Gwydion could tell a story so you were unsure if you were in it; take you through so many lives until you have the concept, to camp and nightfall where the mind is lost.
The King of Gwynedd liked to rest his feet on an unruptured hymen. He liked to sock himself into his daughter's lap. And if inheritance is through the sister's son ---and if it is? (geneticists are all awry)--- the game is how to overcome an obstacle illicitly. For that, you have to be tutored.
She was Queen of the Island who felt his foot in her crutch. The pupils all dilate upon examination, tracking a route to the daughter, the belle of Belle Isle.
The card of the bull means death is your conception. Take a city.
Speculate upon its armed investment. Use all of guile's diversions.
Live a version of the game of power struggle. Dance for sex or dance
for your escape.
The ludo of the fylfot sun they played in old Byzantium. The game of the world behind closed doors of the masonic smoke-filled taproom. Robin Hood, the matador, or cave-masters of crowflight. As Owein and Arthur played, so did the youths of auburn hair upon the threshold of Segontium: The similar ring dances of the sneeze of spirit or The Farmer Wants A Wife. It is familiar as any game of chance or of mathematics.
Math, the son of the Count of Dreamwork played the game of which he was the pieces and the board: King Bel His Eye--- his spy-system. The querent's task is then to break oracular deployment of the voice resources.
An island off a continent, adapted for a story almost as old as
Troy; a chase for Helen of the Hosts, Alauna, almost any of her names:
She is the sexual parts and representative of Kingship.
The news on the air is all of challenging for power. Pupils of Math are aspirants, and shifty-eyed as men engaged in piracy or wrecking the mysterious bonds of the sea. The novices are taught by poetry until someone elects to go for bull.
Unflinchingly, the flame is quenched. Unquestionably through the eye opens a view of what comes after.
The pupils of the eye were orbiting the ways of Gwynedd, picking up
tales of Ireland and the knowledge that the human pirates were the
Christians of the Isle of Man, and we know them by the forehead cross
of surname that they carry still.
And Gwydion was an eye of Gemini, who passed himself into the singular, who turned into himself and fitted through his effort the attempts of Rugby Union to grasp the nettle.
Gwydion was master of the Arts of Professional Fouling. Gwydion we call the culture hero, knowing when to change the rules of the game, Relievo. Any group of kids will demonstrate.
And Frazer learned a variant of that in the wood at Nemi: How to use a simple ruse to draw the King from his stone and handmaid. Young boys playing touching bollocks play a game of power, boxing clever with guard and cunning.
Math taught that the game has risks for history. The gamers all wear masks, and fabricate their grimaces. But Gwydion would start a Civil War to draw the King from his enclosure, and leave the lap of the throne-room bare.
Gwydion: I was the storyteller in a cloak of feathers. I was the one who heard from birds. I was the teller who gave a miracle the air. I did the circuit round the centre stone. Each circuit brought me closer. I was the one who could read the map above the entrance lintel.
The otherworld is interchangeable with this. Once there were tunnels
between the parts of Wales, and through such holes the pigs came
shocked into the brightness.
Gwydion was never without his shadow. He would act for himself, and yet his duty was to teach futurity--- a class of folk--- the strategy:
"I know you won't believe me. You without power will hate me. But we share impersonal rules (OK?), and power passes through the loopholes. First you fascinate the opposition with your weaseldance, have them admire the artistry and deftness of your needlework, and shoot to score.
To Pryderi in Cardigan I revealed a small part of my art, and held the gathering entranced. The pigs, I told him, are derived from the bowl of drunken sleep. There is a corridor between your echoes. You are held in power.
I am the person of the twins who find themselves locked in situations like this all their lives. I have to change things on another scale, to disengage tongues, but to deliver them into a new bewilderment. Stories are what happen all the time. The mastery of the poetry of magic is the meaning of transmigration, multidimensionally diffused. The bard is a mask of magician. I am a farmer bargaining for pigs. A slight dislocation of the rules creates another way of doing business, and these are the ways of many an ethnic minority. A promise made with conviction carries a magical image of bliss. We traded pigs for horses. I could paint horses bright enough to wake Rhiannon's eye, or hounds that could match, colour for colour, anything the other world could offer--- but only for a spell. The power I have makes poetry a victim of my trade. The unexpected issued as publicity becomes a warning that acts as a lure. The things you piece together from the spare parts of a storyteller's art are fabricated in the air: the pigs that fly so really that you'd swear you've eaten of their bacon, or spirit-horses made of the electricity that's trailed along the horse-tracks on the hillside, and the water of springs where horses water.
Horse-led, out of water, an affinity of muscles shine.
So you get your man to trade something real like pigs--- these days of fixity, it might be land itself--- for a sheer fairy illusion. That was how I won the pigs of Dyfed. This deceit lays fate upon me. Even in the Arctic the Magicians are among the Damned. I cloak myself and am incriminated with the blood of ancestors. It's a risk I take on myself. We brought the pigs North for the welfare of the people, and our act had the evil of innovation. Our research into the State was complete, and our reach into the heart was counterfeit. The spell of illusion wears thin as the electric of the horses drains to water. Pryderi was conned into a chase that will draw our King out of his castled entrenchment. This is the time of revolution when the King must be disengaged. The coup d'etat is dolorous and downright funny.
A true story. They say I made horses and dogs in counterfeit by magic from a toadstool. Such accretions of fungi grow on any old shit. There should be a nice manipulation of the story here. A mushroom like the psilocybe can intoxicate with images of promise with its little pixie hat, or a little wine can lubricate the doing of the business, and can ease the constipation of the State. Drunkenness and Sleep and Death: three doorways into something many men would pay to have extracted: the many-coloured world whose furniture has bee described precisely. But to make too much of mushrooms shams the issue.
Anthropologists and the apologists for miracle are taken in by Arctic men up through the Axis of the Borough. They find nothing there they hadn't bargained for. The greater the power the higher the price of a fraud. The best is the simplest maze.
The moon is shining bright as day. Up the ladder, down the glistening wall.
I was riding through Wales with the host of Dyfed behind me. I like it when the game gets rough, and there are clouds of steamy mist in the devil's kitchen. Heroic flight across the country naming places! Figures of Folk-dream! Onomastic swindle naming stars or Swintons.
The once and future figure of Magician-King of Gwynedd roused himself to fight the horded Lords of Gwydion's delusion. As a fisherman might die at sea so a magician falls by magic. I was opening doors for my Twin who went in with his Toadstool grand as something supernatural from country song. The Twin leaped onto the Virgin, and raped her, living his own desired death. I was the shadow waning as the Sun achieved high Summer, and the corpse of Gemini waxed to multiple ejaculations, and I envied myself that moment of robustness, and I pitied myself that dream-death, and I was the voyeur looking on, and I left my shadow to its pleasure as I moved to deal with the trouble magic had raised.
Armies slaughtered themselves down at the boundary ford. Mass death is the spoil of my trade. What is raised by magicians is finished off by ravens. Fighting men are entangled in my dream. I must enjoy the spectacle or wake, for pity is simply collusion in the dream. I am contesting mental chess with the double-states of Gwynedd and of Dyfed.
I take myself to the mound to meditate and gather up the dragon-image of the State of Gwynedd. And then I move to play the card to crumble Pryderi: the image of succession in the State of Dyfed--- the child with golden hair, the sun-card of mortality for the opposition, and the Death of Pryderi. I broke the chains that linked him with his mirror-kingdom. All his pigs I quartered in the webbing of a thoroughly domestic lake-pool, and Pryderi was broken with the ironies of policies.
And so the cuckolding of our Northquarter King had worked the Northern shifting of the lingam. Veneral things are made for politicking. This isn't Justice. Justice is. And for my part in the rape of justice I may pay through the nose for many lives. The courage of the devil is to risk it. Lives of the simple magician are easily forfeit. Each man is an agent for one that unfolds. I was the sister's son. I fathered my own nephew."
The Twins moved clockwise around the Zodiac of Gwynedd. Rape had lit
a fuse that would blow a powder-barrel underneath the central fallacy.
A dolorous blow had severed the potency of the falstaff. A King who
cannot do it fathers nothing.
Who was speaking in the name of Gwydion? I look inward out of the leaves with the grin of a Merlin Sylvester, the grin of a Master, the end-game assured. I sit at home and pour another beer. I sometimes wonder, about the illusion of control; what is worked upon me by the magician-idea.
The Virgin made complaint against the Twins, and all the sources of their game began to dry. The great Beneficence withdrew, and Gwydion was called into the presence of the Great Schoolmaster in the Sky.
"And I was one of the twins who were called into the inner sanctum.
I was called into the study where the prize-cups are awarded from. A magic wand hangs as a threat upon the wall alongside portraits of the champions at sport. Remember now we have to go through all our sins. The sanction through the pain of beating is expulsion, of our devil selves. On a rapid mental action will depend the world in which we land and walk. There was a labyrinth of corridors I passed along. I took some turnings and passed out.
It was a mirror through. I had forgotten all, except his passing smile, when passing out of school.
The punishment was gruelling as the smile was comforting. We were living in a space as desolate as wild. My wife was someone I believed had been my brother in another time, and together we learned the tricks of poverty and forest.
And where before the production of spirit-children from a hat had excited me, this time we were always fucking, trying to find in each other some lost relation, and engrossed in our own reproduction. We went on like this for three generations.
Return, like Vengeance, will come.
We were of the creatures of Britain, lost to the pettiness of human power. There were wild white herds of cattle. Like wildcats or like rabbits we were always fucking each other, and always having to be gathering food for life.
But I had learned how to be without time, and, through transmigration, I could sometimes return to legendary life.
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