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(280) Moineau



In a month’s time, in June, I will go to Hartsfell for 40 days and nights—I will go to Merlin’s Cave (which I did not reach last time, having fallen short—though I saw supernatural entities there nonetheless, the stars that fell from the sky). To prepare for the retreat, I have begun to purify myself—I will not masturbate (hadn’t for three years, but broke that recently) and I will keep other rituals carefully (never remove my sunglasses). I’ll not be online for that time—so I’ll miss Trump’s return to Twitter in June, not that it bothers me (I long trained myself to deny myself anything at will).


If all is as it usually is with such retreats, I expect to encounter some malevolent and destructive forces that will tempt me—attempt to divert me from my quest to restore the Roundtable and find the Grail, tempt me with worldly power and success. Whatever lies there I must face alone—it is no use to call to Buddha or Jesus for aid. We shall see what we shall see. As for any political aspirations that come from an encounter with the gods—with the fairies, or “the good folk” as the Scottish minister Robert Kirk called them—we must be cautious. The supranatural agencies have immense power and keep their own counsel—it is presumptuous to think that they would aid us, perhaps are bound not to, when it comes to mere political squabbles and the decline and fall of civilisations.


For them, such affairs are very remote—the rise and fall of an empire is nothing to those who live in the golden lands, in Elysium; and the rise and fall of individual politicians means less. To ask, neigh demand, from them would be presumptuous. We will see what we will see—there is no guarantee I will not be abducted to the timeless land, to watch old men play chequers awhile, only to return a hundred years hence.

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