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This page is Dedicated to Luis Royo, an awesome air-brush Fantasy Painter
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THE EMERALD ALTAR
As I open my box of SECRETS, I want to play with you. Imagination, Creativity, Inspiration and other artistic-sounding words have nothing to do with it.
SECRETS--- yours and mine. Just as ancient alchemists used to chant over the gimoire of Hermes Trismegistus: "As It is above, so it is below; as it is below, so it is above. Together they are one."
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STERN-FACED TEMPTATION
Little by little, like Russian dolls, one inside another, dreams and memories come forth. And we know somehow that they're the same little dolls that are hiding deep down inside ourselves.
Images that exist outside of time, past the furthest limits we can imagine. Temptation makes us pursue them, and we become lost beyond the edge of any map, no longer knowing whether it's desire or fear we're feeling.
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SEARCH FOR THE LOST HEROES
Recapturing our wild years, those years when the universe seemed to spin aimlessly and no one knew what tomorrow would bring. Far beyond good taste or bad. Past feeling any regret. Red over a breath of ferid air, like a stoplight holding back the stink of green, rotting things.
There are times while working that one's conscience, brushstroke by brushstroke, gets lost among the dead leaves and mold.
THE PATH OF DREAMS
Avalon, the inner kingdom of the dark woods and thickets. The land of Faerie, whose denizens absorb the energy of the sun and share it with nature. Beauty, who turns the white rose into a sword to dominate the Beast. Dreams, too, live there, in that delicate place where the wicked spells of the little folk hold sway.
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FISSURES OF THE BREEZE
Transit of the Seven Gateways. Lacking the last garment (the last of the Seven Veils), Salome, the priestess who will become a goddess.
The ceremony of the eternal return. The sacred drama of the life, death, and resurrection of the god of fertility, and of the hot journey the goddess makes to the Underworld in order to bring him back to life. Only then will the winter be over and the life-force begin to break through the soil.
THE SON OF BAPHOMET
Like an erection. Bursting suddenly from the unplumbed depths. Enigma, perhaps monster. No way to tell if it's reality or illusion, or even whether either exists.
We can call him MERROWS, like the Irish people of the sea. We can fear him, as the Greeks feared THANATOS. We can worship him as the Templar worshipped BAPHOMET.
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