The Starry Bull tradition
is a set of recurring symbols,
repeating themes,
a rotating cast of Characters,
circles within circles,
the Labyrinth out of time
and the Story behind all the stories.
It is an open mystery
that we’re always talking about,
but you only truly understand
when you’ve had the experiences
and know how to answer,
“Who are you?”
The deeper you get the more fairy tale and dreamlike everything becomes
until you realize you’re mad, utterly mad,
and it all makes too much sense.
It’s a self-policing tradition
– you’re either in it
or you’re not.
Or rather,
it’s either in you, or it’s not.
By the time you know, it’s too late.
It has nothing to do with how good you are,
how much book learnin’ you’ve crammed into your skull,
having the right tokens and passwords,
or how pious, devoted and close to the Gods you are.
Many bear the narthex, but few are not-forgetting Bakchoi.
Fewer still are Starry Bull folk.
We do everything we can to discourage people from joining this cult,
because if you can walk away, you fucking should.
This tradition is a horror show,
it will tear you up.
Everything you fear and don’t want to face
– especially about yourself –
you will.
And then you’ll go even beyond that,
because you won’t be able to stop.
We dance to free ourselves,
to sweat out the toxins,
to rouse the thumos
and renew our lust for life.
We dance to see the face of God,
and do not flinch when that face is monstrous.
We love the Gods all the more for it, for we are monstrous too.
We run in the hunt and frenzy the feasting Dead.
We dream and divine and take strange drugs.
We know how to cleanse pollution and ancestral trauma
with libations, sacrifice and joyful games.
We feel the threads and the secret patterns
of the worlds behind this world, and beyond.
We know how to step through,
and how to let others step through us.
We are wild and free and foolish,
and care not for what others may think of us.
For we have endured the poisonous bite,
the strike of thunder,
the Bull God’s limp,
the heart of grace,
the crown of flowers,
the whispers of the prophetic head,
and we have stepped through the mirror
– while they have not.
They lament the loss of the mysteries,
while we can’t stop seeing them.
(Close your eyes, and you’ll find yourself back in the telesterion.
Has this all been a dream; did you never actually leave the Labyrinth?
Can you feel the Bull’s breath, hot on your neck? Or the rough hemp
around your throat as your body begins to shake compulsively.)
To them this is all just story and symbol;
to us too, but we know what these things refer to
for we have undergone them, and they have made us who we are.
We are the Wandering Stars, which shine most brilliantly in darkest night.
