Were I to die here tonight, tomorrow, you would remain as you must to presence in such music – in such new Art, such new life and love as you share now and will share with others – what it is that you and I and others of our often mis-understood kind, feel, know, understand, and which makes us who we are, almost another species lost in the times that are our living.
Now, I hear such musick as dreams me – and I am again drifting along the Isis one Summer day with my loved one beside me, when poignancy of our departing is as yet another night away and the voices of those hateful ones who might part us if they knew of our love, our joining, are stilled, at least for now while the warm English Sun lasts and our bottle of Champagne is not quite empty…
And then, I am there also beside Fran, my love, that last morning of her life in May when she looked so lost, so lost, so haunted with suffering, so needful in her unspoken agony – and all I could do was maintain my selfish resolve and walk away to embark upon that train whose First Class carriage claimed me in comfort and whose provided breakfast I in my then needful material satiation so eagerly enjoyed…
And I am there that night when in subdued lampful darkness Sue breathed her last as I sat beside her and held her then still warmful hand.
What are such opinions of me by others, after this?
My past lives in such music of yours – such musick of your present, and future. As you yourself with your musical genius and your numinous creations live in that future which I in my time of departing will never see and share with such a causal being and forms as so constrain and still retain me here, at least for now. But of course, there is no you or I to separate or to make such distinctions, and it is this which is the secret which you perhaps have for so long saught, so that even if we two do not ever again meet in this, our separation of earthful being and at some point of intersecting causal Time, it does not and will not matter, except to that which still so keeps here and which in so many ways is still so important and so necessary to the type of beings we are and will be for so many Aeons, replete as we are with such human feelings and failings as make and keep us human.
So there is this mystery of such necessity of feeling even while we often so desire there was not. To know this, to feel this – to live this – mystery is what we are, and will be, for so many Aeons, and cannot for now escape from, however much such desire for escape snakes itself around us so that often we feel compressed, throttled, by such desiring of Life when in truth it is ground of our necessary human dwelling.
Thus, there is no mystery of succession, one Gnostic to another, as perhaps you once believed – no sayings; no secret teachings to reveal; no hidden manuscripts. Only this – of such connexions between us as such music, such Art, as you make and such memories, such deeds, as have made my past. No you and I to cloud each others judgements by frequency of spoken words.
Entwined thus by connexions we few in our beginning journey only so dimly see. Thus is there Wyrd far beyond the singular individual fate we two once in far more youthful times so believed in and adored.
We become, we are, each intimation of The Divine that so enthrals us, still – so that our pasts become presenced in our future and our future in our shared pasts: for so long as we hold fast to that love which dreams us, beckoning in such sadness, strength, ecstasy, and hope as melds us to those beyond our selves. Their dreams our dreams; their hurt our hurt; their joy our joy; their life our life. And one lifetime here is never ever long enough… Which is why there is the you beyond the I that is this me.
David Myatt
2011 CE
Extract from a letter to a friend, with some slight but necessary emendations for general publication.
