If it is the sunny canvases of the impressionists that do it for you, then best look elsewhere. This weblog is (mostly) about the shadow side of art, and the mysteries which may be found there. For my part, I at times tend to be the opposite of a moth; it is the darkness that attracts me. And the darkest well, they say, most clearly reflects the stars.

My header image is based upon the 1513 engraving The Knight, Death and the Devil, by Albrecht Dürer. The header contains a hidden alchemical message: in the center of the circle at the extreme right is the alchemical symbol for lead, while higher up in the center of the opposite circle towards which the knight is riding is the alchemical symbol for gold. The knight on his journey to transformation might be mockingly escorted by Death with his hourglass and the horned Devil with his pikestaff, but his guiding angel is always with him to help him keep a steady hand on the reins of his steed and to urge him forward.

The farther you go the deeper is the sea.
Tintoretto

I admonish all who have any knowledge in these matters that they write it down. Do it truly and plainly, not toilsomely and at great length, for the sake of those who seek and are glad to learn.

Albrecht Dürer

The list above is generated by the posts which visitors are currently reading.

Los huesos son relámpagos
en la noche del cuerpo.
Oh mundo, todo es noche
y la vida es relámpago.

(Our bones are lightning
in the night of the flesh.
O world, all is night,
life is the lightning.)

Octavio Paz
from Live Interval

Even through the darkest back alleys, it was said, Ishtar, the goddess of love, might be seen gliding, visiting her favourites in taverns and on the open streets, so that all the city, mingling festival with erotic adventure, appeared to glimmer with desire.

Tom Holland
From Persian Fire

And the pool was filled with water
out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us,
reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed,
and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird,
for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.

T. S. Eliot
From Burnt Norton

Prophesy to the wind,
to the wind only for only
The wind will listen.

T.S. Eliot
From Ash Wednesday

'This fire is the honey of all Beings,
And all Beings are the honey of this fire.
O bright immortal Lover that is in fire
And shines in mortal speech;
O bright immortal Lover who is All!'

This was the song that came from
The small span of thin gold bodies
Shaped by the holy Dark.

Edith Sitwell
from The Bee Oracles

Robin Goodfellow,
Dianae, my muse.
Morpheus in my heart,
Your sand in my veins.
It's a deeper kind of slumber.
What is the universe anyway
But a pouch of silver coins.
The intense breathing
Of a dying animal.
A foreboding of afterlife,
Master keys in an oaken chest.
The somewhere is mine
And from there I'll continue.
All I asked for was a little love.
Meet me on the other side,
Where as a rose I will wake.
Though blind I'll follow
Every step you take.
Dianae, my muse,
Dianae, my solitude.
Cease to exist,
Rise to exist no more.
It's a deeper kind of slumber.

Johan Edlund
of Tiamat

Leaning into the afternoons, I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes. There, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames; its arms turning like a drowning man's. I send out red signals across your absent eyes that wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse. You keep only darkness my distant female; from your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons, I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes. The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you. The night gallops on its shadowy mare, shedding blue tassels over the land. Leaning into the afternoons, I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.

Pablo Neruda
Translated by W.S. Merwin

All things which are similar, and therefore connected, are drawn to each other's power.

Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim
The Law of Resonance, 16th century

There are signs which
arrive in your dreams

From Mayan Dream Walk
Richard Luxton with Pablo Balam

Savage Girls and Wild Boys:
A History of Feral Children.
by Michael Newton

Both poignant and disturbing, this book relates seven case studies of children who purportedly grew up in the wild, were raised by wolves, or were the victims of domestic neglect so extended and extreme that their circumstances and behaviour were little different from their feral counterparts. It is a sad fact that, having been rescued, these children seem afterwards to have led lives that were at times as troubled and as uncertain, if in very different ways, as their former neglected states.

What makes the book so compelling is the author's examination, not just of the children themselves, but also of these children's 'rescuers', these well-meaning individuals' reactions to their charges, and their sometimes conflicting motives for rehabilitating the children. In reading about both sides, we come to consider our own views, both of our romantic notions of 'The Wild', and of the conflict between apparently objective research and simple personal compassion.

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Let her come to you
The end is naught but the real beginning
Resist, and your soul will know unrest
Let her find you, and you both will soar
Beyond the deepest nights
Beyond unconquered depths

This uncredited text is printed on a T-shirt of mine. Many thanks to one of my visitors for supplying the information which now allows me to credit the poet: