In grief, what did I do?


Wittenberg? Well it's a place, isn't it? A place to hammer out your very own religion. A chance to buckle down and sort it out, once and all. A place to go pale and insane with learning. A place of tidy women and furious students. And so, your honour, what did I learn?


Well, I learnt magick.

What can I say? I feel almost shy in saying. In Wittenberg I learnt the Enochian magick of angels. In short, in grief, all I ever knew was now nothing. It was no-thing. There were no dimensions to anything. And like any crying child, I had nothing to lose and only my Dad to gain. Am I apologising? Hah, I should be struck off this minute! And yet, was not Jung's Psychology and Alchemy a bible of my youth? I feel no better for that or any reckoning. And so, as I sit waiting for Thom to come and catch ourselves a proper breakfast, it sometimes feels like the continuity of a life, of a mind, and at other times it all feels shattered, and new. Ah my master, Rubens, how I wonder at your seraphs and nymphs, your angels and satyrs, what the fuck have we known our life long?

Ah now now, carve me a breast, my master!

A breast!