Luminous_Desires

INDEX

1. Dreamscapes

2. Redeemable Re-Verse

3. Directions: Which Way

4. The Hat Tricks

CHAPTER ONE

THE EARLY LIFE OF KING LIONFEATHER

Ah yes, it behoves me now to speak of the early days of that noble and diaphonous chimera, King Lionfeather. He it was who made his home in the sweet realms of nectar, the land of the dwarves and the pollen-bearing bees who with their silvery wings hummed through the summer night near his home.

The visage of Lionfeather was remarkable, even for a chimera. His fur was of an undulating nature, flecked with flowered garlands. He had the head of a lion, the body of a goat and the tail of a serpent. His eyes were the colour of eternal jade, At night he would dance among the hemlocks to the tune of an unseen lute player.

Yes, the early years were peaceful ones in the forest. The young Lionfeather was born and raised in the heart of a tiny snapdragon which housed him until the call of the forest drew him from its bosom. While there, however, he learned of the languages of the flowers and plants and how they love the company of the bee, and King Lionfeather also knew of the secrets of the tiny beings who flit through the flowers on sunny summer days, trailing behind them traces of the most rapturous fragrances. These assailed Lionfeather's quivering nostrils and he asked them who they were, these tiny winged flower dwellers. In their red and yellow dress, radiant as the stamens of a jungle plant, they would only flutter about and make jingling noises, but he understood them. The mute plants sway in the autumn wind as the reflections of the clouds in the brilliant sky are picked up by the dewdrops on the reeds.

The main source of nourishment here in the world of the plants was honey and the fruit of the vine. One day, a beautiful warm day, he mounted the back of a bee and soared through the forest domain, truly a remarkable flight, and one which brought him home to his true calling as lord of this kingdom, The sylphs and butterflies greeted him as he flew past. The sun smiled and blessed the scene with a radiance of royal gold, No one besides these knew of the existence of the tiny king.

Daily now, he strolled beside limpid pools where rainbows intersected and white swans floated not only on the water, but seemed to lift into the gilded ether above and hover like fleecy clouds. All around, the leaves of the trees turned and glistened in the wind like so many jewels and the King fashioned for himself, from their silent essence, a garland of crimson and saffron which he wore as a symbol of crystalline wonder.

One day in his wanderings, the young Lionfeather chanced upon a sleepy bog where orchids entwined about a golden sword with precious gems on its hilt. He knew upon reflection that he must possess this sword. It seemed to call to him of the sea at night where silver-crested birds swoop down and pluck emeralds from the azure waters. He could sense this and desired it mightily. Finally he reached forward and found that the sword yielded to his strength as he plucked it from its viney enclosure.

Now with the sword in his possession he retreated to his home. Once there the blade told him of many wondrous things: of the transmutation of metals, of its brother, the double-bladed sword, of the Elixir. The King loved it and clapped together his spiny paws, the noise of which brought out the fairy folk in a singular and ecstatic ringing which filtered through the jeweled corridors of the forest. Thus were spent the early years of Lionfeather, noble chimera and heir to the flowered thrones of the sacred grove.

Gregg Simpson, 1970

ARABIAN DAZE

Languishing in halls of splendour wreathed in sapphire and emerald all afire of a day when rapturous maidens clung to hussars and candle dreams. There, on the top of the moon, was a practical aid to dreams. At last a safeguard and pollywog to tune up the saffron images which streamed forth coming bright and golden through the shimmer. On top of each was an umbrella filled with many hued leaves, mother of pearl and excellent diamonds. Pouring forth on the left was an ancient wrapped circle of garlands and gold, shining with a radiance that shook the forest and hollowed out our minds as does a cannibal after his nectar.

    Poor old man, humbled by years on this river, stumbling through the tree tops and picking up a sweet scent of roses from the branches at the top of the trees which brushed by him. It felt as if the day was a jewel in the eye of a swallow. This man was truly a giant if we were to believe our eyes, a towering apparition to see. He swayed in awesome blackness and grandeur through the topmost branches and tangle. Suddenly without warning there was a gigantic swishing in the sky and a tornado of gleaming crystals and opals showered down on our feet and hair.

    Silently we pressed our lukewarm senses against the air. They ticked. The atmosphere was alive with writhing odours, fragrances of flowers and smokes. Through the tangle was clearly distinguishable a castle made of lavender and cerulean glaze. Through its image shone the moon and the sun. The universe yawns. The sky is everlasting. At a distance is all the past and near at hand a large plant called the future. But it is red and barks like a watermelon. We are clearly no nearer our goal of perfumed water and bliss in the palms. Interject here sad nuptial seeds and a host of other dizzying monuments and the scene has returned to normal with no dust and less ivy. Truly the forest nears its climactic end somewhere near here. A large red sun sinks into the sea.

    The walls heave and new day dawns on this tent alone in the desert of cloud and waste. Thanks to a friendly zephyr there is still plenty of pink and grey. The sky is a fine yellow with light lemon polka dots. Each cloud lies in a bed of eiderdown on the ground; it is neither down nor up. Neither however matters for we are in free fall here a thousand light years from limbo. The light is an awkward shade of deafness. A gentle rain from time to time falls. Its water is lush and warm like a balmy lagoon in the heat of a fabulous moon tide.

    Contrary to the popular belief it is not to anyone’s discredit to pronounce the word perpendicular as the word schooner. We climbed the masts every day and hoisted marvelous banners from them as if each day were our last and each evening a huge tortoise on the edge of existence. Flying now several feet above even ourselves, it was obvious that no description of the proceedings would be more apt than a factual nothingness.

Gregg Simpson, 1968

ALLEGORY ANTEDILUVEAN

    It is here my intention to relate to you a story of a very strange occurrence which happened to me not long ago.· 'I cannot say, unfortunately, exactly how many days have elapsed since, as time has been permanently altered for me since the event.

    My experience began when I visited my friend, the illustrious Count Orlando, the famed alchemist and soothsayer. We met
at his request, in his abode situated in the north part of the city, It was a stormy and treacherous night, one suitable for only the most irksome and foreboding of affairs. Rain pelted down on the cobblestone streets as I made my way to the subterranean enclosure where he dwelt, amid the strangest paraphernalia and accoutrements, carrying out his unusual experiments.

    Orlando met me sit the door, looking disheveled and in need of rest. His usually immaculate velvet robes were creased and had obviously been slept in. Once in the door he bade me come near to his work tables. Then, while I was looking about me with curiosity at the strange equipment on the largest table, he pulled from among the crucibles and flasks an archaic old book with the ominous title, The Workings of Magick". This mysterious volume he dusted off and opened at a page that was pre-marked·

    Now I took it from his countenance and appearance that Orlando must have made some singular discovery, something unusual even for one in his line of work. His usual appearance, as I have noted was one of extreme elegance: velvet robes, a great gold chain and amulet about his neck, and often some kind of skull cap on his head of grey, flowing hair, offset by a pair of flashing, crystalline eyes.

    He muttered as his stout yet agile finger traced along the lines until it stopped at the beginning of one paragraph. He exclaimed, “Ah, now I have it; look here for yourself.” I bent forward to peruse the treatise which had apparently brought me forth from the warm comfort of my lodgings into the cold, stormy night and to this forgotten end of the city.
This is remarkable", I blurted, as I read the following summary:

        HE WHO HATH READ AND UNDERSTANDS THE ABOVE FORMULAE
        AND WHO DO PERCEIVE IN IT THE BENIFICENT WILL OF
        THE UNKNOWABLE ONE, THE ANCIENT OF ANCIENTS,
        WILL BY SACRED CONJURATION BE ABLE TO UNLOCK
        THE SECRET DOOR TO LOST ATLANTIS,. THE BLESSED
        LAND OF POSEIDON, KNOWN TO INITIATES SINCE THE
        ANCIENT PAST. ·KNOW YE THAT ATLANTIS DOES LIE TO THE WEST OF
        THE PILLARS OF HERCULES, AND THE HESPERIDEAN GARDENS
        KNOW YE THAT IT MAY YET BE ATTAINED,

    He continued: "This is a copy of some older manuscript, possibly of Mayan or Basque origin, But no matter, no matter, I         know the formula, I can transport us there,"

    Before he could say more, my amazed expression made him stop and ask, "You do want to go, don’t you ?"
    "I'd not even been thinking of travelling, but…", I stammered,
    Nonsense you're coming along. I can't make this journey alone."
    "Well", I enjoined, "I haven't really any pressing plans, and I···'

    "Excellent, we'll begin at once" cried Orlando with a swir1 of his robes. He made for his locker wherein was contained many assorted devices and magical paraphernalia, which apparently it had not been his wont to call on for many a year.

    Count Orlando, who had actually adopted the 'Count' as some sort of affectation, was in reality, William Orlandowski, the son of a Polish jockey who had married an ex-nun from the convent of the Sacred Heart in Krakow· He was born enroute to England while crossing the Greenwich prime meridian. It was said that at the time of his birth there occurred a partial eclipse of the moon, at that an unscheduled one, but this fact I have never verified.

    This was only one of the many bizarre, stories regarding Orlando, who was also known as Orlondine the jewel thief, Orlondini the goldsmith; Orlodo the painter, none of which, however, are my business to relate here. He does seem to be inextricably linked to certain writings by the singular Alan Alchemy, most likely another pseudonym.

    The matters at hand seemed to me to be growing rather sinister as I saw first one and then another item being placed with ritual purpose around and in the circle of magick which was drawn on the floor in gold. He produced at least no fewer and extravagant tools than a knife with esoteric markings upon it, a wand of oak, a brazier upon which he burned frankincense, opium, and various other evil-looking and -smelling substances These items, then, announced by their hoary and sinister appearance the great and ancient intention of magickal rite, the arts of' conjuration end evocation.

    These ominous proceedings finished, Count Orlando bade me look to our left wheron I saw, as in a hazy vapour, appear the circular canals and gilded rooftops of Cercene, ancient capital of Poseidonis.· Its splendour war unparalleled, with shining step-pyramids and aerial cars all coming clearer as the haze from the burning unguents cleared.

    Upon arriving in the capital of the great land we met many incredible and blessed souls who, understanding our mission and wishing to aid us, therewith took us to themselves as friends. We were treated ceremoniously and invited to partake of the custom of sipping nectar and eating the ambrosia, which set the stage for more and numerous miracles of a very illustrious character, the image of Eden before the fall; the laughter and songs of the nymphs; clattering hoof beats as old Poseidon drove his white stallions around the golden stadium; the Nereid’s on the backs of silver dolphins, great fruits and flowers dripping nectar on the passersby. beautiful maidens adorrned with jewellery and bracelets who had been taught magic by those Sons of the Sun; monumental conflicts between the new men of the fourth and fifth races and the giant cyclopes, those Titans who wrestled for control with mortal men countless ages ago.

    True there are dangers in this work, perils beyond the imaginations of men, but may not one who is divine of purpose and heart, one who has truly drunk the essence of life, the sweet honey of experience, may he not also drink his fill at such fountains as these?

ARABESQUE

    Artemus put down the book he was reading distractedly and breathed a sigh. The air about him was heavy with the perfume of frankincense which burnt in an old jeweled container near the window. The curtains were closed as always; the view outside only looked like a mirror to him anyway.

    The smoke curled up in dizzying columns and spirals which only served to remind the weary Artemus of his previous years, the ecstasies and flights of the spirit which had transformed his life. He bent his head slowly and absently stroked one of his long, grey wings.

    The perfume was now chokingly strong, it seeped into every corner of the room where it mixed with the fog which seeped under the doors and windows from outside. Shafts of light streamed through a portico near the ceiling and cut through the icy stillness of the chamber.

    Morbidly, Artemus began thumbing through some musty old texts on alchemy, botany and astronomy. His eyes glowed like coals as he perused first one and then another of the old engravings describing various and shadowy processes from some obscure cultures long since forgotten. As he read, a chip of gold fell from his long fingernails and landed on the page.

    Suddenly he yawned and fell into what at first seemed like a deep reverie, but colder, more like a slumber. The shaft of light hit one of the pages of the book at Artemus’ hand. The page, which seemed almost to turn to meet the light was thus illuminated and revealed an esoteric process for conjuring up tableaux, grim and fabulous. Hours, days, generations, it seemed to him, passed by as the shaft of light expanded and brightened. It continued to do so until there was no longer just a shaft of light, but a veritable room full of golden radiance. The appearance of the chamber dimmed and individual objects melted into the glimmer.

    Somehow Artemus awakened, as if from an opium dream, to see the golden shimmer begin to dim and turn into the rich blue of a Mediterranean, nay, a North African sky. Its cerulean brightness was enhanced by the absence of any clouds, even the pristine and mounting cumulous giants which Artemus had loved as a child and had imagined himself frolicking in. No, it was pure blue, and as the horizon came into focus he perceived that there were small triangular indentations in the ether which on closer inspection turned out to be nothing less than the vast pyramids.

    Artemus decided to investigate further and, arising from his desk, walked over the burning sand to a sphinx-like gentleman with a floor length beard and coat of buttons. This fellow was truly remarkable in appearance. His visage resembled nothing Artemus that had ever seen before. The nose was a veritable aqueduct of molten finery leading from the chalky forehead and hair of coarse wire down to three lips that opened and closed in some grievous syncopation, doubtless guided by the movements of the galaxies.

    His skin and hands were of clear jade, and when he laughed, jewels fell all around him as in a vacuum.
The astounded Artemus enquired whether any of this was appropriate, knowing the reputation of the area for thieves and bandits on magic carpets. The man laughed and the echo seemed to come from beyond time, deeper even than the forest. Artemus crumbled to the ground, alternately laughing and crying while scrawling meaningless symbols on the granite legs of
this pederast which towered above him.

    Before any explanation could be proffered, Artemus found himself inside the tent of a sheik or some other desert ruler.
At his feet shrieked jewels of every description while all about him frolicked naked negresses in turquoise baths as in a scene by Delacroix. Fragrant odors of myrrh and hashish mingled with the scarlet voices of the roses which seemed suspended in the air above the throne. Above soared eagles and falcons while more exotic birds of many hues clung to gilded pillars and beams.
For a tent, or a temple, Artemus did not know exactly what it was, it was amazingly high, in fact its top was concealed in cloud and mists. Artemus continued for a while to indulge in the somewhat bacchantic atmosphere of this tent which was almost spoiled by the creeping vegetation which grew menacingly under the unattended walls. Unwatched, it was spreading, with its sickening stenches and beautiful orchids alive with glowing, jeweled vermin and opalescent insects.

    Before he could come to grips with the phenomenon, however, the tent flap opened and in was paraded a marvelous assortment of kinky and glutinous freaks.These were the performers and Artemus watched them as they writhed in unfulfilled passions to the tune played by a solitary lyre. He giggled slightly at the sight of one of the company who appeared to be of the consistency of sand and gold flakes. This personage trembled but did not move as Artemus shot first one and then another arrow into his forehead, the resulting assemblage somewhat resembling a chimera of ancient origins which he had seen in some old manuscript. No apparent reason or moral was discernable as to why these people were here, but Artemus accepted them as readily as he had this whole strange odyssey.

    Moments or ages after the entry of this company, a royal personage, obviously the ruler, strode in. He was adorned with the feathers of the peacock and the bird of paradise. His features were both noble and antediluvean. He shot Artemus a quixotic glance which seemed to say, “isn’t this all ridiculous?” and at once ascended the throne which instead of sitting upon, he proceeded to climb until he disappeared into the mists above. No explanation was given, but Artemus didn’t expect one at this point.Things were going too well as the radiant negresses and other luxuriant bathers massaged marvelous oils and beautiful compounds on his face and wings.

    At his feet languished a small armadillo, also encrusted with jewels, which wound himself up and played various unearthly airs resembling Patagonian funeral dirges.

    This hostel quitted, Artemus streaked for the nearest exit and jumped upon the back of a fiery stallion to ride out of the area accompanied by hoots and jeers from the massive sphinxes who, once he had passed from sight, again contented themselves with trivial questions and games of chance.

   Time was wearing thin and Artemus knew as he fumbled through first one and then another of his old texts that there was no end to the mysterious vapours of his dwelling.

    Now we see him there in his study and appearing from afar like some Prometheus chained to a rock while all about him gorgons and harpies throw flowers and dust on his shattered limbs.

Chrysalid

    In a land not far from here, a land of perfumed jungles and turquoise lagoons, dwelt the girl named Chrysalid. It was this Chrysalid who, it was said, breathed divine wonders and satin embraces in the glistening ambrosia of her jungle pools. She was the fairest creature in all her domain and reflected, it was told, the very light of Heaven in her eyes, her breath being like drops of nectar , her hair like the silk of an angel’s wing.

    The home of Chrysalid was a white domed shrine deep in the eternal forest. Here lay Chrysalid, divine of form and countenance, enshrined as a drop of nature’s clear quintessence. This temple, which itself had a glow of whiteness unmatched by the purest snow, lay upon a hillock and was overgrown with much creeping vegetation and tropical splendour.

     From afar only the splendid white dome could be seen rising through the foliage like a pearl in a coral reef.    Now this abode of the lovely maiden lay near a stream of an unequalled radiant blue which ran, it is said, from the very fountains of Heaven. Its waters were clearer than any other and it was said every river god was envious of the one which dwelt therein, who bathed himself in these crystal waters and held court amid the laughing and iridescent foam of the concourse.

    Mingling with the voices of the waters were the cooings and sighs of lovely Chrysalid as she took to her first one and then another lover. After the swan and eagle, her prized antelope and deer took possession of her of her rapturous form which lay open before them. Last, as always came her most cherished lover, the black panther, who stayed beside her until morning when he would slip back suddenly into the forest at the first rays of the sun.

    All around the temple of the enchantress grew the most opulent and steaming variety of vegetation. Each species was of a different colour and each plant of a varied hue, the perfume of all containing an essential fragrance. Everywhere, vines and lianas crawled and slithered between the plants and even coiled mercilessly around some mute and struggling blossom. As multi-faceted as a jewel, this panorama seemed to throb as scarlets and tangerine dazzled in and amongst the green, while here and there a virgin white orchid reared its nuptial crown to the blazing orb of the tropical sun which shone through the
uppermost branches.

    Everywhere swarmed tiny insect-like forms buzzing delightedly in the damp, echoing heat of the day. The very air itself seemed alive to this apotheosis of Nature’s commitment. The forest resounded to the distant twitterings and dripping of nectar-laden creatures who soared in the air around Chrysalid as she lay naked beneath a tree, gazing at the waters, or perhaps covering herself with honey and berries which her companions: ocelots and doves, rams and pure white hares would then lick from her undulating form, their lapping tongues droning under her cries of pleasure and delight.

    And so, to this day, I hear, she continues, this Chrysalid, angel of the jeweled lagoons, to hold domain in her jungle home.

Chapter Two