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The
Euphoria festival is a pagan gathering held each year just north
of Melbourne, (Australia). The organisers promote the four-day
event as an opportunity for Witches and other pagans to explore
the deeper aspects of Witchcraft in a safe and supportive atmosphere.
What follows is a journal of the 2001 festival, written by one
of those who attended. It is a frank and revealing account of
the four days, including rare and graphic descriptions of the
rituals performed each night by Witches, priestesses and magicians.
A partial draft, titled 'Impressions Of Euphoria' appeared
in the winter 2001 edition of Pagan Times, the national publication
of the Pagan Alliance. Some names have been changed to protect
privacy. Ritual text has been quoted with permission...
Due to the nature of the events that are offered
at Euphoria, this festival is for adults only, some rituals may
contain sexual elements. Before considering attending Euphoria
please carefully read all the information on their website to
assist you in making an informed decision.
Thursday
Night:
The thrill of anticipation that goes
through me as I arrive at the site is based on past experience:
Euphoria is a festival that focuses around the rituals presented
over each of the four nights. Registering is essential –
it’s not the sort of event where you can show up, hang around
for a day and then go home. It is something you really need to
experience from start to finish. I have heard that the festival
this year is going to be bigger than ever, and wonder what it
will mean for the magick we will be working.
I find myself quartered in what is soon dubbed the 'Testosterone
Hut', due to the six bunks being filled by men. Most of them I
already know from Pagans In The Pub. (A wonderful concept for
those who don’t know about it – where interested pagans
gather each month to network, discuss topics of mutual interest
and get pissed.)
The festival site is up in the hills, surrounded by bushland.
At the centre of the site is a large open area, where the communal
fire is already ablaze. At one end is the kitchen and dining hall,
at the other is the ‘house’, where workshops are to
be held. Trees loom over the huts at either side, reminding us
that nature is never far away.
This year we have a professional caterer. The food last year was
excellent, but the Committee members in charge of the kitchen
worked themselves to exhaustion to cater for seventy hungry pagans
three times a day. This year there will be more, so the Organising
Committee has chosen to pay someone else to do the job, leaving
the Committee able to work themselves to exhaustion taking care
of other matters.
Supper is soup and bread – a first night tradition. After
supper, we have a collective pow-wow in 'The Gym', a large outbuilding
with a concrete floor. The Committee introduce themselves, and
talk about the core aims of the festival. Hawthorn, a big round
man with a booming voice and lots of long grey hair, explains
our rights and responsibilities towards others and ourselves over
the weekend. I do a quick head count: there are nearly ninety
this year!
Suddenly there is silence in the room. The veiled figure of a
Dark Priestess has entered, and without word or sign she holds
us spellbound - enchantress of the night. Her dark presence seems
to dim even the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. From the opposite
door enters the Priestess of Light, blonde haired and barefoot
in simple white. Together they summon us to the opening ritual.
We process outside to the central fire. The Circle, which will
last the entire weekend, is cast and the quarters called. Hekate,
patron goddess of Euphoria, is asked for her blessing. The Dark
Priestess and the Light disrobe and dance together as light and
dark become one. They then help each other into robes of red:
at the place where darkness and light join, there is always power.
The fire flares and the sound of drums fill the night as the dance
of Euphoria begins. Much later after the rite, twenty or thirty
of us sit around the fire, and the conversation continues long
into the night.
Friday
Daytime:
I feel very crappy:
I always have difficulty sleeping in a new environment, especially
one where there is snoring. Nevertheless, I stumble along to the
first workshop.
The first workshop is titled 'Sensuality and Sexuality',
but the focus rapidly turns to the subject of nudity and body
image. I hear some amazing accounts of struggles between self-loathing
and self-acceptance. The previous night’s ritual, where the
two priestesses disrobed each other, has clearly been on people’s
minds.
Tim Hartridge arrives from Sydney with members of his Dark Circle
Collective. The Euphoria circle is now complete – no more
will arrive. Tim asks me to be one of the five principle ritualists
for the NOX rite the following night.
I am suddenly very much awake, and blown away by the implied compliment.
And the responsibility: the Dark Circle has been performing this
rite weekly in Sydney and I am a 'ring-in' for someone unable
to make it down. I have a day and a half to prepare, and my part
is not a small one. Tim is confident in my ability. Oh dear.
I put all that aside for the workshop I'm running after lunch
on Trance. The back room in the house is filled to capacity. The
concept is simple: withdrawal of consciousness from the outside
world and focusing it inwards, into the dark world of dreams.
I use my voice to carry them away in a guided meditation, and
several rapidly lose awareness and fall into deep sleep. I know
this from their snores. One guy, Chris, is especially loud and
eventually I lean over several bodies and put my hand on his forehead,
sending a quick flow of energy into him. He quiets. Eventually
I bring everyone back, and we briefly share some of what we've
experienced. Tim Hartridge, who was lying right next to Chris,
felt as if he were deep underground, curled up next to a sleeping
dragon. Poor Chris is mortified. Fortunately, it turns out he
may have gone further and seen more than anyone during the 45-minute
meditation.
People leave energised in time for Honey B's belly-dancing workshop,
while I head to the hut for some well-earned naptimel.
Friday
Night:
I awoke hours
later to discover I have missed the Ritual Palette workshop.
One of the aspects that separate Euphoria from other pagan gatherings
that I have experienced is the emphasis on having the more challenging
rituals workshopped and explained by those presenting them, so
that there are no misunderstandings about their intent. It also
means that everyone attending can have a clear idea of what their
role is, and how they can get the most out of the experience.
The Ritual Palette workshop had two functions: to show interested
people the elements which go into creating a good ritual, and
to create, through consensus, a ritual to be performed that very
night. What the workshop produced, I am told, was a high-energy
ritual, including a procession through the four elements, freestyle
invocation, lots of chanting, drumming and dancing and loads of
fun. It creates a good balance to the overall festival –
the rites to come will be much more heavy and intense.
As I missed the workshop, I cannot attend the ritual, so I help
Tim and some others set up the 'Gym' for the NOX ritual
the following night. It takes work, as convenient exposed beams
for hanging the Bedouin-style tent have been replaced by an actual
ceiling. Tim, years of theatre-work coming to the fore, shows
us that coat-hanger wire, a few steel hooks and gaffer tape can
surmount any problem. Outside, the Goddess ritual generated by
the workshop is pumping, the drums filling the air once more.
Late that night, long after the ritual is over, a group of us
wander up to the hill-top where last year we celebrated the BAPHOMET
Rite, and look out to the south. The glow from Melbourne's lights
can be seen on the horizon. The stars are many and very bright,
a great snowy road out through the galaxy. The half-moon emerges
from the east, casting her glow across us. We are all happy, knowing
that each of us at Euphoria shares something of the wonder and
magick we feel as pagans looking up at the glory of the night
sky.
Saturday
Afternoon/Evening:
As at the first Euphoria in 2000, the
NOX rite is being presented, but there are some changes. After
the NOX proper there is a short 'Shakti' ritual, where the Goddess
is again invoked. It invites the participants to come before her
sky-clad, and drink from her cup. At the first Euphoria, only
a few people had the courage to go sky-clad, and then only at
the BAPHOMET Rite, which was wilder and more primal than the NOX.
This year, however, people were being invited to work sky-clad
at the NOX, and this difference seems to push at the edges of
many comfort zones.
'Will you do it?'
'I’ll see what happens.'
'Well, if you’re not going to, then I’m not either…'
My cynical side is amused no end: for a sub-culture that sets
so much store by the ability to go against the current of mainstream
society, we really can embrace the herd mentality as quickly as
anyone, under the right conditions.
I think of the Dark and Light Priestesses, and the effort they
had gone to on Thursday night to get us accustomed to he idea
that sky-clad work would play a larger part in this year's Euphoria
than it did in last year's. I feel slightly disappointed on their
behalf, and think that if people are that bothered by it, they
shouldn’t attend. It’s not as if anything about the
rituals is compulsory.
Hawthorn’s words at the beginning of the weekend covered
it all:
'If anything with which you are uncomfortable occurs, you have
both the right and the responsibility to not participate in it,
and if necessary leave the space in which it is occurring'.
However, the way it all turns out, the pre-ritual controversy
merely reinforces for many people just how many emotional barriers
they find themselves able to overcome during the weekend.
Saturday
Night – The NOX:
NOX is Latin for NIGHT. There's always
more than one meaning for acronyms such as these, but in essence
the ritual is about accessing the Night Place within one's self.
The NOX has a very Thelemic, Middle-East feel to it, and the setting
and imagery are in line with this - the Bedouin tent cum desert
campsite, the water pipe hookah with the fragrant tobacco, the
belly-dancing etc. It is about half past ten at night. The cauldron
is lit and ambient music fills the air. I am at the altar at the
entrance, where lies the NOX Pantacle for the admittance ceremony.
I am holding the Book of the NOX. Veronica, Litha and Mandy are
veiled and deadly-looking with their curved knives, and they disappear
into the night to bring the first of our lost travellers to me,
the Mysterious Master, face hidden within the deep hood.
Three by three, led by their guides, they come before me, and
I show to them the NOX Pantacle, a black disk with certain powerful
symbols upon it. They sign their names in the Book of the NOX,
and are admitted to the tent for wine, laughter and celebration.
Eventually all are gathered and admitted, and the rite itself
begins. We five principle ritualists dance around the flaming
cauldron with our staves, raising the energy in the circle. The
atmosphere of the tent becomes charged, tense with expectation.
The cauldron is removed and replaced by the Pantacle, which acts
as a psychic gateway into the Night Place during the guided meditation.
I sit, Mandy Veronica and Litha at the other four quarters with
everyone surrounding us in a large ring, and we contemplate this
thing which seems to steal the flickery dim candlelight itself,
drinking in our gazes like a vortex, a well of darkness.
'A star strewn sky hangs heavy over the dry desert plains. Upon
the arid soils, there stalks a lone jackal, Anubis — guide
and guardian of lightless souls through the desert of Set.
'The great black desert dog draws in the scent of the night air.
With senses tensed he peers far toward the east; with eyes and
ears, he sees and hears the trampling of hoofed and horned wild
beasts. He excites the presence of Therion, wild lord of beasts.
'Pacing up and down, and up and down, he turns about to face the
western reaches. There, hanging low, low upon the horizon, shadowy
reminiscent of a waning moon. Its crescent horns pointing skyward,
tinged with the ochres of the russet desert dust. This is the
Great Mother, Babalon, who long since orphaned Anubis to wander
in the Desert of Set alone. Howling, crooning, baying at the moon,
the Jackal god hears only the cry of his own echo.
'Pacing incessantly up and down, and up and down, his eyes gaze
to far above upon the expanse of infinite space. This is the Mother
of Night, Nuit, whose body is filled with infinite stars. The
cool, distant spaces, realm of stars and gods.
'The Jackal pauses, a halting, frozen stare upon one star. There,
reflected in his dark eyes, the sparkling star light, the burning
brilliance of the Ruby Star, Sirius. Invoke, O Anubis, the hidden
god within thy heart — 'Hadit, Hadit, Hadit.
'He withdraws into the night darkness. Naught remains save whisperings
in the desert air.'
My hood and over-robe by now are gone. Opposite me, beautiful
Litha has become the goddess Babalon, and Veronica and Mandy are
Nuit and Hadit. Whirling to each quarter, our priest/guide Anubis
invokes our energies, and I reply in my turn with a wild roar.
For this short time, I am Therion, the Beast.
We commence the Sufi-style whirling dance, drawing everyone up
to join us, and our guide takes his drum to begin the Zaar rhythm.
People are whirling madly. I take a turn on the Zaar drum as Tim
and Veronica prepare frantically for the next part of the night
- the Sacred Shakti Rite. People are falling to the straw now,
entering their trances, and experiencing for themselves the Night
Place within. Finally the drumbeats fail and there is silence.
Softly, a light begins to shine, gently silhouetting a naked form
seated on a dais behind a falling transparent veil. She wears
a shimmering belt of silver. Reverentially, I take the NOX Pantacle
and place it at her feet.
Kneeling now, our priest speaks an invocation to the Goddess,
who descends into the willing vessel, her priestess. She speaks
long, lyrically, and afterwards I can only remember a little of
it, like a beautiful dream that fades away forever in the morning.
'Come unto me... Invoke me with a pure heart, and a serpent flame
therein… arouse the coiled splendour within you: come unto
me! I love you! I yearn to you! I am the blue-lidded daughter
of Sunset; I am the naked brilliance of the night sky. Come unto
me!'
An incredible feeling of love fills the ritual space as she speaks,
and the veil is slowly parted. Awe and wonder are on every face.
Some are crying openly. One by one, the principle ritualists drink
from the cup She bears, including myself, and then I am sent to
gather others to receive Her blessing. The wine is like fire inside
me.
I see the Goddess and the priest who invoked Her gently disrobe
Mandy and anoint her sensually with oil. The cauldron is relit,
flaring brightly, and others, including myself, begin disrobing.
Mandy anoints me, and I anoint others, those I know well, in turn.
Soon there is a double-ring of us, dancing around the cauldron.
A wild spirit comes over the gathering: more people take their
clothes off and join in. We sing and chant and hiss, challenging
the fire. The energy defies description.
'Eko Eko Azarak, Eko Eko Zamelak...'
The energy peaks, and out of the cauldron surges a seven-foot
tornado of flame, wheeling and heaving like a tree in a high wind,
answering our challenge. The light it casts makes our skin gleam
in the night; sweat running off our bodies freely. In the inner
ring now, I see those who stayed clothed on the edges looking
on, awestruck and frozen, sharing in the communion. I think some
have left, unready for this experience. Goddess-intoxicated, I
suddenly see clothing as unnatural, as if it is blasphemy to stand
in a Circle before the powers of heaven and earth wearing anything
but our own skin. In my heightened state of awareness, the clothing
of those on the edges becomes strangely transparent, and I see
the nakedness beneath. I am not myself, hardly in my body. I burn
like the fire, and time, already a distant and malleable thing,
recedes further, much further.
Finally, the fire dies, and at that instant, a bell rings out,
sweetly grounding the energy.
I put my robe back on, and it feels strange to the touch, unnatural
and wrong. There are one or two couples making love in the straw
as I leave. I expect it to be some time after midnight, but to
my shock and that of others, I discover it is half-past three
in the morning. (At this point, I am not accustomed to the time-dilation
effects of major rituals.) I am weary, and need sleep. I also
need a shower. The shower block is a popular destination after
a ritual such as this, to help ground, and for some, to share
magickal intimacies in a more private setting.
Sunday
Daytime:
The rumbling of a dragon pulls me back
to consciousness. Not for the first time, I vow to take earplugs
with me to every future pagan event I attend. The waking state
is painful to me - 2 or 3 hours of sleep doesn't do the job. I
know I won't get back to sleep, and as I get up, I consider embracing
the whole sleep-deprivation psychosis thing. Just going with it.
At least it would be a new and interesting experience. And I suddenly
realise that those who scurrilously accused me of snoring have
had their case shot out from under them - you can hardly snore
whilst lying awake listening to everyone else do the same. I feel
like crap. I feel like the son of crap.
A cup of strong black tea, loaded with three teaspoons of sugar,
helps me function. There are even some hot cross buns. (Our caterer
couldn’t grasp why some of us found this funny.) Few are
up and about, and I wonder if the caterer has realised that any
breakfast she prepares won't be eaten until midday, when the rest
of the Euphoria community will begin to stir. I see a new friend
of mine, Meagan, near the fire with a few other hardy souls, and
she tells me I look better than I did the previous morning - obviously
I'd managed to get some proper sleep. Hah.
I don't do much that day. I think maybe I help Tim and the others
clean up the Gym, but at some point I stumble back to my bunk
when everyone else has finally awoken. The sky is blue, and the
day warm, but somehow I am still in the Underworld of the NOX.
The previous year's NOX had made me feel the same: It’s called
Ritual Hangover.
Sunday
Afternoon/Evening:
I came out of a weird, disjointed half-waking,
half sleeping state and realise I have been listening to Hawthorn's
voice as he speaks around the campfire. I feel only a little better.
The BAPHOMET workshop has begun, and I struggle along to it in
the fading grey light - clouds have come across and turned the
camp into a place suitable to the realm of Hades.
Certain aspects of the ritual have changed. At the workshop, we
have been given strips of cloth, which we will at some point tie
around our wrists, symbolising the bonds of fear, shame and guilt
we will sever during the rite. One of the priestesses has been
given a scourge with which to encourage our dancing. Of course,
this is something of a joke - not only is the priestess in question
a gentle soul, incapable of actually hurting anyone, but Hawthorn
also gives us a 'code', a non-verbal signal to indicate we do
not wish to take part in that aspect of the rite.
The code is as follows: stick your thumbs in your ears, wiggle
your fingers and poke your tongue out. This is Hawthorn, closet
Discordian, in fine form. Laughter ripples around the central
fire. He turns serious for a moment as he stresses the need for
care in an environment where people may be experiencing altered
states of consciousness.
The BAPHOMET Rite is a paganised re-creation of the traditional
Witches Sabbat of medieval times. Right down to the 'Kiss of Shame',
the meeting at a crossroads at midnight, all of it - the perverted
imaginations of medieval Catholic Inquisitors being given a modern
pagan expression. Baphomet is a figure perfectly fitting with
this - the seated figure with the head of a goat, female breasts
and enormous phallus, cloven hooves for feet and a flaming torch
bound about the brows. A hermaphroditic figure commonly seen as
representing the Devil. You could say that the first test that
the BAPHOMET rite sets is whether you can successfully let go
the Christian preconceptions that such an image suggests. Not
everyone can.
For me, this is part of the path - you go along your merry way
thinking you're a real live witch, then something like the BAPHOMET
rite comes along and forces you to re-examine yourself. You discover
all these hang-ups that have been lurking around in the shadows
of your mind, leftovers of an upbringing in a predominantly Christian
culture. You might not like it, but it's an illumination nonetheless.
That, to me, is the whole point of following the spiritual path
- those small (or large) moments of illumination. The Gods, the
magick, the rituals, they are the tools by which we change our
awareness.
The BAPHOMET rite is the Witches Sabbat brought to life. It invites
us to call forth the Witch archetype within all of us, dark, wild
and strong.
After dinner, a crisis occurs. One of the men has apparently taken
issue with the presence of the scourge during the ritual, but
rather than say anything at the workshop, he has stewed about
it silently, until in a heated outburst he threatens violence,
should the priestess come near him with the scourge.
The Committee meets to discuss the situation. To threaten violence
against another person at Euphoria is totally unacceptable, regardless
of the issue that may have prompted it. The man in question insists
that he be guaranteed that he will not be scourged. Hawthorn explains
that while every effort can be made, given the nature of the ritual
no guarantee can be given.
This is beside the point, however. Hawthorn explains that the
priestess who has been threatened, as well as several others who
witnessed the outburst, no longer feel safe in his presence. As
a result, he will not be admitted to the rite. Upon being informed
of this, the man immediately leaves the festival.
I am not directly involved in the mess, but I am one of the few
who know about it – the rest of the festival remains blissfully
unaware of what has happened. My own personal judgement of the
situation is simple: For one person to make a physical threat
against another is unacceptable, but for a man to do so against
a woman, and a priestess, is unforgivable.
The result of all this is that the ritual will start late –
many of the Committee need time to ground and centre themselves.
Others, though, take advantage of the relatively mild night to
strip off and put ochre on. With last year's experience behind
me, I'm well aware of just how much the stuff stains, and so I
stick to the face-paint kindly provided by Violet. She's in charge
of the whole face-painting operation, and really is more than
a bit of an artist in this area. I see Litha and Veronica with
red serpents writhing over their bodies, someone else made up
to frighteningly resemble a feline, and a whole assortment of
other half animal, half human changelings. I stick to a simple
theme - from forehead to chin, I am painted half black, half white,
like Hel in ancient Norse mythology. For good measure, we paint
on the red crescent-like horns of Babalon in the centre of my
forehead, over the third eye. I go back out to the fire for a
while.
The priestess Honey B comes among us and tells us we will be summoned
to the ritual shortly. She reiterates that if anyone is uncomfortable
with any aspect of the rite they should not attend, and that if
necessary they can leave at any time. An especially important
reminder, given the previous events. In a charged magickal atmosphere
like Euphoria, every individual must take responsibility for his
or her behaviour.
Sunday
Night - The Baphomet Rite:
We are summoned when it is time and
with drums beating we walk up a path lit with candles all the
way to the ritual site. A faerie-road into a night filled with
naked dreams of many moons ago, many moons to come. The fires
are already burning as we gather at the entrance to the circle,
hidden among the trees, and we are met by a divinely tall priestess,
raven haired, trailing crow feathers behind her as if she is new
to human form. In this rite, on this night, all things are possible.
The black veil she wears hides nothing, her skin shining luminously
despite the firelight. She carries a broomstick with her, and
proceeds to sweep the circle free of unwanted spirits, while summoning
us to enter.
'Come cast the Circle widdershins; come drink from the primal
well!
Come cast the Circle widdershins; come dance with the Goddess
from Hell!'
We enter the circle widdershins, the current carrying us further
into the fire and the dark. The circle is cast and the quarters
called. As well as the great centre fire, there are smaller fires
ringing it about, their smoke adding to the unreality of it all.
At the edge of the circle, shadows seem to gather, and I can feel
presences up in the trees above. Tonight we work with the Earth
energies, primal and savage. We dance, raising energy, the fire
in the centre hot against our bodies. The raven-haired priestess
is among us with her scourge, encouraging the dance. Our psychopomp,
deathly white, bears a staff topped with goat horns curling back
over his hand. He uses it to draw a pentagram in the air, crying
aloud in a great voice, invoking the presence of BAPHOMET, the
God of the Witches Sabbat. .
'BAPHOMET! BAPHOMET! IO EVO HE!'
From somewhere out in the Night, He/She/It comes. Goats-head,
breasts, and a huge phallus, with dark wings jutting out from
bare back. The words 'Solve' and 'Coagula' are inscribed on pale
arms, and eyes are magickally ablaze. Some cannot look. Some cannot
look away. One by one we go forth and make the Osculum Infame,
our obeisance to this, our master.
With enormous phallus in place of a wand, Baphomet blesses the
wine and the cake, using it to inscribe the pentagrams over them.
It bears the cup among us, and when my turn comes, It pours the
wine over Its breasts and pulls me bodily to Itself, making me
lick the wine off. Baphomet's aura sears into mine, leaving me
stunned and weak, as the deathly psychopomp comes next bearing
the cake. No tiny individual portion this: I have to reach into
the bowl and rip a chunk away with my hand. I eat, and taste blood
- I discover I am bleeding heavily from the nose. It is fitting,
testament to the power and dread of the ritual.
The drums in the dark are beating wildly, and soon again I find
myself dancing with Baphomet. I fall to my knees, joining in the
communion of fire and shadow. A few people make love in the straw
that has been laid down in the Circle; others merely touch each
other sensually. I see one young woman, too shy to remove her
clothing during the NOX, close her eyes and give in to the wild
current washing around her. Slowly, so slowly, she removes her
robe and dances around the fire, and I can feel from her the release,
the sense of abandon and freedom. Many have gone by this stage,
left the Circle to continue their adorations in private!
The energy changes and deepens for those left in the circle. Finally
I too leave, but the drums in the dark keep beating, they follow
me from the ritual site and pursue me in my dreams. I sleep very
soundly. Later as dawn breaks over the circle the White Priest,
who has kept vigil all night, opens the circle.
Monday
Morning:
I cough myself awake, thanks to some
clever smoke inhalation from the night before. I don't understand
how people do it deliberately with cigarettes, if this is the
result. I feel as if I've taped my lips to the exhaust pipe of
a bus.
However, I do feel more rested, ready for another day and night
of the Euphoria festival. Then I remember: this is the final day.
Last year, we'd had another day and night to ground ourselves
after the BAPHOMET rite. This year, lacking the Anzac Day holiday,
we're going home completely trashed. I have a three-hour car-journey
ahead of me, and I can't be sure I'll be in my body for any given
period of the time.
In the shower-block, I discover this sea of ochre-stained water
covering the floor, drying at the edges, like some inland drought-stricken
lake. Clearly, many post-ritual showers took place in the wee
hours, and a good time had by all.
I brunch on fruit salad: yummy, wholesome and grounding. I don't
know if it was planned that way menu-wise, but it is exactly what
I need. It is a beautiful day, in the mid 20's, unseasonably warm
for this time of year. I take a moment to appreciate just how
much we have been blessed by the weather.
It's after midday when the camp really starts stirring. A late
lunch, and clean up commences. The front of the house where all
the body painting had been done is a complete write-off - it will
require professional steam cleaning. The campfire in the middle,
which has been lit all weekend, is put out and cleared away. I
see something very weird - all the coals and ash have been removed,
leaving only the coarse sand beneath. Someone pours some water
over the sand, and it boils and bubbles for a full minute.
Some of us take a break sit down up at the ritual site, using
the opportunity to have a good old chinwag about the weekend,
and how it has affected us. We toss around ideas for Euphoria
2002 to put to the Committee – as ever, it is an organic
process, and like a young sapling I'm sure the Euphoria festival
will continue to put down roots in people's hearts and get better
and better.
We see Hawthorn making his way through the trees up to the site
and like naughty schoolchildren we hurriedly pretend to be working
vigorously, instead of sitting around being slack. Poor Hawthorn
hasn't been to bed, and the strain is showing in the set of his
shoulders, though he keeps moving, doing the work of 3 people.
He sets me to the task of returning lost property to people; though
it's a big ask at this stage, with half having left already. The
Committee are worn down by the work they have done, by lack of
sleep and stress. A pity that Euphoria could not last a fortnight…
but I doubt the organising committee could survive it. Few can
appreciate the work that goes into creating such an amazing event
each year.
The tale is finally done, at least until the next Euphoria comes
upon us, weaving its change. The magick doesn't end when the rituals
end: it ripples through the rest of our lives like a stone dropped
in still water, leaving nothing the same.
I take my leave with smiles and tears – not a one has left
the event without making new friends, without at least one experience
to treasure. Thus the old words are given life once more: Merry
Meet, Merry Part, and Merry Meet again.
Copyright
Gavin Andrew 2001, 2002.
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