I am a creature born of spectacle, raised on the gossamer threads of two opposing worlds—one of devotion and solemnity, the other a cacophony of myths, melodrama, and rebellion. My mother, the curator of passion veiled in daily ritual, introduced me to soap operas and the Catholic Church. From her, I inherited the love of candles lit in dark cathedrals and over-the-top declarations of love made by trembling protagonists on TV. Both were theater in their own way: the sacred and the profane twined together, always reaching toward something ineffable.
My father, by contrast, was the weaver of stories older than time. He spoke of gods who wielded thunder and turned into swans, of tricksters who caused chaos with gleeful malice, and of warriors who defied fate to stand at the gates of doom. From his lips, childhood tales transformed into sprawling epics, and a walk through the woods became a journey into the unknown. He made me believe that the mundane could always give way to magic, that every shadow concealed a story.
And then, as I grew older, the currents of the occult and the pulse of rock and roll stormed into my life, demanding their place in the ever-expanding theater of my existence. The occult whispered secrets to me in the dark, where symbols spoke louder than words and the unseen world rippled just beneath the surface. Tarot cards shuffled like poetry in my hands, their images alive with mystery. Rituals, spells, and sigils became their own kind of drama—a private communion with forces that danced just out of sight. Here was theater stripped to its rawest form: the sacred and the arcane meeting in the flicker of a candle’s flame.
And then came rock and roll, bursting onto the stage with all its swagger, its defiance, its electrified poetry. The first notes I heard were thunderclaps, the chords a summoning circle that invited me into a realm of freedom and chaos. Rock and roll wasn’t just music—it was a rite, a rebellion, a communal act of defiance against the monotony of the world. It was theatrical in its very essence: the primal scream of a frontman drenched in sweat, the kaleidoscopic swirl of stage lights, the spectacle of a crowd moving as one to a rhythm that seemed eternal.
Through the occult and rock and roll, I learned that the theatrical wasn’t confined to ornate stages or gilded churches. It lived in the dark corners of record stores, in the cryptic symbols scrawled in old books, in the ecstatic abandon of a guitar solo, and in the hushed reverence of moonlit rituals. The myths of my childhood took on new shapes, wearing leather jackets and pentagrams, their ancient power thrumming with fresh energy.
The theatrical, for me, is not merely a love of drama—it is the marrow of life itself. It is the ability to see a guitar as a weapon of the gods, a candle as a portal to another realm, and a story as a universe unto itself. It demands that we embrace the absurd, the sublime, the sacred, and the rebellious all at once.
To love the theatrical is to live as if the curtain is always rising, as if the spotlight is always yours. It is to revel in the grand gestures, the whispered incantations, the clash of cymbals, and the quiet hum of secrets held close. It is to believe that every moment—whether adorned in sequins, cloaked in shadows, or roaring through an amp—holds the potential to become a myth, a ritual, a song.
The occult and rock and roll amplified what I always knew in my bones: that life is theater, and we are all its players. My story is no less a soap opera, no less a myth, no less a ceremony, and no less a concert. And in this theater, I am actor, playwright, magician, and bandleader all at once.
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