Walking Between

I walk between.

It’s often not deliberate. I throw on some music or or pop my headphones in and start daydreaming vaguely as I move around, next thing I know I’m walking between worlds. One foot in the here in the city and one on the otherworld.

I’m sure there are those reading that with horror due to the lack of active intent behind the act, but it’s actually incredibly useful a skill. It also requires a lot of trust in the spirits I walk alongside, but these are times when I am most open to hearing. Out of my head and into the heart the voices are clear, the visions are solid as to be touched and the only drawback is the slight disorientation when someone starts talking to me midway through. Traffic I can deal with but not human interaction.

It’s not a skill I ever worked to develop, nor refine. I am currently side-eying myself over the later, I mean really you have a skill and you neglect it to try and learn another one that achieves the same thing but it what you’re ‘meant to do’. I’m now well past the ‘do because you’re meant to stage’ but there’s all these weird hangovers that I run into. Insidious shit is what it is, but I digress. Not that there was much to digress from.

Point of this stupid ramble is that I had a moment today where I dropped in line with Her. Standing between worlds, feeling the difference between my bod on one side, Her’s on the other, and for no other reason than Uptown Funk was on I/She danced. It was a brief moment, I went back on my meds yesterday so sinking deep isn’t something I will be doing in the next fortnight or so, but it left me giggling like a fucking idiot. Sometimes you just need to let go and let it be fun…

There is no purpose to this post other than to document that it’s hilariously funny to dance as I/She and leaves me feeling quite grounded mentally and physically.

And it can serve as a reminder that I need to get out and start actively working on developing this skill and refining it till I can step between at will as well.

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Honey, Milk and Bloodied Hearts

I dream of an altar of stone, angled so liquids poured onto its surface trickle in to the centre then down to the ground below, nestled between olive trees and night blooming jasmine. I dream of lanterns and spirits, of offerings of honey, wine, oil and fresh bloodied hearts. Of the curls of incense reaching to the night sky. I dream of furs and blankets and union. 

I dream of foxes eating hearts. 

I’m undergoing a huge period of transition at the moment. In truth it probably started four years ago. The year prior I had spent in crisis – suicidal, isolated and distressed. The first of the last four years was the death of three relationships and the start of something causal an entertaining… 

Or so I thought. We’re now due to be married so, casual, yes, that was a thing.

The olive cutting is showing signs of getting new leaves. It lives. 

Over the past four years my life has made a series of transitions. The crisis was followed by a period of restlessness, another crisis then a period of rapid transition. My path has shifted with it. I noted about two, maybe three, years back that my path appeared to be shifting from the Chaos Magic I had practiced for over a decade to something a little bit more… Traditional was the word I used at the time.

The altar is in a cave lit by torches. Water is poured the tall thin man with one arm, and incense lit by the huge viking like-man. A small black goat is lifted and held by the viking looking one while his companion slits it’s throat. Blood washes over the stone altar and trickles to the floor. 

The truth of the matter is that traditional isn’t really a good word for it and I think the Chaos never really went away. It all just shifted into a new form. There are now elements that resemble traditional witchcraft in what I do. The Fetch, Ancestors, more traditional land spirits (I live just off of a nature reserve in the suburbs now), and my altars are littered with feathers, bones, and candles. 

And a small ache that’s been in my chest for so very long became a distracting one. I have been restless, searching, reaching. I looked for community, and found an amazing one, but it didn’t stem the dull ache and restless. I reworked and tweaked my path so many times that I started to resemble a flakey new-ager chasing the latest soul saver to no avail. I worked harder, pushed more at the edges, and nothing changed.

He watches me quietly from the end of the bed. Taller than I, rangy and dark haired. No horns today. Those come and go as he pleases. He curls around me when I come to bed and in the moments between waking and sleep I feel fur and rough hewn blankets instead of silky sheets. 

I still wanted. I still needed. Something was missing and I couldn’t name it.

So I settled. I worked with what came to hand and what fascinated me the same as I always had with Chaos Magic. Can’t say it went wrong even if I look back occasionally and wonder what I was thinking. I can see how I got from there to now. There are the skulls. There are the roses. There are the feathers. There is Babalon as sexuality and sex really took a front seat. There are the bones. The Fox showed up and I rolled with it. The Wild One became a magical partner as the sex took a turn for a whole lot more than just sex. 

They catch my eye, a small flash of white in the dirt. A minute later I’m digging bones out of the dirt. Days later I’m presented with a small blue butterfly by my Wolf, always so considerate.
Then there’s tiny vertebrae found caught in the fence. The Fox demands their skin.
There’s a bird wing drying in the shed, and a whole skeleton to be stripped and cleaned. I gather bright blue feathers from the ritual site and mourn the Bowerbird I couldn’t save nor give proper burial.
Things just come together of their own accord, they always do that. 

And then THEY came knocking. 

You want to know what I have actively avoided since the end of my first fledgling year of magic? Deity. But there’s something bigger at the end of this. Something so much bigger than any spirit I have ever seen.

That odd little dream I kept having with the altar… The slanted surface liquid was poured onto, that let it run to the earth. The offerings of honey, milk, oil, alcohol and blood. The hearts. The incense and olive trees. The Foxes. 

Outside, low to the ground… 

The foxes that ate the hearts…

The term Chthonic takes on a meaning outside of the hypothetical.


I dream…

Fairytale Hero – Hrefngast

I dream.

I dream I kneel at his feet, head bowed, presenting the drum and wolf bone beater. My hands are stained red as the drum skin from hours with the dye.

I dream I gouge my face. Tear out one eye. She that is me yet not nods her approval. I see clearer one eyed and bloodied.

I dream the little red fox and the great black wolf dance round the fire. There is no joy yet they dance on.

I dream of a man with hair impossibly dark and skin impossibly pale. He wear clothes thoroughly modern yet carries a blade so obviously ancient.

I dream of the Ancestors land. Of the old warrior with the white hair and swirling blue tattoos. He still sits beneath the dead white tree on deep red dust.

I blink… In his place now stands a young man with hair as copper as mine though he wears the elders tattoos. He leans on his spear, standing beneath the white tree now green with foliage.

I blink… He is gone. The great black wolf stands wrapped in his furs, eyes hollow and hard. The tree is shattered and charred as if hit by lightning.

I dream of the City shrouded in twilight and of it’s inhabitants. They are waiting.

I dream of this place. Of the future. Of orchards and laughter.

I dream of the little red fox dancing with the great black wolf. A dance bloody and violent.

I dream.

These are snippets. I barely have a night without vivid dreams at the moment. 

The Little Red Fox

Little red foxes have become a thing. A really persistent pay attention I will brush against your leg then stare at you calmly for a bit before prancing off because you laughed at my prize kind of thing. Then everywhere, and I mean everywhere, I look I see images of foxes.

Red urban foxes are the go. The kind you rarely see around Australian streets, but are definitely here and thriving.

Then there was this awesomely intense little bit of a vision:

We circle. Me with the fox mask/me the red fox. He with the big black wolf/he the big black wolf. I can’t tell if we’re wearing headdresses or we are the creatures whose fur we wear. There’s no aggression, but also no joy, it’s pure intense don’t look away and FOCUS.

It’s far more intense, though incredibly brief, than anything that has hit me in a long while… and I’m powerless to interpret it right now. My brain just can’t hold onto it amongst uni stress and this goddamned cold.