It is with deep regret that I was unable to ascend the Alm this Midsummer.
A consistent, welcome retreat in my yearly travels, Abtenau has brought me to many heights, tempered by occasional lows. This is the only time I have been absent since first attending in 2015, outside of travel restrictions beyond anyone’s control. Some at House of the Holy this year have reached out in love to tell me I’ve been missed, and even as I remain mostly housebound it offers kind comfort to be in their thoughts.
This year is particularly poignant, with Barth’s sudden and tragic passing leaving a yearning sadness in the hearts of all. Although I know the gathering is the product of many people’s unyielding devotion to a higher cause, I also know that, for good or ill, he became the figurehead.
We didn’t know each other that well, save a long night in Parma after Our Survival Depends on Us supported Coven (of which I shall spare the debauched details), but we often acknowledged each other in respect wherever we crossed paths. I once heard from those closer that he was pleased to see ‘The Daryl’ around, and that is enough. Barth always struck an imposing figure as he wandered the festival site, bedecked in symbolism and ash, partly on this plane and partly elsewhere. I kept my distance as he worked his magick.
One cannot invoke such fire and worship without madness, and it takes a rare madness indeed to summon strangers together around the flame. The friends made in familiarity from across the world are very dear to me, bonds forged tight in the heat of belonging. Although the concept and focus of House of the Holy has changed from the promise of the early Funkenflug years, I still cherish every precious moment shared upon the mountain.
Some say the final destination of any journey is ‘home’. Whether the home one makes in lands anew, or the home one returns to, forever changed by the experience. I once believed the purpose of travel was merely to arrive, and in my eagerness to reach the destination I neglected myself. Seeking the heady rush of sensation to supplant shadows left unbroached.
Maybe ‘home’ is here, there, and in the amorphous elsewhere. This chosen community of creative souls, and the sweet solace of those who feel loss and seek comfort in the presence of loved ones. Through such deep, sincere connections, I have discovered shards of myself in the hearts of others – reflections I never knew existed. Perhaps I am more whole for the sharing.
In my first writing eleven years ago, now lost to the cold indifference of modern media, I compared the mountain to a crucible. One to burn away that which fails to serve, and transform into something greater through external ordeal.
The ordeal is internal now, but through the love expressed these past days I know I exist beyond myself and the limitations of the moment.
The flame is not so distant after all.
(Ritual Loperello by Cartismandua)
