“The fairies know that the earth will not tolerate the men much longer. The earth, scarred and gouged and stripped and bombed, will deny life to the men in order to stop the men. The fairies have left the men’s reality in order to destroy it by making a new one.”
– The Faggots & Their Friends Between the Revolutions
You walk out a door and are surprised to discover yourself in pitch darkness. You can’t find the handle to get back in, even if you wanted to. You strain your eyes in vain to discern a faint glow; but there are no lamps. Brother Sun has set and Sister Moon has fled. You stumble directionless in a void of unseen obstacles. You thought you knew this path, but familiar touchstones have vanished in the night.
Suddenly in the distance, you detect the faintest pinprick of tremulous light. It shivers and shimmers dimly, but with persistence. You grapple towards it; and, surprisingly, it seems to be stumbling towards you, too. Slowly, out of the darkness emerges the form of a man. And you recognise him. For the glow spreading out from his heart is the glow spreading out from your own. In the mirrors of your spirits you’re gazing into the depths of your common identity; reflected each in the other.
Sharing your glow, your vision grows sharper; forms take shape; perception deepens; patterns emerge. Soon other faggot brothers see the brightening of your auras from a distance, and begin making their own journey home. Two become three; three become a dozen; a dozen becomes a multitude.
As the tribe gathers, uniting heart to heart, their commingled lovelight grows, beaming on the horizon, separating object from shadow; distinguishing subject from subject. Slowly, gradually, but unremittingly, that light seeps into the inky blackness – exposing the planet and its inhabitants in all their unique and collective beauty. The diversity sparkles. The faggots have helped create the light, and people everywhere smile at the newly revealed patterns of love.
That’s how the light gets in. This is your invitation to join us and make it blaze.
The birds they sang at the break of day
Start again I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Yeah the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove she will be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”