Caged Vision

Row the Unterweg

Life's Envelope, original art by the author, MK'25

You paced back and forth, listening to the rain. Your innards were on fire. It wasn't fever, you have been here before. It always amazed you, that modern people whined so patronizingly about life being a gift.

Even von List knew that no gift was a boon, no circumstance of piling you up with undeserved treasures, that you could go out and buy more corporate shit. Gift, in the ancient alphabet met exchange. It wasn't one sided. It never required you to think you were worthy. It was a circle to be completed, A higher power than stunted modern thinking can allow, seeking fulfillment.

A gift demands a gift in return.

You make the vocalization. It rumbles your lower throat, throbs like a drum strike. You pace like a caged wolf, looking through the black iron bars. You did not choose this, you were never wanted here.

Berlin, some eighty years gone, just before the victory of the egregore of vengeance. The act that established the arrogant swagger that ushered in the life sentence, the duplicity and lies of the modern global community, the new parasite.

In darkness, not light, lies the gift of the ancient alphabet. It is the secret, the whisper, the wise counsel, and it doesn't exist without a return.

The three stages, becoming-being-passing.

King Olaf was dying. His mind was prepared. His burial mound was ready. His reign had seen the beneficial winds of the Wanes. The fields replied in bounty. The fish kept into the nets. Rosy cheeked women brought bright eyed children into the world.

“Do not worship me as an Elf!”

The winter was hard after the Kings passing. The pleasant winds left, blew into distant and different quarters. Some then brought gifts of food to the mound of Olaf. Others brought precious objects. It became a procession. The wise King's mound was filled with gifts of beseeching. It was always this way with the Wanes. They wish for the glittering place beyond the western waves, yet they must be reborn to ensure the balance of forces.

King Olaf returned, with the geas and the sorrow of those who know a thing or two.

Only today a new antibalance reigns, and millions genuflect to the sandbox egregore who rises with political force. No one can exist today without this reality stampeding to the fore, the hunger for death and sacrifice, decadence, the great interference field.

Although some have tried.

The interference field cripples the faculties, bricks up the pathways, offers a false order that doesn't function, nor ever has.

The interference field prevents the deepest links of the spiderweb dream from making connections, engaging memory, finding the structure beyond the physical cube.

There are those who claim List didn't know what he was doing, that he didn't get it, to them you refer one simple point, that Surt he placed above the gods.

Pace, your mind on fire.

Pace, your funeral pyre.

Pace, your yellow eyes

Stare through the bars.

Modern mind, egregore plowed, A field cultivated to grow alien grain. You shake your grey Wolf head. You do not think like this. You were never welcome in their club.

Why did you do this, von List? Why did you elevate the trap for the Wolf to the status of the Whisper? Ah, wait, one must look back, so far back that it is forgotten, that special alphabet of the Geats, the princes of the Gannet's bath, that is the true development, under the heel of the slaves of the egregore, forever and a day measured upon the Kensington stone.

You already hear them snorting and sneering. Hold your nose closed and whine to approximate the tone of their voices and repeat out loud after me, “we already have decided that no Norse ever came to this part of America. We state that the stone is fake. We are the idiot slaves of egregore, and we nod, drool, condemn the family that unearthed the forgery to vengeance and suffering and destruction, because we are the experts who swagger with hubris!”

You pace your cage. Your muscles ache to move. You have lost all desire to debate them, you just want your forest, your prey. Your paws softly crunching in the snow, below the disc of the rainbow sky, catching the scent of the blue eyed reindeer, ready for their vortex, your hunger linked to the darkness you bring them, death's release.

Yes, you know why von List ended his row in the “hooked cross.” You understand the development, and the focus, the Sweven, the Vision.

It cannot be stated in simple sentences. The understanding exists in layers, all of it is not on the level of concept or idea. It has to do with the wisdom of the many states of water, the echoe and the channel that water moves in, the fish who remain stationary within the flow. Isn’t that right, Mr Schauberger?

You sense the stratified forces moving, the dance and interaction, the multiplicity of conditions, beyond any simple naming, from three additional states; primal nature, living myth, and meaning. Manifestation happening, always a pathway through which the remembering breathes, Green language.

The day the spirit arose upon the cloud, arriving at dusk, chills down the spine, made visible to remind you that the world is greater than you can possibly know.

List stood the crafting of Runes on its head. Since Medieval times, the vocalization was primary, the catalogue of sound and vibration that steered the clever creation of variation in the row. Runemasters took extant forms and adapted them to changing linguistic norms, and as the sounds grew more varied, they described purely the root. What led them was an ancestral vision. They preserved through creation an ancient tradition, one which never rejected its mystical message.

One where the deepest significance, while hidden from Latin view, was preserved. A remarkable feat, considering the wanton destruction waged upon the old ways and their followers for many a century. How incredible, that this ancient system lived so strongly. It was a powerful living memory, and it steered them unerringly.

Would that such a compass exist nowadays.

Yet the hatred and vengeance unleashed with the Kensington stone is the modern world. It is modern thinking. It is modern efforts towards stupidification. A towering arrogance that knows its own ignorance as weakness, as it despises that weakness while inflicting sacrifice on those unable to defend themselves, the young, the old, those so trusting.

Sandbox world is the making of that which isn't absolute, the absolute. It is the steamroller that only comprehends what is forced. It is the definition of bending everything to one's desire, and the enshrining of that distortion as perfection of evolutionary egregore. Sacrificing understanding, the joy of Sandboxing forever exercised in savage rejection and inflicted pain.

Peacock Vision.

Unremembered from those childhood years.

That which drove you to madness, relentless occurrence.

How was it you forgot this? Was it the necessity of survival? Was it this evil crushing cage? Was it perhaps the crucible of Reassemblement?

Guido List, von List to Runic initiates lost his vision after surgery. His life fell apart. He had to pull himself together, just in time for the first chapter of the bankster driven global war. In the same way he put together the Wolf hook with the necessity of giving, unconcerned about modern language, except as an adjunct. He was determined to make the Armanen Futhark stick, and so he called upon the kill.

Self assembly is never pretty. Self assembly is the mystery. The beloved devotion for King Olaf brought him back over the dark bellied waves, his people required his hand. Brave Elf returned with the magic of beneficent spirits of the land.

It is a beautiful and moving narrative, one which ties and leads to further wonderment. Participation with it, a silent reveal of forces this modern world has long since forsaken. You wish you could have been in it, but you can't, never will, because of those blackened iron bars of your cage.

Shackled remembrance.

What of you, then, unwanted?

The deja vu of slipping away recollection?

How many dancing eyes are watching you, making you crazy?

You seek to blot them out, dispelled them, yet forever they dance in return.

In your heart you know you don't belong, marooned here in a prison, worst childhood ever, and no, it never was your choice, your decision. The strange forces scream at you through the black iron bars. The poison in your veins burns as it decays, dear Allogenes of the blackest darkness. No one cares if you howl.

You had forgotten your Peacock Vision. You had so forgotten, your entire perceptive field flooded with the moving iridescent colours, the dancing eyes that terrified you. You had utterly forgotten the distant singing, the keening that promised understanding while leaving you bereft and thirsty. You forgot the magnificent unfolding, the bloom of plumage that took away your reason, abandoned you to everything that is trivial and fleeting. Was it only a dream, A strange vision? If so, then why to linger, haunting and torturing you so?

Alone in the shadows, the doors barred, the paths locked, stacked with bricks. Was it longing, confusion, or stupid indulgence? You retreated into the physical, yet it was no relief. You could never make heads or tails of any of it. Dragging yourself through the desert dying of thirst, searching for Satori beneathe blistering rays of oblivion.

You do remember your return from the void, the nothingness, the No Thing. No Center, no periphery. No spatial recognition. No thoughts. No feelings. No being. You had vanished so completely you lost all awareness.

Gone

Without the slightest understanding until something happened that you don't comprehend. You were on your feet and you were stepping out of a great funnel, climbing up with every step on a gradient, leaving all that held you insensate like a lover, her intoxicating presence without substance, yet draping over you and drowning your consciousness in her endless gorgeous darkness.

Several times now you remember it, you lived it. Reassemblement, some force that seizes you and hurls you back. Back to the place where form dances before emptiness. There truly is no simple world for you, oh unwanted.

Why were you back? How dark it all is, to perceive the dance of flowers that must fade even as they dress the hem of the World's skirt. The arc of the luminaries, the breath of the canyon in fall, before the government sponsored fire that took away your best identity in a mocking and most brutal demonstration. Was the point just pummeling you into a fallen rag doll for their enjoyment?

They found you at your lowest and pounced. Their hate focused, their anger and disappointment, their blame. You were guilty, and being punished. Their punches landed savagely, but their hatred stung like poison, how they wanted you to suffer, reduced to a mindless mass of broken pain. They spit on you.

You rose after they left. The one who spit would later cartwheel from a significant height. You would watch him as he spun and slammed into the unforgiving tarmac. Pile of bricks, just laying there badly hurt, inert. His stunned face was coddled by his people who looked at you as some kind of devil. You cracked a little smile. The spirits always manage retribution.

Despite being guilty. Despite being a devil. Despite being hated and unwanted you put yourself back together, piece by piece. You sent off the Ghosts who possessed you, a tale perhaps you would tell later, or best perhaps to save only for yourself.

There is no healing, none for you. There is the trembling of a dependent reality upon the vastness of oblivion and the void. This world which seems so real, so true, so permanent simply isn't. There are the ugly scars, the missing teeth, the misshapen mending from broken bones, the twisted darkness that lives in your heart, the cold of the force, that black ink inside you is dying to release, but there is no substantial zero that is the bedrock to anything other than the refuse of the universe. It is the end of a long daisy chain, fading. A completion, the landfill of emanation.

This mythic vision is enshrined in the row.

In the end it is with admiration that we view the lessons of the Runemasters of yore. They succeeded despite incredible opposition, and their genius, their creativity ever more remarkable, the kind of understanding, able to live within tradition, to breathe it in and sustain it.

Modern man, however, is given over to the sandbox egregore. If he shows even a glimpse of his witch blood he is beaten. If he dares to expose his condition, soon enough he will be no more. Wolfsangel, rusted poison barb. And so you pace your barren cage, yellow eyes staring past the black iron bars, and you dream of running free beneathe the stars.

Where is the light in the whisper,

The cold absence of warmth

How it grasps the heart

Inescapable will

Determined and lost.

Beyond the frost of the void

Unhealing with reassembling mystery.