"Festival of Wounding" – April 4, 2002

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The Akashic Library stretched endlessly in all directions, its starlit halls resonating with the hum of countless stories. Peter Fae and Calliope stood before one of the shimmering portals, its light refracting like liquid glass. Within its depths, a scene unfolded—a dimly lit home filled with the murmur of voices, the glow of candles, and the heavy presence of something unspoken.

Peter recognized it instantly. “The Festival of Wounding,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

Calliope turned her gaze from the portal to Peter, her dark eyes curious. “The Festival of Wounding,” she repeated, her quill poised above the parchment she always carried. “You’ve mentioned it before, but never in much detail. What was it like?”

Peter’s golden cloak rippled faintly as he tilted his head, studying the vision within the portal. “It was… a reckoning,” he began. “A gathering of artists, dreamers, and wounded souls, each bringing their scars—both seen and unseen—into the open. It was themed around pain, the ways we harm ourselves and each other. And yet, there was something strangely sacred about it, as if the wounds themselves were threads in the great tapestry of the Akasha.”

Calliope’s quill scratched softly as she recorded his words, her youthful energy tempered by her devotion to understanding the depths of his journey. “And you felt a connection to it?” she asked, her voice probing but gentle.

Peter hesitated, his gaze distant. “I felt… out of place, if I’m honest. The mortal world has always been a strange and difficult thing for me. The rhythms of daily life, the expectations of survival—they never made sense. Even surrounded by the Faerytale Brigade, a group of kindred spirits, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong. And at the Festival of Wounding, all those feelings were amplified. The pain in the room mirrored my own in ways I wasn’t ready to face.”

The portal shifted, revealing a smaller, more intimate scene. A younger Peter stepped into a dimly lit bathroom, the muffled sounds of the gathering fading as the door closed behind him. The floor was smeared with muddy footprints, and a single fluorescent light buzzed faintly above, casting an unflattering glow across the grimy tiles.

Calliope leaned closer, her quill pausing midair. “This,” she said softly. “This was a pivotal moment for you, wasn’t it?”

Peter nodded slowly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Yes. It was here that I had a vision, one of those moments where the Akasha reveals itself with crystalline clarity.”

In the portal, young Peter knelt down, his face illuminated by the strange, artificial light reflected in the water pooling on the floor. The muddy footprints around him seemed to come alive, their shapes shifting into patterns that only he could perceive.

“I was kneeling there,” Peter said, his words measured as he relived the memory. “Staring at the mud, the water, the light… and suddenly, it wasn’t just a dirty floor anymore. It became something else, something profound. The footprints were no longer random—they were sculptures, trails left by every soul who had passed through that space. And I realized, in that moment, that we’re all like those muddy footprints. We carry the grime of the world, the imperfections, the pain, but we are also part of something greater.”

Calliope’s quill moved furiously now, her expression intense as she absorbed his words. “The muddy footprints of God,” she murmured, more to herself than to Peter.

“Yes,” Peter said, his voice reverent. “That’s exactly what it was. I saw that every footprint, every mark, was an expression of Divinity. Imperfect, yes, but Divine nonetheless. The mud, the grime, the light—they weren’t separate. They were all part of the same story.”

In the portal, the younger Peter stood, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief as he turned away from the glowing floor and reentered the gathering.

“At the time,” Peter continued, “I didn’t fully understand what I had seen. It was just a flicker of awareness, a brief glimpse of the Akasha. But I knew it meant something. That even in our pain, in our confusion, there is light beneath the mud. That the wounds we carry are part of the threads that bind us to each other and to the world itself.”

Calliope looked up from her notes, her dark eyes searching his. “But knowing that didn’t make it easier, did it?”

Peter shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. The mortal world still felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve. I didn’t know how to take care of myself, how to navigate the rules of a reality that seemed so alien. That sense of disconnection, of incomprehension—it followed me for years, through the Quest and beyond. But moments like this one… they kept me going. They reminded me that even in the chaos, there is meaning. Even in the wounds, there is light.”

Calliope’s gaze softened as she turned back to the portal, watching the scene fade into the shimmering glow of the Library’s infinite light. “The Festival of Wounding,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t just about pain, was it? It was about seeing the beauty in the brokenness.”

Peter nodded, his golden cloak catching the faint starlight of the Library. “It was a reminder,” he said. “That the mud doesn’t define us. The light beneath does.”

And with that, the portal dissolved completely, leaving only the faint hum of the Library’s eternal stories as Peter and Calliope walked on, their steps echoing softly in the vast, timeless space.

"Festival of Wounding"

It’s a moody weekend when I join the Faerytale Brigade in a jaunt to a gathering called the “Festival of Wounding, themed around the various ways in which we harm ourselves or each other across the worlds.

It’s funny to look back on the photos that I was ordained to witness at the earlier part of the Quest. To see the why of what I was drawn to from the context of the Now.

Diving into the Worlds of New York City, I found myself joining the Faerytale Brigade at a gathering called ‘The Festival of Wounding’.

We gathered for the event at the home of Burke and Tara Lee. I always liked the place, it was quirky and magical, the lines of Story weaving in and out of it’s substance in leathery filaments of light.

Entering the Space

Lights in the Linoleum – The Bathroom of God

Yet even through this chaos, what would grow to become the siddhi of story was present. As I wandered through the murky tiles of the bathroom, I looked down, and shot a photo of the reflected light casting illumination from beneath the smeared mud upon the floor.

In that moment I had a revelation. A recognition of the many footprints of humanity, the confusion and flowing pain strokes on the surface of the world, had a light beneath them. A constancy beyond the many marks in the sand.

I remember looking down at the muddy footprints, at the reflection of the neon light beneath, and shifting, my perspective slipping beneath the surface of the Worlds. The light spoke to me then, where I saw our many footprints as sculptures, shifting trails upon an emanation of light. Where our wounding, our hurt, all served its purpose.

I knew it then, if only for a flickering moment of awareness. Looking upon the mirror, I saw that someone had written “This person is responsible for your safety”. Unfortunately, I had little faith that the person in the mirror could perform this task.

As I write this from nearly twenty years in the future, I see the nature of the Akasha unfolding. How the reflections in the field were already happening, how I was led by a Divine inspiration to witness photos that would later reveal their purpose to me. To show me the purpose of the hurting that myself and everyone else was going through, revealing the essence of suffering in the modern Age.