Rites of Spring
We are joined here tonight--on the first of May--to mark another turn in the great Wheel of the Year. We are joined here, between Wilderness and Civilization, between Silence and Sound. Spring has fully arrived and Nature is renewing herself. Life has returned from its sojurn in darkness. To mark this transition, we shall make a passage into the Dreamtime, shall take flight and make love amongst the stars of heaven. We shall ride with Dame Holda, that old goddess of the North, across the night sky. We fly over land and sea, traversing this perilous, crooked way, into the chaos beyond time and the ordered cosmos--on broomsticks, batwings, pitchforks and goats; the feinds from Outside are shrieking wordless spells. We arch our backs and take the leap, from this to the other shore. There we behold the holy of holies, the annihilating embrace of the Void, and we are destroyed. Our ghostly ejaculations are as white as snow and reverberate through the cold wastes of interstellar space. They are offerings to the dark, old gods who reigned before civilization. Reconstituted, we return to fecundate the world.
Our bodies are the only church.
The universe, itself, is our monstrous soul: ever dark and unknowable, ever illuminated and known.