Pagan Mystic News

Earth, air, fire and water. These are the elements that the cosmos is made of. The whole fucking cosmos. Obviously, if you are throwing a boomerang, your immediate concerns are earth and air. Fire, in this topographic ring of oblivion, is used only in outdoor barbeques, and water comes from the tap. It is to be recognized that the three rivers , in plain view from this vantage point high above, exert forces on the hills, but it is indirect, hence only discussed in terms of magnetic forces, which even I am still trying to get some sort of grip on. The search is unending, till you croak.

Concerning Earth, it's berry season. Wild, edible berries. I think they are wild black raspberries. Yesterday I noticed the berries in the lot along side my hovel were ripe, and in between hacking through tall weeds with a rusty old sickle, (came with the house, belonged to the old lady that used to live here, and who got hauled off to the old folks home,) a lone wolf festivity errupted. Berries by the hand full, wolfed down off the vine. I've had better berries, as has nearly everyone, but these were freebies, volunteering in an overgrown vacant lot in the hilltop jerkwater slum I dwell in. A scant two miles from the Golden Triangle, hear the banjos. See the wan toothless cross-eyed rustication. Find lean bounty in the rocks and weeds. This morning, upon conclusion of boomerang throwing, I noticed an untapped wealth of the berries growing along a back street. Thus the anorexic feast continues for another day!

But fuck the berries for now. Suffice they are a venerated gift of Earth. And water, filtering up from the water table, and, naturally, received through generous, unseasonable rain. Damn it, I can't leave the matter hanging without including, like a minority group, the sun, which is fire, and which provides energy, which travels through the air. As does a boomerang, so fuck if I'm taking the type of karma you can get for ignoring that fat-ass element. The sun's energy is through fire, so it has to be cited, like an author, if you borrow shit from the cocksucker's book. It's about propriety. And respect for the fucking cosmos.

Returning to Earth and air, this morning yeilded the best boomerang throwing this season. Air is diverse and highly communicative. Humidity, to the air, is weight, and is, in turn a kin to the flight of a boomerang. All things that barter with performance are related to one an other, as if by blood or marriage, or even random proximity, to the object, in this case, a 'rang.

The intensity and direction of the breeze has patrician sway on the flight of a well thrown 'rang. But it is the job of the mystic to describe air, a substance so diverse that I'm getting a facial tick. Here is the storm! Dream spectors circle me, pointing wooden pikes, in proscribed formation, at me and my back pack full of hand made original boomerangs. To describe the universe is to claim a heaping handful of bounty in full view of the opposing phalanx. Of course they can only report you to the police under pretext that you are a nuissance, and they at times, in a non-aggressive way, confront you with their concerns about your apprehensions. I admit those apprehensions may be caught, any time at all, in turbulent, unstable, hostile wind, and thus may break someone's window. This can happen. Shit happens.

It was a perfect day in which to throw 'rangs in Fowler Field this morning, no cars were dented, no welts were raised on victims of a sporting accident. So painful when you get hit with a boomerang. So worth the risk. It was a glorious boomerang morning in Fowler Field, the wild berries are ripe and asking to be scarfed down, deer and woodchucks have been forthcoming with divinations. Things are pretty fucking good. It's been some fucking fine mystical searching.