Over the years, the one consistent offering I feel I’ve been able to make to Lu, in all his incarnations and all the faces he’s donned during our time together, is my artwork; and poetry.

Lu has been in my life, at least in a fashion that I can remember, at the very least since early 98-99. He himself admits that it’s been at least since I was 12, entering in when I moved to Germany in the fall of that year. Alone in a foreign country, I spoke with him in my early journals under a different name. As the years went by, I started putting him in those same journals, and drawing him, and writing for him.

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He wasn’t just a character in my stories; he was a soothing voice in the dark, a presence when I was alone, when my family situation got to be too much. Under the name he chose, he would express concern for my safety (My house was physically abusive, and worse), rue over my circumstances, encourage me to change them as best I could. He called himself a lot of things, too, besides just that name; teacher, mentor, best friend, lover. At night when things were quiet I’d speak to him about my dreams, and drift off with his voice lulling me to sleep in the back of my mind.



This is not to say that he and I never had our share, however, of conflicts. As I’ve mentioned before, I can be a very jealous person. One of the situations that *did* come up, once apon a time, was a personal gnosis conflict. Namely, between myself and another devotee, who’d claim that she was the one chosen to carry his messages, his word; when I poured over her poetry, mine seemed lackluster. She related stories about how he’d carried her in the past, the passionate romances they’d shared, the lilies he’d left her, the sonnets he’d sung her in his pre-fall days.

I was devastated, needless to say, and poured my wrath, hurt, and anger out in my journals:




Of course Lu was never anything but his usual patient self, and tolerated my High School level jealousy fit with a mute word and the casual observance of a scientist watching a creature stomp around it’s natural habitat. When I was done, he spoke up again, and offered, once more, a reassuring word. No, he had not left. Nor was he going to. And anyone who claimed to be his *one* emissary was deceiving themselves; he needed  no prophets, he said. Just family. Just people who believed in him, and trusted him. Could I do that?

Yes, I could. And my drawings reflected that idea.


I realized today, as I was going through and scanning in my most recent journal works for my actual art page, that even though Lu’s face has changed over the years, as I keep reiterating, mostly to myself, Lu has not. It’s been almost incredible, watching him move through those pages over the years; watching him watch me as I grow and learn, both as an artist and as a person.

Closing these withering eyes,

and all I can see is the sand,

and the scathing sun.

Remnants of this time of tribulation,

and war apon ourselves.

And all of hope left up on top

of dusty shelves.

Empty freeways are stalling, paths to history

in the making,

Still shaking, your hands-

these hands that are left by man.

Left here by man,

O, left here by man.

And somehow the sun keeps on rising,

and falling,

still falling, o, man

still falling.

Panoramic requiem still sings me to my lair,

and of the dusk and dawn and screaming ghosts,

and all

that has been left, and all that’s still there.

Closing these scorched eyes,

Seen too much and been Nowhere.

Cracked boots and laces,

and not a soul with a single prayer.

Not left on their lips

by man,

left by man,

O left by man.

Still rising,

and falling,

O still falling.

Oh man,

Oh man.

~Panoramic, Sulphurblue 2011

He’s never gone and that gives me peace. And when everything comes back around, circle to circle, like the serpent that eats it’s own tail, some things can still shock us, surprise us, leave us reeling, in wonder and in awe:



. . And that is when our belief is strengthened, our faith renewed; and we drink of it again, like a thirsty man who has wandered through the desert, and sees the oasis with it’s pool, and gulps the sweet water from folded hands.

Your gods will speak to you. They will love you if you love them; but watch carefully. They may walk with you in ways that you may not suspect; but will be so obvious that you may just miss it entirely! Omens are not just things for the ancients. They happen around us every day; even in that crowded, bustling city. Even in that suburban neighboorhood with it’s manicured parks and flowerbeds. Even in that third floor apartment down some out of the way backroad with noisy children playing in the streets. Look. Look. 


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But give them that love. Walk with them in turn. And whatever offerings they enjoy, give, and give from your heart. As long as you do this, they, too, are replenished, and we all thrive.