come to the fireside
come into the cave
come inside the Spirit House
come out to the glade
swim into the belly
jump into the sun
wander with the animals
Here is a Monster. S/he is waiting for us in the passage.
S/he is sometimes a winged cow, or a human-headed lion, or everything else that we cannot quite imagine.
S/he is a second-growth forest of myth. S/he is always soul-retrieval roaming within. S/he holds digital art-scapes in her/his huge belly-world. When you’ve made the Passage - when you've been swallowed - there, you can dance.
In the Monster’s hotbed cave, you can raise flames, breathe mystery smoke, cry your call into the sanctuary’s stones. Scratch oracles into being with the movement of your bones. In the belly lie your comings and goings to come, your chapters. Waiting-to-be-written Otherworlds. Places to rest, and also the in-betweens, the Ways and means. The Wormhole. The Odysseys.
This page will be a portal to the Passages, for those who come to pass through. This will be a door to a new kind of place, to move, to dwell, to inscribe your fates and faces. This will be the throat that swallows you down.
The odds are low that the impulse I’ve had in the sleep-poor, owl-rich nights of the 2020 Covid-19 quarantine is a new kind of expression. But it’s a new dawn for me, so what does it matter, I ask and I answer.
There is light coming over the mountain pass. It suggests that I scrabble, slip, fall and continue. I’m grasping ledges, I’m toeing for footholds, and I’m preparing to go, to work, to climb, to see over the edge, and to report back.
This is a strange, old overland route that I'm almost on. It's a hidden game path that leads to rough going and to dreamscapes of tales untold. It's a storm-way across a channel of troughs, peaks, spume. If and as you are called to, you will move through. As listener, looker, and dancer, you’ll be the reader-decoder witness, as when you read a world-making novel or poem, and you’ll also become the agent within the Otherworld. The character, developing, through chapters. The one seeking and the one finding and the one losing and the one gaining. The one walking through the wood.
The forest, walked, will always be hybrid, unstable, shaded, brilliantly occluded, incomplete. The “method” of engagement with it will always be hybrid, shifty, and left up to each walker. Each one who steps into the space reencounters themself as hybrid, knowable-unknown, solid-long gone. A being impossible and possible, torn to bits and whole, forging into void-newness and already found, centred, home. Differently each time, and differently, and differently.
I want to bring you where there is space and shelter. I want to bring you to the huge belly. To the unfrequented cave. To the circle of stones. To a glen of dappled light. To an echoing gallery. To a theatre. A den. So you can be surrounded.
So you can be re-worlded.
For now, this internet Monster-body interior will have to serve. We will need our imaginations. Here below this scrawl, Monster will slowly show planes of their face by the Otherworld's light, and Passages to the cave will start to appear. Have patience: they will always be messy, and they will be simple and awkward, but they will open and they can transport. In and through time. Let us wait, and then let us pass.