April 14, 2013 TOLS

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole o’ the Law.

Aarrr lads, and lassies too, gather me round, an’ I’ll tell ye a tale o’ the Path of Return to freeze yer bones. For there’s plenty o’ folk that think the good ship Liberty sails the Waters of Mem with flags flyin’ and the music playin’. But as any old sea-dog knows, it’s a path of bedevilin’ shadows, and a march through jungles o’ ideas and deserts o’ spiritual desolation on the way to the seat o’ Ra-Hoor-Khuit in the East.

For ’tis as Nuit herself said, that she is divided fer love’s sake, for the chance o’ union. Sure, the pain of division is  as nothin’ when you’ve come through the passage, but it can seem a mighty long time before the joy o’ dissolution becomes all.

For there be paths o’ darkness, blacker than a true Christian’s heart, like Qoph, and Ayin and, tho’ it look like nice ’un, the knee-tremblin’ path o’ Samekh. Aarrr, there’s enough there to stop yer blood in its veins, and turn yer hair a deadly shade o’ pale. Take yer vitamins along, ye’ll need ’em.

Fer it’s yerself, ye see, an’ none other. That annoyin’ person ye were that ye wanted to leave behind on the dockside when ye began the voyage? Aarrr, he slipped aboard wi’ the rats when no-one was a-lookin’, and he sneaks around behind ye in the night, and whispers lyin’ secrets in yer ears on them days when ye lose yer sense o’ direction.

An’ who’s the skipper on this ship o’ fools? Why, none other than yer own madness, graspin’ for the gold o’ the mines on a distant shoreline, and pretendin’ ter see the Pole Star up on the larboard side in the nights, when he can’t see a thing but the mists, and he hears nothin’ but the distant sound o’ sirens.

And no, I don’t mean fire-trucks.

Aarrr, many a year ye’ll sail on the seas, through doldrums an’ tempests, and (fer it’s all simultaneous and omnipresent, like) across dead, waterless lands and gloomy forests filled with serpents and giant scorpions, and savage tribes wi’ mean attitudes, and clans of gibberin’ apes screechin’ despair in yer ears.

Yet it’s all the same, aarrr, all the same. Except when ’tis different. Fer – ’tis yerself ye’re findin’ in all o’ these places. That self that’ll drive ye mad with hope and fear and dreams o’ beds of purple, wi’ magnificent beasts o’ women (or fellas, if that be yer preference), doesn’t let up. And ye’ll lust after result till ye’re half-crazy with not gettin’ it.  Till the shadows is past and done, and ye finally sees that which remains.  And then … off ye goes again. Fer it don’t never finish, aarrr, it don’t never finish.

And if ye does it right, ye won’t want it to.

Love is the law, love under will,

Edward Mason

 

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