I find the full moon a difficult time — a time when my life seems split in two, or perhaps when a split otherwise omnipresent and subtle becomes much more apparent. It is as though I am living someone else’s life and at the full moon this other life of mine that I am somehow living in completely different circumstances — circumstances so different that I am in effect a completely different person — comes to the fore. Ignoring the Crowleian understand of magic which requires it to be subject to the will, I get the sense of magic being more prevalent during the full moon. This is to say that things happen that seem to suggest an agency beyond that rooted in my mundane, daylight awareness, yet intrinsically tied to a deeper sense of my place among all the realms. It can thus hardly be a coincidence, or at least such purely in the most physical of senses, that it is on the day of the full moon that I find myself party to innumerable coincidences and strange happenstances all aligned to intimate a system of causation beyond that insisted on by those who smugly cling to our waking, conscious existence as a rat clings to a scrap of debris left by a sunken ship. Thus at work I am re-translating the twilight of the Gods from Snorri’s Edda, I find myself discussing the importance of blood in the Old Norse mythological paradigm and out of the blue I find myself walking home under the full moon by way of the crossroads down one of the back lanes.