Long time, no regular posts, and yup, my faithful readers might be a bit disappointed. Now my absence has reasons, of course. One is that I simply had little time to write, and even updating my facebook account was a bit of a hassle. Another is.. well, how to put that in words?
I might put it that way: I was always reluctant to acknowledge the existence of human beings that are utterly and completely Evil. I believed that persons commonly tauted "evil" simply were a bit misled, and, with some empathy, could be persuaded to see things maybe a bit different. And of course, that still applies to many people.
But, finally, I encountered someone who not only is utterly and completely useless as a member of society, and life taught me the hard way that there actually ARE completely and utterly EVIL persons, of a variety that can only be referred to as a sort of madness or frenzy. Sort of disgusting and terrifying that such a thing exists, and it turned my view of the world upside down. Sort of Lovecraftian, too. Now such a thing as "the elder ones" or "Cthulu" makes a lot more sense to me as a myth. There is such a thing as a cosmic madness that befalls weak characters turning them into something utterly abominable.
These beings, that I will refuse to refer to as human, draw each and every drop of energy out of you, feeding on your virtual life - blood, thriving and relishing in their own fell deeds, until they have turned you into something like to themselves, and they will not stop until each and everything light and wonderful about your soul is perished. They install hate into your heart and soul by purpose in order to speed up the process and prey on everything that is of value to you, from friendship to valour to dreams to everything that elevates the human soul.
And as you can see by these lines, they have nearly succeeded. Only by a hair´s breadth did I escape and I needed some time to nurse my wounds. I was alack of inspiration and motivation to write anything but self-pitying rubbish. And this is a symptom that I nearly fell prey to the Grey God, the primeval snake of doom.
And I did not want to molest you with that, for it is like spreading a pestilence.
But a writer I am. This is not to say I am a good one. But it seems to me that I am no bad one, either, for still people read this blog, after all the trials and tribulations they had to suffer... ;-).
I am a writer, and the pen is also a weapon. It is just as good as a sword in many ways, and I know how to handle both. How did I manage to get out of the fix?
Now what applies to writing, applies to smithing in no small manner, too.
Again, I dove headlong into working for others, which to them serves as an excuse to mob me out, as usual. I do not understand this, but I simply cease to want to understand now.
I have realized that in order to survive this shitty world you have to be tough. You have to show your enemies (and just about everyone in human society is one) why they fear the dark again. And I know that there are a lot of you out there who have made exactly the same experience. Most of you out there are capable of getting cozy in situations where the all-too-common men ( and women) would not be able to survive. You dress up funny, you love to walk barefoot through the woods, you don´t care about hairdos and you have dirty fingernails.
They shun you, and they mob you, they try to perform ontological murder on you in telling you you were not adequate-while they themselves even fail in successfully open up a choco pops package in the morning, can´t even cook the basest of recipes and collapse after running for the bus. No wonder many modern shoes come with velcro straps, because they are not even capable of reaching that far down, and, provided they even did manage by accident, were not capable of tying a proper lace-knot.
I will tell you the secret (or one secret) about them: They fear you. One last shred of instinct tells them that you are what they have forsaken. That you are still in connection to the wild. They fear your laughter and your smile and your childlike endeavours, your vibrant colours and your prowess and creativity...
I make this fear my ally now. I make my mishap their downfall.
´Nuff said. Course, what I did these last months is riding my bike. It always helps to get things into perspective, to get out to places that are wild and adventurous. I saw some small wonders along the way, of course, and it is in seeing these wonders and clinging to the sense of awe that you can smite the serpent of primeval Evil, the Hátislar of doom... and the small wonders are often nothing special.
This is wild. This is a BMX track someone built very well under a remote bridge, and no, for the life of me I would not tell you where. It is illegal, of course. But someone took a lot of love and energy building what was prohibited due to lack of profit, and did it well. Went to the lengths to carry big bags of concrete out there and making some stunts fpor nothing else but plain old fun and play. All over the place there were graffitis saying "I love my little BMX" and "BMX, sonst nix" (BMX, nothing else).
Someone who loves what he or she does. Nothing special. Nothing elevated. Certainly no politics or other hatemongering. Plain old fun, and I hope the folks don´t mind that I used their stunts a little. Was a bit awkward, for my 26 was a bit too big for the stunts and I have become a right chickenshit and an old fart... ;-) but it was plain old fun indeed.
But urban is as urban does, and I had a craving for the hills, as I have so often, for a simple reason: Less people equal a smaller total percentage of morons.
Nothing special, really. Just some fireroads. Sun, and a light breeze. My ohsogood bike and myself.
...
And on top of one of my favourite hills one of the carvings I so much like... and it has inspired me...
...to take up carving again. Now the thing with carving is that you don´t need much. Just a whittling knife and a piece of wood. No smithy equals less people equals a lower total percentage of morons. And carving is somehow meditative, and I love to do this sitting on a stump in the woods. My muscles just start to remember the movements, but they are still there... No wonder: The first carvings I made when I was four years old, nothing to be proud of, to be true, but still.
And there are trees, old and gnarled trees, and young trees swishing in the wind... and no Hátislar of doom can take that from me.
And then I look over those hills, and the sky is so close, and I take a deep breath and smile.
Just a bike.
Or a hike, of course. Late summer trails and woods that simply wait to be discovered.
Relsihing in ripe berries and the sweet scents of late summer and just a faint hint of autumn inj between the tiny space between the brambles.
Bright blue skies we so often forget, where the merlin circles above with his eerie cries...
Or dark and cool crevices in the earth, looming full of ancient secrets and primeval terrors and the horror of the unseen; and yet the strong scent of the earth oozes from below and gives new strength to one´s soul.
Or, another wonder, as simple as it gets... just a wafer and a cuppa coffee at my favourite trailside restaurant. Just sitting there in the morning, when there are not many people around and you can have a nice chat with the few around; for for the most part, those are quality people who shun the mainstream and the ruckus.
And you have time and leisure to communicate with the rabbits nearby in the stable, and it is surprising that they communicate back.
And over more hills you ride in solitude and a sense of peace in your heart.
I very much find these pictures tell more of what heals one´s soul than many words; and of course I took it all in in long breaths.
It is funny how much things like these arm your heart against the constant attacks you encounter; for your mortal enemies might be able to kill you... but they will not kill the fact that you can experience this moment.
And all their endeavours are futile. They will die, they already have, and simply did not notice that they are already dead as stone.
They will not see the marvels of the woods anymore.
They cannot walk the trails you walk; even if they would walk the same path geographically, they will not be on the same path.
They know not exhaustion, and so they can never rest. They have no passion, and so they cannot feel tranquility.
But it is no longer my business pitying them.
My business was having a cuppa tree above the lake...
...and whittle away.
Loads of times I also just sat in a dense wood. I brought some good bread and cheese and some fruit and pickled cucumber and sausage... and, being deeply grateful for al these treasures, took my long time savouring, I mean REALLY tasting the food, while there was no sozund around but the breeze in the treetops and the song of birds and wild rams in the distance and some roe deer.
On one or the other occasion I went foraging for nettle seeds and leaves for soup and tea.
And there is a lot of life, and there is a lot of death in the woods. And it all makes sense, for everything has its time and place.
People are going mad over the latest catastrophies and fashions of doom... and they know not a thing.
There is one truth no influencer can change. No product will change this truth, nothing ever will. There is life and there is death.
Up springs the well and renews itself always.
And the trail leads where it has always led. they cannot change it nor do anything against it. Not against its power, nor its existence.
And they lie their way through life, and ultimately they believe themselves what lies they have told; but the trees know no lies.
Under crown and under leaves a weft is woven. From the well springs a creek that murmurs the runes of the forest. It sings songs of the wild. Always the warp is moving, weaving a web so delicate that it is, for the most part, left unseen. But still, it is there. It is truth, and can never lie. It consists of small wonders, of joy and pleasure and lust, of terror and horror, and awe. It has no name and many names.
Ever onwards onto itself the warp moves through the weft...
..and onwards the trail leads through the thicket.
The spider sitting in ambush...
...and the wind and sun upon the leaves...
The weaver of death...
Of decay and the horror of the void...
...cruel yet according to the law of the universe...
...up springs the well and renews itself forever.
And layer upon layer of the fragrant soil gathers upon the rotting steel of human pride.
And the trees will grow.
And the wicked will be forgotten. Their soul will die with their spirit. Their rotting flesh will be part of the soil, and stories will be told about their hate and greed and violence to warn of their downfall. They shall be peaceless through unrest. Three furuncles I sing and I curse upon them: Shame, maculosity and unseemliness. I sing the highest curse: May the void befall them. May they get what they so much desire. By all the wonders I encountered I render all their strife futile. By sun and life and wind and death, may they be doomed in any world, in any life. may they be reborn a million times and a million lifes shall they suffer, from the bginning to the end of the universe and in any universe that will be born. May they die a thousand deaths and encounter what they have sown. Evil they did do, lewd did they live: May they agnize what is their making.
And may I simply forget them in favor of the beautiful light on a forest´s hillside.
