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To: alt.magick From: catherine yronwodeSubject: Aidan Kelly and the Crisis of Faith Date: Thu, 16 May 2002 06:39:05 GMT Have you read Aidan's memoir of the early days of Neopaganism in America? It is fascinating, blunt, and revelatory. I consider it an important book. As of a few years ago, it remained officially unublished, but was freely distributed by Kelly in the form of computer print-outs running to hundreds of binder pages. If it has finally been published in book form, i would gladly buy a copy, but a quick google search turns up nothing of his beyond his already published "Crafting the Art of Magic," which was his earlier book on Gerald Gardner and Wicca. In the second, apparently unpublished, book, Aidan does something that Tom Schuler never does -- and this sets him apart from Tom (and Leo Taxil and Diana Napolis and Joe Pyne and David Horowitz) in my opinion: He frankly discusses his own conversions and de-conversions. In doing this he treats unsparingly of his alcoholism and its effect on his belief-structures; he also speaks, as perhaps only a 12-step program member could, of his faith and loss of faith in Catholicism, Neopaganism, theology in general -- the whole nine yards. In other words, Aidan does not set himself apart as an observer, but serves up the memories as a participant who was a troubled person, and remains one still, in many ways. Some people have called the book self-serving, but it is only marginally that -- or, rather, its value as a testament outweighs the self-serving nature of some of its unedited statements. I cannot say the same of Tom's work at this point. So far, like Pyne, and Horowitz, and Napolis, and Taxil, Tom seeks to hide the *process* of his life and changes from us. Perhaps he is a turncoat, pure and simple -- but even Leo Taxil took the lectern stand at last and ripped the hoax from his hoax and wept for the friend he had lost while he was embarked upon his hoax-within-a-hoax. Here's all i could find by Kelly on the web that refers to the journey that he is undertaking to and from belief -- and to and from belief again. It is a poem (some of his best work is poetry and ritual, as you know) and was written for Gwydion, the student of Victor and Cora Anderson who did so much to popularize the Feri Tradition: -------------------------------------------------------------------- To Remember Thomas DeLong, Who Wrote as Gwydion Pendderwen, On the Second Anniversary Of His Going into Eternal Life I remember the night I first met you On Bernal Heights, before we knew The Craft would cross our paths. The strident horn of your flaming car Drew me to the street: before The doors of Hightower, where Lord Randall ruled his mad Court of science-fictioneers, Van the Dagda read an Anglican wake Over your still-smoking engine. I remember you, and I begin to let you go. I remember how you sang to me and Alta When you first visited us in Oakland, And how you gifted us at our wedding, Singing us new a wedding song Worthy, I think, of the kings We thought we were perhaps descended from. On the first anniversary of your death I heard Sally Eaton sing of you A wilder music than I knew she held. As dragonflies draw flame your voice Has drawn and draws forth song. I remember you, and so I try to let you go. I remember the nights I came to your circle Or you to ours: cautiously we reached Toward friendship, dialog, pursuit of the chimeras Of history. You praised me, friend, in print, To our friends, and to our enemies, Whether you agreed with me or not. In Nemeton you And Alison published more of my poems Than any other person ever has. We were Initiates in the same tradition at the end, And no conversion or dying or any other Transformation changes that. It hurt, and still It hurts, that you are gone. I remember you, and so I slowly let you go. I remember the nights when we drank together, Drank and talked and talked and drank again: The night I met Ed Fitch, the night we bombed Hans Holzer, the Sabbats at Coeden Brith. Especially I remember how on my last drunk You gave me a clew that helped lead me From the labyrinth: only a real Irishman, You said, would carry the wine jug with us From room to room as we rambled on About things earthly, unearthly, and in between. And you were with me that night, In that car with no brakes in which I drove Six people home, over the Bay Bridge, Fading in and out of blackout. I remember, vaguely -- but I've let that go. At thirty-six I got sober; At thirty-six you died Of drink and drugs and dying As surely as if you had OD'd. It is not Fair, it is not Just, it makes no Sense: you weren't that much Crazier than me. I hoped You'd get it too, and we'd be Friends again, but that was not Your path. Toward the end I heard How rapidly you were dying, How little song was left in you. You did not die of poetry. Now on each anniversary of my sobriety I remember you, and more I let you go. Strange that the night you died I dreamed I met George Cockriell, who'd lived with me On Bernal Heights, who died of World War Two In 1971. Striding down the hill, as if Off to something urgent, he stopped, surprised, Saying, "I haven't seen you recently," And questioned me about what I'd been doing. And in the dream all our houses were one Communal home on Bernal Heights, handbuilt, Complex in its textures, vast within: perhaps Our work on the Craft will have results we could Not know. Yes, George could have been sent To get you from that ditch: he'd known who you were On Bernal Heights, had watched the Hightower crowd With his black Irish sarcasm, and God knows in France He'd walked through Hell already to rescue other men. ("Why you?" "They've got nobody else who knew you. Come on, I'll explain what I've found out so far.") So, yes, I can see George walking with you, Quietly explaining the lay of the land, Walking with you up the hills of Heaven that look Much like Bernal Heights, Much like all our hills writ large. I can see you singing, with a real harp, Of real gold, in a robe all of white Except for the seven colors proper to a bard Embroidered in its flashing: you are Wreathed with mistletoe. I see your eyes: They are clear and serene: in the distance You can see the accommodating gods and goddesses, Who are both one and many. They sing to you, Drawing you always further in And further up. Now you go Singing ever higher into the hills: You are finally, utterly healed. I remember you, and now: I let you go. Written by Aidan Kelly, November 1984 -------------------------------------------------------------------- So, although Tom Schuler resembles Aidan Kelly to my eyes in some ways, in others, Aidan is a more introspective and accomplished person. Of Tom all i see is the continual complaints attendent upon skepticism ("send me evidence!"); of Aidan i see a lot more, a search for values amidst shifting tides of doubt and certainty -- but a search that looks INWARD for answers, not to the crowd, demanding proofs of miracles. cat yronwode The Sacred Landscape ------- http://www.luckymojo.com/sacredland.html
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