triumph happen every year, month, week, day, second ticking away not with the pulse of a clock, but the pulse of the almighty mother, earth. Spring and winter, summer and autumn are but a breathing in and out there. Your individuality does not tip the scales even a tiny bit, but your soul weighs heavy there. It coincides with the pulse and breathing of the dark, rich soil. It blossoms with the flowers and withers with the winter.

And you get a notion that this might be the real life after all.

Then you return to your everyday endeavours, a changed human being, and you notice the everyday wrongness of life. All too soon you notice all your energy you won in the woods is spent, and when you feel exhausted, you hear the call again. And you return, and the roots of ancient trees yet unborn grow deep into your heart. Alien you become to the ways of those cyborgs and zombies that call themselves human and that delight in preying on their fellow beings while preaching denaturation and trying to establish a peace that is no peace, but numbness, ignorance, and indifference. By stealing away all dream they try to become immortal in indifference.

But there is no immortality of the body, and dynamics and change is the immortality of the soul. Metamorphosis is the law of nature, never ceasing to grow and blossom. Violent is the creativity of that dream, unfathomable by the ways of the Grey God they pray to. And thus they make this world.

You try to fight them. But you cannot fight with their weapons.

And so again you run into the woods. Is this escapism?

I do not think so. In fact, I think that it is in the woods that we find the weapons to fight with. Roaming the woods, being banned from a society of zombies and cyborgs is no longer a sentence, but a privilege.

Into the woods we walk. Into a dream we walk.

But under the treetops, near the stream, the clover sprouts, and under the pillars of the tree´s stems, the dream prospers.

Pathways we walk, ostracized by mankind, to become something old and something new, over old hills and farther away than just the distance.

And this is what skóggángr means to me now. It is a mere word, but it is taking roots, slowly, but securely, in the dream of the forest in my heart.

The buzzard flies above this forest, scanning the ground for its prey. Wolves return from the exile. Oh, yes, they are dangerous. Yes, they might threaten the life of wildstock and tame animals and humans alike. Yes, I would not want to get on the wrong side of them. But then they are of my kind. As is the owl, that stealthy hunter in the night.

This is the essence of skóggángr: Being one with the hunters and the prey, with river and stream. With the wind and the storm and the shadowy mists in the night. With the sun shining warm upon the meadows and twinkling in the stream, but also with the piercingly hard and frosty starlight in the midnight sky.



And with both sides united in the shady twilight.

The sun might sink beyond the hills: Darkness falls. But there is no Evil lurking here, for the Evil man fears is not the truth; man in itself has become the worst enemy. So we unbecome human. So we dream another life. So we deliberately walk into the thrall of the forest´s spirits, for there is nothing to be feared but the utter void of grey. Skóggángr we become. Forest we become.



Behind the gates there is a spring waiting. Behind the mist-enchanted sun, behind the circles of passage spring dwells.

There is art in this hope, there is hope in this art.

This is a new way.

This is a war to be fought, a hunt to be feasted.

Run with the night. The hunter´s moon is rising.

I admit it.... I´m a fan, too.;-)

Having read his works "The name of the wind" and "The wise man´s fear", and, most recently, "The slow regard of silent things" I must admit that I have developed quite the habit towards the writings of Patrick Rothfuss.

Here is a link to his blog:

http://blog.patrickrothfuss.com/

Copyright by Patrick Rothfuss and Shutterstock


While I am not agreed with him on some topics like gender mainstreaming and the like, and agreed on some other topics, and fond of his engagement, and not fond of some of his weird jokes;-), his books are poetic works of art about characters "slightly akilter" (The slow regard of silent things), and, most refreshingly do not try to be a LOTR or Harry Potter remake, even if they share characteristics. His language designs could be a bit more thorough, but all in all his is a very developed world that takes you in and does not let you go, and there is something very rare in contemporary fantasy novels: The feeling underneath that there is a sublime truth behind it all, a secret hidden in secrets of secrets, a hint, a scent of something wild and untame hiding inside. Read them at your own risk.;-).

Following the tawny owl-The book of Fimbulmyrk opens up a new page

Through the silken darkness of the deeper night I walk, a shadow amongst shadows. Time has been when I was feeling an alien in those woods of my wandering, in the enchanted underbrush of the world of my fantasy  - and is it mine, or is it mine to share? The steps of the starchild guide me well, and the sheen of his lantern led me to the abyss of the deep, once and for all I was changed. In disguise I walked amongst the grey masses not to terrify them in their wake, for something different have I become on the road to the hills, over and yonder and far beyond to the land of dreams - and back. I muse about those time when ther was no time, and I dream of a different region of the world, when the separation of the races of the Dhiudha took place. For it was in that time of the Great war of the Myriad planes that the grey veil fell down onto the plane of Aardeanna. Alas, the Oreamm did wake and rise, and many of the sages have taken them for creatures of the ursurper, who is the maggot of grey, but disciples to the maggot they were not. Not indeed were they, for savage were their wanderings, and their deeds, black as they were, were just their way of life. On I will wander, and maybe tell the story, how the Oreamm - some of them-were altered, but this I must keep for now for a later time. But grey they were not, for violently burned the fire of their dream and the force of their virility inside of their hearts.

The stars come out, and brightly shining does the moon cast silvery schemes and shadows upon the treetops and that clearing, embedded into a dale of ancient rock, and, there, by the ancient waystones, those towering menhirs, engraved with patterns so old that time is but a word to them, there burns a fire, foolishly glaring into the dark. I hear...

I hear the cry of the tawny owl returning on her path through the mild spring air, circling above the clearing three times, to and fro she flies. I hear a song, lovely, vibrating in the still air... and peace descends into my heart, and deep fulfilment. And yet, mercilessly and brightly burning are the stars above, and tehy remind me of that ancient dale in those ancient mountainsides long ground to dust, far, far away in the East.

For it was thence that it happened. Before, the tribes of the Dhiudha slowly formed their ranks against the attacks and the rapture of the Oreamm, and slowly started to defend themselves, but to no avail. For savagely fought the Oreamm, as ants might bite off the leg of their foe, with deadly determination, even if they are facing certain death. And as the Oreamm acquired more and more of the weapons of the accursed and blessed steel, they learned the art of making weapons themselves, and more fiercely their attacks bore down upon the beautiful folk. Thus, faced with certain doom and the rout of their race, the wild Dhiudha tribes of the Northeast gathered in a high valley in a hidden range of the mountains for one last and desperate effort, and began to chant. Nine days and nine nights did they chant, and the brilliant stars above them burned a bitter, piercing light to the ebb and flow of the alien melody, vibrant and deathly. And it was there, in the high valley, that they begot the seed of avange, the philosophical stone of the corr dicinn, as it was called in a later language. Great was their effort, and there their enchanters died from exhaustion, and their souls fed the stone with a bitter, searing power. Few of their most elite warriors were chosen, and they were called the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai. Clad in silver mist and black garments, in armour made from strange and alien metalwork, they walked the stair of moonlight and mist, of time and tale and space and along the planes of possibility to carry the seed of avenge. Later on they learned that not the Oreamm were their deadly foes, but they set out to forge weapons out of steel and grinding tathlums that would pass as gemstones with other races, of making the great war axes and spears, and clubs and fighting implements their race was famed for and feared for in those wars and in the wars to come. In stealth they bore upon their foes like the hatchet drives through the fruits of the field-ten thousand Oreamm to the left and ten thousand to their right did fall, like wheat before the scythe. A harvest of heads and a winepressing of blood it were, as they walked amongst the hosts of the Oreamm like the wind shakes the barley. On and on they fought, and bitter were their battles, and they fought with grief in their hearts, for it was the rout of all truth, the end of all beauty, and plague and pestilence followed in the path of this war. The guardians of the seed, however, went away in stealth. Nine were they, and they went on missions stranger than even that of the main host of Dhuodhai, Horoidw and the wild tribes of Dhiudha, missions that led them yonder star and moon, on pathways yonder mist and time.

Still the stars are glaring bright, but there´s also the moon, smiling upon that clearing, and brightly and foolishly the fire burns its eternal dance. And as I step out of the darkness into its warm and radiant light, I smile. Warmly-coloured mead I carry in my pack, and food and drink for a long night of storytelling, and in my heart there are still many tales of terror and beauty, of love, of gain and loss, and I see the weary figure by the fireside  stop her chanting and turn towards me, with a knowing smile mirroring mine.

And it feels like home.

Wanderings and musings in the book of Fimbulmyrk-The fourth page

Night closes in, and as I wander through the twilight, shadows lurking behind every tree and bush spring alive, and dreams come and go of times so long ago. Was that the wind rustling in the leaves or a song of shadows long passed? Were it a spirit in the woods? Manyfold are the multiplying villanies of nature, and yet, I do not fear, for my steps are guarded well.

But, as I tread this most ancient and forlorn path through the thicket of the woods amidst the soft and rustling noises of the wind, memory after memory sweeps over me  as waves wash by over a rock in the screaming tide. And I dream. I dream with open eyes, and it is times so long gone by that life and death in themselves seem just a word, softly spoken into the void of time.

For it was once upon a time, in a time when time was not, in a place that was not a place, that the many peoples of the Dhiudha inhabited Aardeanna, the world that was born into the void by an act of will and virility. There were many other beings at that time, the most powerful ones being the lords of the Naddred and the Uuatheach. Many legends exist about those, and many contradict each other. Many, though, tell of them as being descended from the races of the younger and the older Gods who laid down their seed into the bosom of the dragons, and thus the races of the Uuatheach and Naddred came to be. And it were the race of the Uuatheach the kin of the older Gods, who came from outside the universe, and the younger Gods, who were the descendants of the ONE on high, the piercing light on the pinprick´s point with the weight of the universe to itself. Higher than the Gods, however, were the NINE, who are the archcreators, answering to noone but to the ONE.

And of all the ancestors of mankind the Dhiudha were the closest kins. As Gods man has seen them since the birth of his race, but in that time Gods they were not... It was thence that the Dhiudha of all tribes lived in peace all over the face of Aardeanna, and their arts and their craftsmanship flourished to a degree that shunned the other races and brought some to even compare their skills to that of the dragon races of the Naddred and Uuatheach. Music and song were prospering as were the crafts of their artisans and sorcerers and singers and magicians. Alchemy and medicine they developed to a high degree and desease and even death they managed to hold at bay, if not conquer complete. Long they lived, and the spans of their lives grew longer with each aeon, and their souls and the force that drove their life grew ever stronger with age. And of all the Dhiudheann tribes two are mentioned in the elder scrolls of Feorh - Seonn - Ys the most, and those were the tribes of the Dhiudha Horoidw and the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai. This is the story of their division from the ancient people of Yore.

For it were in the ancient times that first some of the Dhiudha settled near the fortresses and strongholds of their masters and tutors, either the Naddred or Uuatheach, of both dragon tribes which were but few, and few was the number of their disciples. Thence a war raged all over Aardeanna and the other world, which thence was called in the tongue of the dragons YNH `ARIDIAAH and the myriads of planes, and peace was to be found but near the stronghold of the defiant dragon tribes. For the dragon tribes were begot by the Gods as warriors to fight in these wars, and defiant they are called by the scribes because they, in face of their brothers, laid down the cruel and fearsome weapons made by their masters and made peace with each other in spite of the warlords. And so great was their might and prowess, that the Gods, both the elder as well as the younger ones, were unable to punish and bane them for their deed. And war shunned their strongholds, and thus it came to be that the tribes of the Dhiudha, who were thence living in their domains, were called "Horoidw", which means "of the hero nativity" or "the high ones" in the ancient tongue of the Dhiudha. The people of wisdom, of all things green, of sorcery and magic were they, high and lean and fair. They cared for the trees and herbs, the animals and the crop, the rivers, wells and lakes, and rock and stone and gem. In the heart of the most ancient tree many of them lived. A giant amongst trees was she, for female she was, and far and wide spread her roots and the twigs and leaves and branches covered an entire landscape, mountain, hill and well, river, lake and towards the sea, where lay the strongholds of the Naddred and Uuatheach. Their doings and their way of living is recorded in the book Oreamm na nDhuodhai and shall not be subject to these dreams and musings.

Instead, I will now refer to how the Dhuodhai, as they were called later on, divided from the tribe of origin. For it was in that war that Bolg of the virile hammer, the skyforger, strove to end the war, as is recorded in the books Drah´Kal and Apulu Bolgai, and managed to forge the sword that shall one day smite the accursed one whose name is a bane of doom - Kah´Graah`VRTREACH is his name in the dragon´s tongue, but dragon he was not, but older, and ancestor to KAH`GRAAH`THIEE´AUMATH´YRMA`KAL, the serpent of chaos. And Bolg slew ARRUYOON´YRMATH`KAL, who offered to sacrifice herself in an act of will, as is recorded in the book of ARRUYOON. Thus she became the leyline force that tore the moon from the pregnant bodice of Aaardeanna, the Great, und immortal she thence became, and her power can still be felt in hill and water and the forces of virility. But Bolg was fooled and trapped by Vrtreach himself and held captive until the day of avenge, as is recorded in the books Apulu Bolgai and Oreamm na nDhuodhai. But while the skyforger was held captive in the treetop of a yew, there were events taking place that were of great importance.

For a new seed was sown on the plains of the South of Aardeanna, and under the new-born moon it grew, and grew, and ever stronger did it grow, and thus sprang to life the tribes of the Oreamm Fomoire, the people of rage and fury. Small and thickset were they in the most, of dark skin and with a flat head, a stubby nose and a heavy brow, with rapturous molar teeth and full of violence. The Dhiudha, however, regarded them as little more than animals, and saw them as little more than any saber tooth tiger. But, as time passed, they developed in a racing speed. Did they at first tear their carrion meals with bare hands and teeth, soon they started to hunt, and weapons they made from flint and bone and even the copper ore they found. Forth they spread and multiplied, and like flies they flooded mountain and plain with a speed that made some of the Dhiudha fear. But still most regarded them as no threat. But thence it happened that from unknown provenience they acquired magic and weapons of iron and steel, and since it was their very nature to claim with wild ferocity what they believed to be theirs by an act of violent will, they set their new and bloodthirsting weapons upon their foes. And as hammer on anvil they bore down on the villages and even cities of the Dhiudha, ravaging, looting and pillaging, and eating their foes with carnivorean relish. No borders nor limits did they know, and children, women, sage and poet, warrior and sorcerer alike fell prey to them to end as a meal to feed their everlasting hunger and lust. From the bodies of harps they made hafts for their clubs, with the entrails of artisans they stitched their raw garments, and they wore the skins of their enemies as a mantle to display their prowess. Cruel as they were, plague as they were, were they not answering to the God of grey, the maggot of doom, but an aspect of life, though, even if it was a violent one. But still the Dhiudha did not join their forces to smite them. Still they held out in their strongholds, and were just defending themselves. Thus it came a day, when their most ancient city, in the far east of the world, and which has borne many a name ever since was overrun. It was a rout, and the Oreamm roamed the burnt and ashen-coloured earth within the walls and ate the flesh of the inhabitants in a feast that made the streets run bloodied red.

How it came to be that the fury of the Dhiudha awoke, is recorded in the banished books of the silent people, and in the lost scrolls of the AI-uuigeann.fearh, which are preserved in the hallowed halls of AIS, which is, but yet is not. But the saying goes, that some of the survivors gathered in a valley high up under nameless mountains, under a starry sky, and in a mighty work of magic, they transformed themselves into something alien to the Dhiudha race, and the stone of avenge, the jewel of doom, was born amongst their ranks, and they became the dark tribe of the Dhiudha race, the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai.

Many tales there are, and many a song to be sung, and many a battle was fought. The stars come out over the woodland, where my weary foot seeks out a place to rest. The same stars were they that shone above that valley in the high mountainside far, far away in space and time. Who knows what dangers may lurk in the darkness? But art is mine and the power of speech, so I feel well guarded against the creatures of the dark. The cat owl cries above, and there, in the distance, there lie the waystones, ancient, and lichen-encrusted, and the ancient oak there stands where I will find the fire of the tales that will follow in the course of this night, and who knows how long it will be?  The cat owl is still crying... she followed my path through the woods, along the strange ways of the forest. And ever so gently a conscience is pressing against mine. Animal I feel as well as white light, a flower of crystal embedded in the warm and golden embrace of living bodice, Oreamm and Dhiudha, dragon and God.

Songs of the forest I hear in the song of the owl and the vibrating light of this conscience. Is it a tale? Is it a dream?

The truth will show... the truth will be. And through the darkness I see the copper sheen of a low and flickering fire, dancing on those giant stones, lichen encrusted and engraved with spirals.

And thusly, the fifth page is opened.      

Into the violent twilight...

The third page has turned in the book of the violent twilight, and ever on maeanders the ancient, once well-trodden road. Alas the fall of the days of yore, and the glory of the ancient kingdom of the North! Cold are the waves of the Great sea that wash over the remnants of Feorh-Seonn-Ys that is no more. AIS is all what remained, AIS of Feorh-Seonn taken, and AIS of wisdom, and yet made from the doom of the sacred isle. And by some it is called the ivory tower, and by some it is feared, and by some it is cherished. It is, but is not, and a bridge of insanity, narrow as a sword´s edge, and singing in a constant tempest blowing from the abyss of the void, is the only path that leads there. It is much sought after by those tired and tiring in the world, and seldom found by the tiring wounded from the domain of gray.

These now are the dreams of AIS, as presented in the lost scrolls of the most ancient order of the AI-uuigeann.fearh.

In a place that is not a place, in a time that is no time, in a space where is no time nor space I sit, no person but a song myself, and I write, and I draw, for speak I must. Far have I wandered, and I wander on along this most ancient road. Alongside the idols of Yore I have come to the rolling green hills. The green of the forest´s leaves were a roof and a veil to me, and I stepped over the bridge long ago. On I will wander, and the cat owl´s cry is with me, sounding like a bugle in the distance... where does its song may lead?

Towards the past, towards the ivory gates, where so many souls are vaulted, I strove, and I went in hiding long ago. The child of virility, though, touched my forehead with green fire virile, and, amazed, I started from my enchantment. And as I woke, I realized: Again, the fortress is in lethal danger, and fast asleep the warden of its walls. Thus I stared from my sleep, and took up the feathered pen, as in times gone by, and the sword of the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai.

And I sing.

A song I sing along this road of initiation. A song I sing along the lines of this fantasy, this dreamlike fancy, and yet, by this song is tempered the blue blade steel of the wormpatterned sword. In the wind of these words I forge, upon the anvil of fate and will, with a hammer of virility, the weapon of avenge to adjudge the maggot of gray, Vrthreach, the cursed.

A curse I sing, and I rise my voice in my song of doom, to adjoin the lament of the land and the songs of fury rising from the wells and waters, trees and herbs, land and rock and earth and stone.

A blessing I sing to the tired and the wounded... come now, wanderers in a foreign land. The night draws in, and when I rest on my journey, you are welcome by my fireside. Come now and bring your food and drink and your pipes of clay! We will sit and I will tell you dreams of ancient lore.

Just started the book of Fimbulmyrk;-)-some drawings

 ...through the forest´s green and over ancient hills the battered road it leads...

 ... into the dawn of a new day: The book of drawings, the book of Fimbulmyrk...

"Dhiudha Laita, laite laitaneonn, ab bauka anthwll."(The Book Of Dragal, the lost secrets of the ai-uuigeann-fearh)

 It grew on me, and I realized I´d actually missed drawing a lot. It gives my mind and my fantasies opportunities to wander.

 Two dragons as of old guard the path of the psychopomp, his, who was called Telesphoros of old but bears names thousandfold. 6000 are the sentinels of the castle at the abyss of heights, and hard it is to converse with them. He leads the way through the void- and to the land of dreams. But be not mistaken, wanderer in ancient woods-he may seem a child, and a child of virile powers of green he is. He is the one who bringeth forth the dream of dreams and the name of dreams, which is the master key to all magic and all poetry and the art of the warriors as told in the ancient lore of Ys. Who might know if it is fiction... or bears the truth of dreams? He who dares might follow the path, but who knows what will become of it?

 The book hath opened, and fury and poetry stand guard beside its gates of old. I did not write it, but it was my hand that wrote with moonlight upon the water, with fire on steel.