Cista Mystica is an exercise in taking imagination seriously. I am writing this in my cottage on the edge of wintering Dartmoor, you are somewhere else too—India or South Carolina or Dorset but we are both dwelling in the Warm Tent of Imaginalia which easily holds both realities. Point your thinking towards my thinking and let’s see what happens.
We hope Cista Mystica to be conversation with the wild old world that lives inside us.
And of course, the deeper we go, we start to realise that it doesn’t quite live inside us at all, we live within it. There’s often some long denied hunger in there, and all sorts of little beings that require feeding on blue steak and Parisian patisserie, there’s hummingbirds whirring with tiny bright eyes and far, far in, there’s hundreds and thousands of blue flowers.
To glimpse your kingdom
I have to be close
Only a few inches away
It’s being that close,
Close to the regal ark
Of your being
That I can hear
Your restless animals mutter
These days to tell a beautiful old tale is a radical act, both graceful and libelous, it pushes your nature out and into things: Prussian blue paint and synagogue doors, and the wise whorls on the fingers of the old woman who lives in the furthest cottage. It makes us deeper.
We don’t quite know what the press will be yet, and that’s the most precious of feelings. Doesn’t get much better. There’s no corral big enough.