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Seen in the window at Gulf of Maine Books in Brunswick, Maine. Photo: Bill Roorbach
Waking up to the dream-time
Tracking the Faeyrie
Their footsteps sink into story, quietly pronounced in the liminal spaces of our reality. Their realm is that echo of the other. Folded in like gravitational waves hitting the shores of agency, within which each experience is a unique differential of the inter-animated world. Dialating memory and weighing heavy on each place as the meaning in-between the lines.
The fae are found not with the naked eye, but with the mind's eye. Their tracks dot across the landscapes of story, and in these memorial naratives of purpose and meaning, agents emerge to guide and confess the fate of our world.
To track the faeyrie is to divine the tapestry of fate itself, for in each string is the resonance of harmonies between the other strings, and in these harmonic resonances of the tapestry are the emergent beings that come to know the totalities of past, present and future. The faeyrie live in the echoes of life and death, of past and future, of destiny and chaos, of matter and meaning. They are the frets of fate, the ancestral notes of foundation which guide the song. For the song calls and responds upon itself, again and again, into forever. What comes next must be in rhythm with what came before, it must rhyme with what is desired after.
To seek the faeyrie is to confront the more than human world within the self. For one must be capable of imagining the altered perspectives of the inbetween before they are capable of seeing the narrative tie together on the outside. This is the price required of us, we sacrifice the known for the mystery, within ourselves and within the world.
Is it worth it to be lost in the dark soul of an old growth forest, just to catch a glimpse of the old and ancient powers watching us in return?
Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes. This primal madness is our beautiful return.