There seems to be some deep and ancient part of my psyche that is aware that I am an immortal, magical entity. I would wager the same is true for you, dear reader. And when I say immortal and magical I mean simply that there seems to be an aspect of us that exists outside of linear temporality. But I’ll be honest; my sense of drive, future and self-respect has seen better days. The hardest thing in this life is figuring out what you want, and recognising that only your own actions will take you there. Even if time is somehow illusory, as the mystics suggest, the question still remains – how do we wish to spend our imaginary time? None of us know how much of it we have.
If we know what we want and are full of positive intent and active pursuit, even then there are no guarantees we will arrive at our destination. This is a difficult thing to accept; that our most sacred hopes and dreams might forever remain insubstantial – and that the pursuit of them might in fact be ultimately futile. Implied by this is the awful fear that the magic we feel underpinning the possibly illusory visible world might somehow be illusory in and of itself.
I call the response to this awful fear ‘The Futility Angel’. We must hope that the process of life changes us along the way; that the desire for comprehension itself is alchemical. This is The Futility Angel in action – our hope in this process to become richer, fuller individuals, even though we all come to dust in the end. Between our miraculous births and the dust of our deaths lies the entire spectrum of human experience. An indeterminate ontology is a disturbing and powerful part of our time in this realm. It can seem all too brief a time, a mere flicker of imagined consciousness when measured against the epochs of stars. But even stars burn out, go cold and die.
In the midst of all this staggering vastness, do I know what I really want? Am I able to make this momentary flicker of my own life mean something? It only need mean something to me and me alone.
It can seem a terrible thing to be ostensibly alive and yet to not really feel the spaces and depths of your own life. Personally, I have spent my entire life chasing the unknown, collating the myriad speculations of life’s mysteries so that I might garner some insight from them - if not 'objective' truth. And yet sometimes I do not feel the footsteps of my own life; I find it hard to catch and hold the beats of my lived-in physical existence. And so despite my own imagined intelligence it is difficult sometimes to know the subtleties of where I have come from – or indeed the subtleties of where I am going. Is the same true for you, dear reader?
How do we hold our own temporal lives in our hands, so that we might feel its weight and sculpt its mass to our liking? How do we make our lives tactile to our own comprehension? The dust-death approaches always, regardless of the questions we ask ourselves in the interim, or the things that might await us beyond it. Are they meaningful questions when measured against the inevitable? We have only our own subjective experiences; the brief flicker of our lives – and only our own subjective reasoning to judge the importance of such questions. I like to think that The Futility Angel is with us in such questioning, that even with our doubts, misunderstandings and half-truths it is able to urge us onwards – perhaps even rousing us to the sheer magnitude of our resilience, our fragility, and the depths of all that we know nothing about.
I figure my own Futility Angel as female, and I wonder, "Is it magic she fosters in me, or literal comprehension, or something betwixt and between?" I suppose what I desire from her is applicability – the ability to apply the insight or reason garnered in my darkest moments.
She is my goddess, my queen
A symbol of my dream
Of an intimate portrait of something never seen
I’ve seen her before
Who is she?
My witch and my wicked
My black-pedestal thrill
An endless circle stalking
Of the effervescent kill
I haven’t killed her
Does she dream in red light, like me?
Her fragile tender, lost in my avalanche of words
Buried in the ice-shelf of Hades
I can still see her hands moving
See her lips part beneath the sheen.
My intimate portrait of something never seen
I’ve met her before
How is she?
Is she ok, do her thoughts come freely?
I can answer everything
And know very little (a secret)
She lives with me in the stilted place
A house of codes and ghosts
She wants the mortar and the bricks
To build ourselves a home
Anything but a haunted, fractured silence
That passes for calm
My pockets are filled with Halloween jewels
They are pretty, she says, but they all glitter in the same way
My witch wicked stranger
A mind like a knife
Meek in all my answers
My witch wicked wife
I want to know her, to listen without answers
Who is she?
I think I remember you