It's dying time.
Merry meet, and merry part
and merry met again,
Come, let us go to the fields, my heart,
to conjure Autumn in;
the fields of wheat, the fields of gold,
John Barleycorn must die;
that we may bake the loaves of old
and feed them to the sky.
Tomorrow is Mabon. I don't remember the last time I observed it properly. Two years ago I was in Florence and Lucian came to visit, I had a cold and men came to polish the marble floor in the foyer. Last year I flew to Seattle at the last moment, to be with the King of the Scorpios. It was cold everywhere but under his sheets. I felt similar to how I feel now, only now I feel less manic and more authoritative. I do not want that, exactly.
This week I rested. And I'm tired of it. I know exactly what I am ready to let die.
I could have weekly gigs at a venue with red velvet curtains, and be out of debt, and have Shaun within the reach of my hand, and live oak trees and ocean and I still would feel the same unless there is one essential point recognized as not only worthy of time, but necessary to life. There's dust on the altar, and the bowls are empty. Time to fill them up.