Haloquin

Creation is like a sun shining from the heart...

2010-04-17T01:12:00.004+01:00

The sunlight soothes my skin, scent of a green, green land playing in the air.

A bee bumbles past as I lay lazily, brush in hand, stroking the paper into colours.

Words come, unbidden, as the image emerges and my pen pours ink onto the page, spelling out the words, the spell, to capture the feeling.

How words and images reflect each other, like twins, Dionysian movement, Apolline images, dancing together.

I am reminded of Blake, who I have often strived to follow, inspired by the seamless blend of pigment and print.

Walkers wander past, voices loud against the hush of the slow summer which sneaks into my valley. Traffic in the distance, not so far from here, but still worlds away, does not burst the bubble of my beauty-brushed-blessed-being-of-the-moment.

I am here, bathed in light, warming in the sun, warmed from the sun within which feeds on the fuel that is joy. Joy, like a sun in my heart, shining in the light of the sun in the sky, overflowing through my hands and onto the page.

How can I share this moment with you?

I breathe up, a prayer of delight, of gratitude, of beauty.

I talk of sun and warm and light, of joy overflowing and green green grass... and still I wonder, can you feel it?

Can you feel the heat, the flames like liquid gold, pouring out from my heart into beauty, being fed by beauty, a circle of love for the world?

My heart opens and love pours out.

The Silent Smile

2010-01-06T20:50:00.006Z

Once upon a time... for that is how all stories must start, although there is always something before, and so it is also how all stories must end... Once upon a time there was a maiden who lived near a deep dark forest, a maiden named Rose.

When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.

One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.

All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.

And so Rose grew up.

She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.

One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.

A voice calling... singing... laughing...

And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.

And Rose, of course, followed.

She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.

And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.

And disappeared.

And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.

And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.

Coursework

2009-04-16T17:49:00.001+01:00

Brain whirs, click clicking like clockwork turned crazy.

Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.

Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.

Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.

The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.

Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.

No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.

Story Charmer

2009-02-22T20:27:00.001Z

In the back of my mind, through the forest of thoughts, I catch glimpses of the story. Its shy, but longing to be shared, and though I can't quite make out its shape occasionally, just for a moment, I catch sight of its colour.

Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.

The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.

The Dance

2008-12-28T18:40:00.000Z

The beat. Struck. Deep.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.

The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.

She danced.

Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.

The beat struck deep in her bones.

Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.

She was the dance.

No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.

Only the dance.

Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.

She was the dance.

Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.

Feet faced feet, dancing together.

Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.

The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.

They danced together.

Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.

They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.

The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.

They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.

They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.

They danced together.

And the world danced too.

Gypsy Dreaming

2008-12-14T17:47:00.000Z

I watch the rich red curtains fall gently behind my next visitor. A soft-spoken lady with a face like a mouse, sharp and shifty-eyed, she steps forward hesitantly.

I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?

She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.

“Take a seat.”

The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.

I pause, waiting for the right moment.

A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.

A moment that becomes heavy with importance.

A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.

“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.

“Then we shall begin.”

The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.

Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.

She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.

After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.

I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.

As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.

Devils and Gods

2008-05-01T15:38:00.002+01:00

You find yourself wrapped in shadows, unable to move.

Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.

You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.

The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.

She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.

"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."

She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.

Bleeding Heart

2008-04-30T22:19:00.002+01:00

Heavy heart, full of love, overflows,
Tears pouring, silently.
Water becoming clouds, floating,
Bringing green life to the earth.

Flying, Soaring, Falling

2008-04-29T21:49:00.003+01:00

Serpent coiling round sensous curves
The egg breaks, releases, scales form.
Dancing deva, devil, god
Her wings spread, she flies above.

Toes touching starlight, leaping far.
Round wrist, cross shoulders,
Whispering in her ear.
Spiralling divine, she hears his song.

Coiling in her belly a serpent stirs.
Stretching from her heart, wings soar.
Serpent rises, wings connect,
A dragon with stars for eyes is born...

When love meets desire,
And understanding blossoms,
The most beautiful flower
Begins to grow.

Journey Through Sunset

2008-04-08T16:14:00.002+01:00

Waxed green hearts blanket the banks
Where ripples of light and shadow flow,
The green headed bird leaves an arrow in his wake
And my train begins again.

Through glass I gaze upon darkening sky
Travelling through cacophanous colours,
Warm light turns water to gold against the shell
Of the sphere which holds my world.

Swiftly now I move, watching the sun's final glow.
Darkened storm-bearers let angelic light stream through
To grace with life the deep, damp, darkening land
Until the blanket of night must fall.

Strange how the last breath of day,
Before the world is dipped into rich darkness,
Glows with the most colours, almost as though this setting sun
Creates inks to be mixed into the blackened night sky.

A Moment

2007-11-14T20:55:00.000Z

Strongly moved,
a shower of red patterns
the river.

Lights dimmed,
a blanket lies softly over
the world.

Before,
I moved in, under, through
the waves.

Today,
My feet touch the ground as I move
slowly home.

A new sheet

2007-02-13T22:54:00.000Z

Bottles of colour in hand, running down the stairs into the cold, cold snow, white like a clean sheet, a blank slate, a tabula rasa. What will these colours give rise to, give life to?

Confronted with the freshness, momentarilly stunned. Possibilities endless. Total freedom.

Clunk.

The first bottle loses its lid, and with it drops the hesitation...

Swoosh!

Swish!

Shooosh!

Colours fly through the air like liquid joy, staining the snow.

Arcs of rainbow inks pattern my world.

Later I watch from the window as snowballers scoop pink snow to throw, balling it up tight and puzzling over the green and blue and orange.

The snow melts slowly, dissolving deeper in the footprints.

As night falls the rain follows and washes my colours away.

And with the dawn a new sheet of snow sleets down to shower with rainbows again.

An Angel Wept

2006-10-05T21:56:00.000+01:00

On a crystalline world not far from here an angel wept. Perched atop a small hill as tears flowed freely into her palms, sobs wrenched from her heart in great gasps that steamed in the crisp autumn air.

I watched my little girl from the window of our stable, she was the youngest of our children and the light of my older years. Now she seemed so far from my reach. I knew this would be a hard time for all of us, and dashed away the tears that fell from my own eyes and blurred the world into a quartz-like muddle.

At dinner we were strangely superficial. Topics bore no relevance to the pain lying in the next room. We avoided mention of the blossoming blood that would not go away no matter how many bandages were applied. We tried not to think of life once the nurses had finished their job, once there was no more reason for them to be here. The boys talked of their day at work, Angelica barely touched her food. And for once no-one complained.

I was with her at the end. I closed her eyes.

The world was becoming colder. Winter came closer and the house was quiet. My little angel, withdrawn from the day, refused to go to school. And I hadn’t the heart to make her. Mathew and Peter spoke to me about it once or twice, as I recall, but I didn’t really pay attention. After that, they took her each day, and I sat, waiting for her to come home safe, never quite believing that she wasn’t also gone for always, and never quite believing her mother wouldn’t bring her home anymore.

My whole being was empty, or perhaps filled with the waters of the Styx, dark and dreary and full of sorrow. Every day was an effort to rise and food, food no longer had any taste. I ate out of rote, but nothing more. Mathew, the eldest, eventually went back to his wife, I’m not sure when. And the house became quieter.

Angelica took to spending much of her time wandering on the hills, by the lake.

One stormy evening dusk fell and she hadn’t returned. This was the first moment I felt anything other than empty sorrow. Peter and I spent half the night searching for her, on the hills, through the forest. We combed the caves nearby, we swept the fields, now bereft of corn, and found no sign of her. As the moon rode high, the storm cleared and the stars turned in the sky, I circled the lake, and there, curled beneath a willow tree wrapped in her coat, my angel slept safely.

I carried her home.

The winter was hard for me. But it was harder on my little ones. I tried to fight for them, to stay, but the cold and damp had gotten into my lungs, my blood, and eventually the water and the winter claimed me.

And out on the frosty, crystalline hill, an angel wept.

The Truth

2006-09-11T23:22:00.000+01:00

Can you use logic to reveal the Truth?

We have a history of analytical thinking over half the world.
Are we any closer to The Truth?

We have many things that could logically be called true.
Does that make them Truth?

And, would finding The Truth really help us?
Would it make us happy? Would it guide us in how to live good lives?

How could it do that?

Why should it do that?

Would it matter if we found The Truth and it didn’t help us?

What would be the point in finding The Truth if it doesn’t help us practically?

Are all acts of logics simply solving logic puzzles… no more than games?

What is The Truth anyway?

Music written just for Me

2006-09-11T23:20:00.000+01:00

Music... Why is it we hear some music and it feels like it was written just for us? Like it speaks to us in a special way...
How can this songwriter from hundreds of miles away, that we’ve never met, capture our thoughts and feelings so perfectly?
It feels as though no-one else should feel this way, like a personal interchange between two like minds...
And slowly we remember that we have felt this way before... How is it that they can reach into our heart of hearts so often?
And the realisation dawns... Because these feelings aren’t new to us, they are felt by many people many times, and that’s how music touches us, it reminds us of what we all share, that we aren’t, as it feels, alone in our feelings...
Isn’t it nice to know we’re not unique in our unending attempts at emotional experiences.

What is Philosophy; a Theory.

2006-09-11T23:19:00.000+01:00

The point of philosophy is not to find out what happens in the world, but what it means to us, what affect the events that occur have on us. Philosophy is looking for the truth, not the truth of what is, but the truth of what “what is” means. Leave science to look for what is, we shall look at what is behind the veneer of reality.

A Kiss of Spring

2006-08-24T15:10:00.000+01:00

Deep in the grey of the winter city, a ray of sunshine falls.
Gently it caresses the stones of buildings long-weathered.
Light brightens the faces of the people who turn, momentarily, to see if they can catch sight of an arc of colour dancing in a shower of rain.
The clouds part and the rain clears and the warmth of a spring like moment graces the streets, kissing the stones with colours hidden by the shadows.
A smile secretly twitches at the corner of each mouth as children giggle, splashing through the puddles.
We are warmed by the sun, and the flowers grow through the cracks in the stones.

What do you walk past?

2006-08-24T14:51:00.000+01:00

Drifting down the streets in a daze of your own thoughts past the people equally insensitive to the bustle inside everyone else's head. Completely mystified and absorbed inside your brain. Brushing past the people lining the pavement, passing you one way or the other, unaware even of the fact that you are a human being.
You dodge a smiling person, bedecked in charity blazoned, brightly coloured banner. Will you recognise, shaken from your continual humdrum of thoughts, that here is a person who wishes to connect with you?
Yes, yes, I know, they are doing a job, they will connect to ask if you wish to give.
Why does this scare you? You can always say no. There is always a choice. Why do you despise them? Better that they talk you into buying something that will sit beneath your stairs for years before you chuck it away? Or that they reveal to you the wonderful works people are performing and offer you a chance to join in? Is it that you despise yourself for not choosing to take a step towards making the world a little better, for a little while?
Or do you meet their eyes, share a smile, sure in your knowledge that you are in control of your choices? Do you listen knowing it is your choice, and then decide? Or do you already do something, however large or small, that helps? Do you reach out to those that need help? Do you touch, and allow yourself to be touched, by the world outside your head? Do you listen to what happens and make a choice to change?
If you do, I salute you.
So many people walk past, afraid to listen, taught to ignore.
What do you walk past?
What do I walk past?

Reaching for the Sun

2006-07-12T20:57:00.000+01:00

He stretches, reaching high, on tiptoes with his arms outstretched, and plucks the sun from the sky. Feet planted back on the ground he looks at the glowing globe and wonders, “what now?”
Tossing the golden ball from hand to hand he wanders across the garden, passing a wistful frog. It is warm in his hands as he drifts into the courtroom. When he enters, to his surprise, every person standing in the room turns toward him and covers their eyes, falling to their knees.
A puzzled expression clouds his features for a moment and then his face clears and he smiles as he strides to the long-empty throne and takes his seat. He places the sun upon his head and it rests there for a moment before rising gracefully and soaring through the open door back into the sky, leaving a gorgeous golden glow around the new emperor.

Cracks of Sunshine

2006-07-02T00:06:00.000+01:00

The sky hangs low, grey and heavy with rain, the sharp-edged concrete buildings dull in the dim light.
In this rundown area the streets are cracked and broken, even the scrawls of graffiti lend no colour to the place, smothered in grime as it is.
The people, few as they are, walk with heads down, scurrying to their houses dreading rain or confrontation.
And the rain begins.
The hooded lads speed off on their bikes to drier places, even they are wary of natures hand.
The rain becomes a deluge and begins to wash away the filth that encrusts the street, it filters between the cracks and life stirs.
The rain passes, the weather warms, days go by and the small seed of life cracks and reaches toward the light, from the grime it gathers strength to rise and by chance it is overlooked by heavy feet and wheels.
More rain comes, the sun shines, and over time the plant grows into a beautiful yellow flower, shining like the sun it stretches towards.
A small child, following his ball out of the rocky front garden, spots the flower and a huge smile spreads across his face as he lovingly wrenches it from its home and runs inside, proudly presenting a piece of sunshine to his mother.
Her tender kiss thanks him and her smile echoes his as she promises to put it in water. He returns to his game, his duty done, dusted and forgotten, and the dandelion, knocked behind the sofa and eventually withered, is swept into the garden becoming filth itself.

A sheet of snow...

2006-06-28T22:36:00.000+01:00

The saying “like a sheet of snow” is considered clichéd when used in reference to a blank piece of paper. But like most clichés it is so close to the truth. This winter I was, for the first time, living in the countryside and when the snow came and covered my world with a crisp blanket of white, it elicited exactly the same response as a fresh page on which no mark has yet been made; a strong desire to fill it with marks and colours and shapes. So I was delayed in reaching my destination, leaving a trail of spirals and smiling faces in my wake.
A handprint atop a wall, footprints by the river, the absolute joy of making the world more beautiful, or at least making my mark upon it with the intent of beauty, is priceless. The grey faces of people huddling under woolly hats and muffled in scarves were a direct counterpoint to the smile on my face as I danced in the snow. So what if it is cold? The world is gorgeous today. So what if our hair and clothes are damp from snowflakes gracing us with their presence, they will not last long and we can always go inside and sit by a heater (no longer a roaring fire, alas) and watch them fall outside in graceful wafts or pouring sheets, catching the light as they arrive in our world. And I wonder, momentarily, about the people who cannot retreat to a warm place, about the flowers that have sprung before the late snowfall and the buds on the trees, and I admit that I shrug and enjoy the snow, saddened only for a moment by thoughts of things I cannot, at that moment, change.
Then I move on, enjoying a moment in my life where the entire world lays itself open to me, fresh and white and clean and ready for the patterns that will share my joy with the world.
And as I leave the playground of an artists dream to melt the traces of snow from my boots in the warm, I think to myself, perhaps, next year, I can use food colouring on the white, I wonder how that would turn out…

Waiting

2006-06-25T22:34:00.000+01:00

She sits, fingers caressing the time worn beads. Silence surrounds her, washing over her between waves of sound from cars passing by in the twilit evening.
Her pulse, not like a drum beat, but like waves crashing against the shore, rocks her softly in time with her heart. She hears a voice in the waves, a voice that calls her from the silence, deeper into the sound that fills her. Here she finds the sound within holds her, like an ocean inside her holds her tight in its arms. The salt sea of blood is an ocean of love cradling her in its arms.
The rocking expands into spinning, she expands into the ocean, sensing the spinning of time, of the earth. Her spirit spins and swirls, dancing in the ocean of salt, of blood, within her own veins, grown to fill her whole world.
She sits and rocks and spins and waits. Her own voice silent to those around her, joyously sings inside her head, joining the call of the ocean in a melody of beauty, a symphony of sound. Her heart opens, and the ocean responds. She reaches out and waits, patiently, for her goddess to join her.

Becoming

2006-06-14T23:22:00.000+01:00

You are running, dodging through the trees, heart in your mouth, branches catching your hair.
There is no path. You make your own path through the forest, dodging through the undergrowth, through the trees, no idea of where you're heading, only that you're pursued.
The dark green leaves surround you, catching at your hair, thorns claw at your skin, tearing, droplets of blood well up and mark your skin with threads of red, a pattern that reveal the shapes of your soul.
Even as you run, even as you dodge the branches overhanging your path, the path you make, that you forge in your fear from the forest, even then you realise that you are unsure of your destination.
You begin to remember that this, this is a test, that the patterns on your skin forming shapes and symbols in your blood will reveal to the priestess where your duty lies.
You hear the howling in the distance, the wolfsong calls your name and you remember, you know your heart of hearts, you know how to call the wind, to use words to reform the world. You know how the fire in your belly gives you strength, how to use this fire, how to flow like water and transform the earth of your body by changing your mind.
And you choose.
You stop and turn to face the hunters.
You feel the fire rise within you and you rewrite the language of the world, claim a new shape.
You too can walk as a wolf, you know how to wield the magic, and you do.

Harlequin's Leap, A Fool's Story

2006-06-14T22:50:00.000+01:00

See the city far below, its streets darkened by the night.
Draw closer.
See the streets, murky with grime, lit by spluttering street lamps and dim washes of warmth spilling through the windows of taverns, open late to patrons swilling drinks of their choice.
Draw closer.
See a glimpse of motion from the corner of your eye… a young gang member slips silently from the shadows and slinks along the street as though they are perfectly within their rights to be here, nought wrong here officer.
Follow them.
From street to street the youth steadily travels, and certainty dawns that they are heading for something important. Momentarily you catch sight of their skin, bright colours glisten, inked onto their body. They have newly gained their gang markings, the bright colours of the Harlequins. Perhaps they lead the hunt tonight?
And see, here they slip between the houses and through a boarded window. This must be the place they were seeking.
Follow between the boards.
Behind the window is a corridor, the youth disappears around the corner to where faint light can be seen.
The light flows from a room of gorgeously garmented gang members, all with more colours than you ever realised could exist covering their skin in splashes and spirals and shapes. The walls are draped in cloths of dark red and green and gold, cloths which move gently in an unfelt breeze that causes the candles shedding their light to flicker.
You see the youth approach the room’s centre with some uncertainty, before bowing to one who appears no different from the rest, until they rise, revealing an elderly face but moving with more grace than any dancer, more certainty than any monarch.
The elder tips the youth’s face towards their own, and the young harlequin straightens up and meets their gaze. It feels as though a challenge is being issued, but what this challenge is you cannot be sure.
The youth nods. A challenge issued, a challenge accepted. The elder glides backwards and all present raise their arms, hands joined, in a circle surrounding the youth.
You sense a presence behind you and turn to look, but all you see are shadows in the corners, you turn back, and movement catches the edges of your vision, but when you focus, nothing is there.
In the centre of the circle the youth waits, their eyes closed, face raised to the ceiling, a slight smile plays at the corner of their mouth.
The presence behind you grows stronger, the sensation of something, or some-things, passing you at speed increases. But still you cannot see anything but the ripples of the phantom breeze in the cloths, the flickering of candles.
A subtle sound begins, a humming arising from the throats of those gathered here, and you realise that in the circle shapes are forming, creatures are surrounding the figure in the centre, you can see them take shape, but not quite what shape they take.
The shapes begin to buffet the youth, who stumbles sharply, the smile fading rapidly as their feet leave the ground and they tumble earthwards and are caught, suddenly, inches from the ground. Eyes open in panic, they catch the elder’s gaze, and seem reassured.
The youth holds out their hands, palm up in offering to the shapes that hold them. And the shapes place something in each palm, and the unease that has been steadily growing is replaced by joy, the unsettling humming by faint music that touches your heart and the youth is lowered gently to the ground, clutching something to their chest. The presence recedes and you feel pulled to return to the place you came from. For a moment you see the new gang member helped to their feet and welcomed by the other gang members, more colours and patterns will grace their skin after tonight, one for every choice made and challenge met.
And then... you see no more.