poem
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As we approach the end of the Season of Communion [Link], I am contemplative… I have been a priest in one form or another for a long time. Long before the Cyrenaian Hedonic Church, I served as a Steward of the Night Carnival. At the Temple of Condition the Stewards assist visitors in placing requests at…
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No denial. Storage. Containment. It is sometimes the only responsible thing you can do when the contents of the jar are corrosive and you still have a life to live.
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skin should never know such things
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Odin breathed life into ash and elm, but first he learned what it meant to be without breath.
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Fehu asks us to look at the ground we stand on. Not just soil, but the human terrain around us. Friendships. Agreements. Mutual obligations. These are the fields that feed us when conditions turn harsh.
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Awnings…serve no structural purpose, and many fine buildings are aesthetically pleasing without them. Yet they act as a kind of way station, a place to pause while between an inside and an outside.
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You call yourself Monster, Primal, Menace, Other. Not in metaphor. In invocation. You were not built for the mundane. You were made for Worship.
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The Season of Reckoning arrives with muddy boots and dirty hands shouting: Pleasure is sacred!
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Myth, more language than history, is a living thing. It breathes through retelling, shifts with culture, and reshapes itself to reflect the fears, values, and questions of the people who carry it forward.
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Before taste becomes instinctual, before repeated technique evolves into voice, before vision finds coherence, before you become good, you must be terrible.
The Cyrenaian Hedonic church 