These Shattered Vessels
This week writer Steve Moore’s earthly remains were cast to the four winds beneath a Supermoon, during a meteor storm, while a comet whizzes past at the tail end of a hurricane (thanks for that image Amber Peachey-Moore). I only met Steve a few times – we corresponded a bit, we wandered the streets of South London and bemoaned the eradication of our past lives through their gentrification, we ate at some good Chinese restaurants and we had a bloody good chat or two about all things esoteric round at Alan Moores’ house on a couple of evenings. Steve was a warm, intelligent and caring man who, though he was a complete stranger to me at the time, gave me his time and some guidance when I could really do with some.
I’d had a lucid dream, the kind when you’re awake inside the dream and know you’re dreaming. Even though I was aware it was a dream that didn’t make it any less real and astoundingly this dream was a personal visit from Selene, Goddess of the Moon. I knew next to nothing about her then, but I’d heard Steve was an expert on the subject so I contacted him via a mutual friend. Strange moon magic madness ensued for some several years to follow and even today the echoes of that initial celestial visit still shimmer through all that I do. I have Alan and Steve to thank for helping me to navigate the arcane maps of that strange territory.
So it is love’s summer blossoms that I scatter to fragrance Steve’s path back to the Ayn Sof of limitless nothing now that he has finally shattered the earthly vessel that contained his light.