While much feels uncertain the moss and stone impart a sense of timelessness. Even here amongst the monocropping. The dark dense stands of Norwegian spruce. The familiar iconography of black metal album covers.

Still the signs and symbols can be seen, heard, felt. The possibilities for renewal reveal themselves. Speaking to stories unfolding over periods unknowable. Measurable but inconceivable.

Our short spans, our bright, brief glimpses of life. Falling away.

(Journal, October 6th, 2022)

Return to unconscious
Casting darkly light
Gold gleaming.

From that I set away, broke
Underfoot first herbs
Of priestly poet.

Heart of
Forests delightful.

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I have been an animist for years, and the idea of an active practice has been something I have been grasping at for most that time, but I have not found a way of practicing magic that has worked for me. Chants, ritual speech, runes, wands and ritual circles, they've all just felt self-conscious and didn't speak to me. In bagpipes, it seems I have found something that, without trying, and without artifice, taps into exactly the thing I hoped for in trying other methods.

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My old cut-up anti-review of "The Ticket That Exploded". William Burroughs' operating occult grimoire masquerading as 1960s paperback.

Made a wreath from forest evergreens and lit the first Advent candle last night. The true spooky season approaches.

Eventually my filter list will be so comprehensive that I no longer see posts about anything. Zero discourse. Zero news. Nothing but empty feeds of tranquillity, and calming nihilist agitprop.

It's the one creative pursuit I've maintained across the years. A singular constant spanning detachment, anxiety, disappointment, joy, beauty, significance. The unexpected places. The eventual settling. And now reaching into the unknown, unstable future.

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Dusted off my typewriter this week. Quite literally.

Returning to the cut-up process feels like a ceremonial homecoming. A re-initiation. A ritual re-awakening.

Alphabetised cut-up verse. From an ongoing typewriter series.

"Cracked wood stumps. Rusted iron nails. Salvaged ancient rock. Green ferns in frosts and grasses billowing. Swollen sun pines and mountain oaks faint ghosts. Wild boughs in sanctuary seeking sympathy."

(Journal cut-up)

Sturkö Runestone.
Rundata: DR 363.
(c.900—1050)

Images via: Swedish Open Cultural Heritage.

[Re-post]
Björketorp Runestone.
Rundata: DR 360.
(c.520—700)

Images via: Swedish Open Cultural Heritage.

One day, moss will cover my weathered bones.

It's 2052. I look up from a wilted cabbage grown weedy in dehydrated soils. Overhead a circling drone projects holographic platitudes across red-dust skies. A soothing 963Hz voice reverberates from above, "A new life awaits you in Biodome Prime, a chance to begin again".

Press my body beneath the Earth. Feed the hungry soils.

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Merveilles

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