10.7.2007 - Contributed: Anti Ittna H. / Akiz


Preamble: The seed was sown in the brightest of light and night of north. In the womb of winter, in the embrace of MAa - words sent into the ether, seeds intertwined, impregnating the air. Polar union springs solar semen. Something is waiting to be born. Dreams of Light - the Light of Dreams.

Nearing the Spring Equinox - the time of births.

All is in constant flux. The wind gathers and disintegrates in all four directions, in all three worlds - and now is the time of gathering, of centering. We draw together, as two becomes three, and three becomes one, treefaced.

Night one. We gather in empty halls, in wide spaces, in echoing hallways; we pour the libations and offer the smoke. In slow pace, the work begins as a call - first as one, then as manifold. Something is being born. Springing from the seed. It starts to grow and glow, quietly and gently, then rising in intensity, until it is brimming, flowing, slithering, spiraling, in all directions, filling the space and tearing on the barriers. It arrives and we are inside it.

Night two. Twofaced. All instruments, elements and offerings carefully laid out on the floor. The halls echo with the ecstatic and thunderous presences of last night.

The first horn sounds. It is asleep; then, quitely it starts to wake and to open. The sound is alive with resonance and vibrance– a medium for traveling upwards. Through the twisted horn we rise - an endless spiral pathway.


The second horn sounds. It is alive and awake. It grounds us, into the roots - thick, dark, and ages old, a being that reaches and streches its limbs slowly, not yet visible, but right under the surface of everything.


The air is warm and alight with dark colour. Antlers sound into the air and become one, into the roots unto the branches.

Afterwards, a thick veil of smoke covers all. And at night, on small woodpaths, the stars are alive and dreams linger long and deep.



A season of opening. MAa has opened up to receive the seed - as we unfold and unfurl, bare and open for that which is being born.

In the Lights and rites of Luna, in languages without words, mirrorfaced, shrouded in sky and space, all is laid aside. A crossing between this and the other. We raise our hands and pour the cup on the center-point from which all springs - All is here, All is flowing. The veils are lifted and we see, our eyes open into all infinite worlds... Faces, beings, presences – all merge with our own.

Visions and pictures and moments are captured and eternalized – taken from time to timelessness. In assembling, we notice something is being formed, something more than the sum of images. It is flowing through us – to receive it requires only openness. Fragments meld into a cycle, visions disconnected on the surface flow together as flocks of dreambirds and form a vast field, a path, a continum, a line leading to luminous heights. And if all rises from the one, then everything is interconnected and part of the one– as we see these visions and voices now are. We are beginning to see the one and hear a voice – and it is radiant.


Words arrive in dreamvisons and form a treeangle. Primal ur-words, first sounds and syllables. Mutterings from which worlds are woven. The semen and the womb. The blood and the vessel.


K h a

A s t r i e

We continue, we communicate. In the same spaces it began, now it is completed. Dark Light. Now it flows, not out – but into us. In treeangular formation, we sound and celebrate, for the wide spaces and trees hovering outside. Night descends slowly, and the air fills again with vulgar smoke. We feel it coming, bulding in momentum.

Traveling to the Nether regions, into the City of Red Lights. Beside our place of sleep is a botanical garden, with a huge spiral labyrinth made from bushes, visible from above. A park by the canal with huge, old trees, and a churchlike building right beside it. We find ourselves at strange altars, watching the passing days and nights. The city itself is a labyrinth, almost virginal in its daytime beauty with quaint canals, quiet alleyways, drifting dreams and soft clouds.

And yet at night it turns into a different city, as all things have their shadow. A coat of arms with double skulls and three X's. A circular church at its red heart, surrounded by the sordid glimmer of neon light. The city is penetrated by a bottomless hunger, an unquenchable thirst, for everything and nothing, for all and one, as life feeds on life. A devourer, preying on the lifeblood flowing thourgh its dark red vanes. The labyrinth swallows us in, shrouds us in a haze of black and red, and for moments we are inside the warmth of its womb.

Traveling further to the place where all this is to be given form and finality.

Daytime faces are laid aside, and we adorn in ashen garb and sacred antler. The instruments and elements and substances are laid out, incense lighted. Bells, horns, bones, bowls, damarus, shangs, solar discs, gongs, trumpets, cymbals and drums. A coup poured to its brim.

It begins. The call sounds. As one, then as many. Smoke and sound spreads into the aether of red, yellow and green. We drink and call and consume. To the roots, we call. To the branches and beyond, we reach.

And finally - All is here. Red, yellow and green is now bloodred, semen-silver and gold. Wandering in a cycle, a spiral – we are the centermost point into which it all flows. It gathers and grows, from a haze, it rises and forms a frenzy. Outpourings of pulsating rythmic chaos. Voices sung and chanted become screams and echoes of ecstacy, of manifold orgasms and deaths all happening simultaneously. Pieces of horn are thrown en masse unto all gathered participants. From the roots in the nether worlds, to the trunk splitting the surfaces and worlds, to the branches reaching for the endless skies and infinite stars. We are bathed in Dark Light, pierced and penetrated by massive rays of Sol and shade. Purified and emptied - we have given - now it is time to receive.

We raise our horns to the skies and spread our wings, our mouths open for the celestial nectar.


  • Nuit Et Brouillard festival, Schouwburg Cultuurcentrum Luchtbal, Antwerpen, Belgium - 21.4.2007.
    [Photos taken by Marc Perillax]
    [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

    [Photos belowtaken by Virginie Delgrange]
    [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

    We are the Dream that It Dreams. Treefold.


    K h a

    A s t r i e


    Thank you to all people present in spirit and form, fellow travelers and perfomers.

    CAVEAT EMPTOR: Unfortunately, someone displaced/stole an ash-smeared shirt and necklace made from horn specially created and blessed for AM Kha Astrie, just a few moments before the actual performance. Whoever is responsible for this act should know that all inent that was "loaded" into the artifacts is in now aimed at them, but in inverse.