45.
When I ask what I’m feeling this morning the feeling itself is a question. Without searching it wonders, it looks me about. The sun comes out more, saturating the barn’s terracotta roof. I could just list the things I’ve seen, the half-thoughts I’ve tried on for size that collapsed back into this unapparent question, silly words like world, reality, truth, pathology. I guess it’s not even a question. No, it says it’s not. It’s a little bit sad but noticing that tends to make it flash happy, like a fish in a stream whose wholeness you weren’t quite seeing. A wink who repeats what the moon can make you say: There is no such thing as borrowed light. The feeling is deeper than those which are still too close to thought, or which are disturbances caused by something like attempted sayings or perhaps that force which pulls them towards tellings. I’m not sure there is anything left that you really want to figure out for yourself, it is more a doubt regarding its making sense or being of use to anyone else, & perhaps some misguided impulse towards justification.
Do the beings you love need to justify themselves to you? Do you seek to make sense of bunny & wife? Do you need to explain house & garden?
No, but I need to be sure of that place I cannot go, the area I hold myself back from, the realm I create by not going there.
Then anarchy is precisely an ideal for me, but it is an ideal I quite literally make a space for: it is less ‘anything goes’ than ‘no go area’. So long as we can respect the no go we can go on with anything. We do this well enough, the no go becomes our going there. Who goes there? I will fictionalise them as a group of Supernatural Scientists. But if this is a fiction I ever will write, it will be because I have founded Thee Wylds in my own ‘Real Life’.
The great parks & such, the national parks, they are too much like reserves: little (even when big) portions set aside so the mass can continue its march. Like your head: you can do what you like in there just don’t confuse it with how you must behave according to the reality of my civilization (you poor little social construction). Or like a smart phone: a little piece of something rich people own & control for you to carry around with you, just enough to keep everybody happy (which is to say most people conveniently depressed & anyone else effectively maddened).
Thee Wylds will be just a little patch, a random corner of the land that has in fact already suggested itself & become brambled over. But you don’t need land to do this, all you need is Sanctuary, & whatever that is it is something you have to be. Maybe it is this bit where you aren’t that really makes it. It would be easy to give the wrong image, or the right image but the wrong idea: I speak of a garden with the wilderness inside. No borrowed landscape possible because it’s all garden, all yours, there is no outside. But that doesn’t make the wilderness surrounded even if you can apparently walk right round it: it’s a hole in reality. Sure, you know this stuff, you’ve seen it a million times, just that probably what most of those times have done is make you think it a fantasy, a ‘metaphor’. A metaphor for what?
Reality is a hole in reality, just you can’t really go there until or unless you’re true. True as a corpse ain’t lyin’. We found this kind of wilderness & it’s that kind of ruin. Not a place to go cycling, not a picnic place or photo opportunity, nowhere you can hunt. You probably can’t even go there, it would be easier to push the world in through the pinpricks of my pupils. You probably can’t even go there but can you stop it from entering you? You who do those things we never agreed you could do, those things we would really rather you please do not do: I plant this black seed in your so-called reality: There is a line you never shall cross, not without dying & perhaps not even then. Magic is the power of the powerless.
