Revictimized In Death | The Transadvocate

Revictimized In Death | The Transadvocate.

The black transsexual woman stabbed to death and tied to a piece of concrete and thrown into a pond in Ohio? Her name was Cemia Dove. Her nickname was Ci Ci. Below is her picture in life.

To add insult to death, the Cleveland Plain Dealer shows not a pic like this, but a mug shot. They call her corpse “oddly dressed.” Worst of all the newspaper called her an “it”. Here’s the quote from http://www.transadvocate.com, quoting the Cleveland Plain Dealer:

Police said after they contacted area law enforcement for help identifying the body, Cleveland detectives told them they had a missing person matching its description.

Yeah. Plain Dealer reporter John Caniglia referred to Cemia as an it

And even worse than that is the fact that Cemia is the third transsexual woman of color murdered in the USA so far this month. That is, the third we know about. There have been more murdered— this month — that no one knows about, without a doubt.

Requiescas in pace, Cemia. Violent, premature deaths make for restless ghosts. Still, against all odds, Requiescas in pace, Cemia.

Cemia Dove

Trans woman stabbed, dumped in pond tied to concrete in Ohio | Gay Star News

Yet another transsexual woman murdered. It doesn’t sound as if she were a saint, but she didn’t deserve this:

Trans woman stabbed, dumped in pond tied to concrete in Ohio | Gay Star News.

Seven Transphobic Tropes Debunked | The Transadvocate

The seven probably most common arguments used to denigrate, confuse, thwart and cause FUD in transfolk are refuted, debunked, slain, destroyed. Remember if you’re wondering if you’re trans you probably are. I say, Fear nothing!

Seven Transphobic Tropes Debunked | The Transadvocate.

The Book of Abrasax: Review and Praxis

I’m a big fan of Mike Cechetelli’s (hereinafter I’ll call him MC, Cechetelli is hard to type) Book of Abrasax. In the Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Hans Dieter Betz left out explicitly Christian material, probably to present to us a more coherent work concentrating on the pagan magical and folk religious beliefs of the late Hellenistic world. With the Book of Abrasax, MC drew on the untapped font of magical rites which Betz left out and  presents a working magical system largely incorporating some of those left out Coptic Christian rites, as well as rites from Coptic manuscripts dating from as late as the 10th century CE. Some of the rites mingle the Christian and Egyptian pantheons seamlessly. A few are completely pagan. The result is a rather compact grimoire containing a complete magical system.

The Book of Abrasax is not a work of academic scholarship. MC has felt free to fill in gaps and lacunae in the original manuscripts by finding other manuscripts without the lacunae and as it were filling in the blanks. He also standardizes the spelling of names and of voces magicae (sometimes called “barbarous words”) by using the most common, or sometimes the obviously correct, spelling. For example, the mysterious name ABLANATHANALBA is a palindrome, the same word both forwards and backwards. Thus alternate spellings can be replaced by the correct palindromic spelling. Also MC gives suggestions on how the rites may be modified to suit the needs of the practitioner whilst the rites remain faithful enough to the original that the resultant modification “just works.” —Far from being a drawback — this non-academic treatment of ancient material — it is precisely MC’s filling in of blanks, corrections and modifications that allow the existence of these rites of magic in a form usable by the contemporary practitioner. A more academic treatment would not have resulted in a working grimoire. There are complete rites, for example, in the Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, and it is a treasure trove of magical lore, but it is not a working grimoire.

MC’s extensive research and meticulous reconstruction of magical rites results in a book filled with immense power. As mentioned above, the Book of Abrasax is not a large book, but it is comprehensive. It comprises chapters on the Preparation and Securing of Space, Protective Magick (magick is MC’s preferred spelling), Amorous Magick, Wealth and Prosperity, and on Transcendent magick, often known today as “High Magick”. MC has, by the way, in this last section significantly raised the bar concerning just how “High” magic(k) can go. So the Book of Abrasax is a slim but comprehensive tome of sometimes shocking power and intensity.

You may have noticed that there is no section on the evocation of spirits. MC provides his complete method of evocation elsewhere, in The Conjure Codex by Hadean Press.

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All the workings in this book call upon the aid of Gods and Angels and Luminaries. MC himself has stated publicly on his blog that all magic depends upon the intervention of spirits. This a belief I do not share — humans are spirits too and we are quite able to do magic without any external aid. The infamous evil eye or malocchio is an incontestable example of humans’ power to do magic without the help of spirits. So, for example, would be creating a cubical astral construct (the cube is the Platonic solid associated with Elemental Earth), absorbing said Elemental Earth from your environment using the technique called pore breathing, filling the astral cube with same, and then willing it to enter someone’s bloodstream. Or brain. Just one of an infinite number of examples of human-only magic which the clever mind might devise. (Your example wouldn’t have to be evil — you could send the same cube into a broken bone to help heal and strengthen it: my mind tends to travel along dark paths.)

Despite my disagreement with MC on this point, invoking the aid of spirits, especially of Gods, Angels and Luminaries, is or should be part of any well-rounded magical praxis. These mighty beings can warp reality and alter probabilities in ways we humans cannot. Also, working with them is simply a thrilling experience, so much so that maybe the thrill of it just maybe can’t be topped.

~~~~~~~~

I am something of a “primitivist”, spiritually speaking. After losing my Christian faith, I found first that I was already an animist. All things whatsoever contain a portion of what we call life: everything is alive, I realized. Then I met my first spirit, face to face while I was meditating in the woods. I modified my world-view to incorporate the spiritist viewpoint. Then I prayed one night to Hekate and — BANG! — the Distant One was astrally but literally in my face. I then became a polytheist, Gods being basically Big Spirits.

But the Book of Abrasax works primarily with the lesser know Angels, Luminaries and even Gods of Gnostic Christianity. How can a polytheist practice a system derived from a monotheistic religion? Well, for one thing, some Gnostic Christianity was not particularly monotheistic. As mentioned above, some rites call upon Egyptian Gods alongside Angels and Gnostic Christian Godnames. For that matter, just who is Abrasax? He’s quite a mystery, but one thing is clear — He’s not is a monotheistic “One True God”. Still, familiar Angels such as Gabriel are found in these rites. Even the Master Yeshua (meaning Jesus) himself puts in an appearance. Some rites truly seem to call upon the monotheistic God under such names as Adonai, Elohim, and Sabaoth. How do I reconcile my polytheism with this? How do I avoid cognitive dissonance?

My working theory concerning the multiverse is that it is vaster than could possibly be described, let alone imagined. Our physical universe is quite probably infinite in size, extending forever past the 43 billion light-year radius of our visible universe, our “Hubble Bubble” past which nothing can be seen, and there may be other, separate physical universes. Then there is the strange fact of multiple futures: divination will reveal this to you. The best divination is often one that never comes true. It doesn’t mean the divination was incorrect, it means your future was steered slightly and became one of those other futures. Then, given that we did divinations in the past, there must be multiple presents. All time, including time already past, was once the present, so finally there must also exist multiple pasts.

What I’m saying is that I believe the multiverse is big enough to accommodate cosmologies that to us seem contradictory. I’m still a polytheist, and my favored theory concerning “God” is that God is synonymous with what the alchemists call the Azoth, the fifth element, often today referred to as Spirit. That, looked at as a construct built entirely of Azoth or Spirit, the multiverse can be considered as one living more-than-infinite being. That doesn’t sound much like our idea of a person: monotheism requires that “God” be a person. Still room for polytheism.

Even if I’m wrong, even if something like the Gnostic First Father exists, which emanated the fundamentals of reality an eternity ago, it’s still not much like a person. The First Father can be anthropomorphized in our minds, and that’s what I do with the Book of Abrasax. I see the First Father as an anthropomorphism of Something that does not in reality resemble a person much. And if I’m wrong the multiverse is still large enough to contain mutually contradictory cosmologies, theogonies, origins, and ends.

At least that’s my working theory. I could be wrong.

~~~~~~~~~

What’s it like to work the Book of Abrasax?  Two examples will suffice.

Last night, which was a Sunday night, during one of the hours of the Sun, I performed the Rite of the Kindling of the Four Lights. I called upon the four Luminaries as found in the Gnostic Apocyphon of John — think something like an Angel only … bigger — and on God or “God” to set me firmly over my own realm. Being king, or queen, in your own kingdom is an absolute necessity, and it is not easy. Some help would be nice. That’s the purpose of this rite, to establish you in your own kingdom in wealth and prosperity. I think I’ll repeat this rite every Sunday night for a while, because something happened. My entire body was still tingling as if with very small electric shocks thirty minutes after the rite’s completion. And the Four Luminaries Themselves must have been present, to some extent. I felt a powerful sensation of purity and cleanness like nothing I’ve ever felt before, not even in the presence of Archangels. I’m not a millionaire yet, but even though I have a bad cold today I’m sitting here writing this blog entry, which is better than average behavior for me.

Another time, I’d been threatened with magical attack. By a woman who knew a disturbing amount about demonology. I performed the second rite in the book, the Adjuration of Metatron, followed by the Preliminary Rite of Protection. I used the modified version of the second rite in order to call upon Metratron, the Angel of the Presence, to empower a talisman. —I divined that I was in danger of demonic attack, but no such attack ever happened. Archangelic protection is enough to ward off any demon.

Was there even an attack to be warded off? I’ll never know the answer to that question, I hope, and that’s exactly the way I like it.

Lilith: End of All Flesh, End of Days

A mystery of mysteries: Out of the power of the glow of Isaac’s noon (i.e., the Gevurah), out of the dregs of the wine, there emerged an intertwined shoot which comprises both male and female. They are red like the rose, and they spread out into several sides and paths. The male is called Samael, and his female [Lilith] is always contained in him. Just as in the side of Holiness, so in the Other [Evil] Side as well, male and female are contained in one another. The female of Samael is called Serpent, Woman of Harlotry, End of All Flesh, End of Days.

Rashi to b. Sanhedrin 109a

Of Lilith’s several contradictory origin myths, I find this one the most fascinating. Here Lilith is no mere human, but from the beginning She is a mighty Power, existing within Creation, but not created by God…

The above passage is quoted from The Hebrew Goddess by Raphael Patai. It is itself a quotation of Rashi, a medieval commentator on the Talmud and the Hebrew Scriptures, here remarking on a passage in the Talmud’s Tractate Sanhedrin. But what does Rashi mean?

Rashi’s text states that “the power of the glow of Isaac’s noon” is the Sephira Gevurah, better known in Western Occultism as Geburah, meaning “Strength”. Another name for Geburah is Din: “Justice”. According to Wikipedia — points off for my use of Wikipedia, but the following description is useful here — “Geburah is understood as God’s mode of punishing the wicked and judging humanity in general. It is the foundation of stringency, absolute adherence to the letter of the law, and strict meting out of justice.” It is associated with the planet Mars and the color red (like Mars, blood, and wine).

“The dregs of the wine” — this indicates the most worthless and repulsive aspects to be found in Geburah. Such aspects of the ten Sephiroth are generally known as the Qliphoth, the “husks”, “peels” or “shells” of the Sephiroth. In other words, “the dregs of the wine” is the spiritual garbage of Geburah. The evil aspects of Geburah. But — how can God create something with an evil side, something with such “dregs”? The answer is (somebody correct me if I’m wrong) that in Kabbalistic and rabbinical thinking God is not omnibenevolent. God can do and create evil. As it says in the Book of Isaiah:

I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD [Yahweh] do all these things. — Isaiah 45:7 (King James Version)

Rashi continues — there emerged an intertwined shoot which comprises both male and female… But it seems God did not create Lilith and Samael. They arose from the Qlipha of Geburah — i.e., its evil, darkest and worst aspects — almost as if They evolved there the way life evolved on Earth. Patai describes this version of Lilith thus:

a divine entity which emerged spontaneously, either out of the Great Supernal Abyss, or out of the power aspect of God (the Gevurah or Din), which manifests itself chiefly in the divine acts of stern judgement and punishment. This stern, punitive aspect of God, one of His ten mystical attributes (Sefirot), has at its lowest manifestation some affinity with the realm of evil referred to as “the dregs of the wine”…

Another, slighltly different version of this origin story, says Patai, explicitly names Samael as one of Qliphoth that temporarily hid the light of Geburah at the moment of Creation. The light of this Sephira named Strength broke forth, shattering the Qliphoth, one of which was Samael, and He in turn brought out another Qlipha, who was Lilith Herself. Thus, according to this myth, Samael and Lilith can be regarded as titanic Powers emerging from the harshest, least pleasant of the Qliphoth, or as Qliphoth themselves.

What about the intertwined part, though, which comprises both male and female?  Why is Samael’s female [Lilith] always contained in him? Fortunately the answer is contained in this snippet of Rashi’s commentary. Just as in the side of Holiness, so in the Other [Evil] Side as well, male and female are contained in one another. God is seen as comprised of both male and female: Yahweh and the Shekinah, usually translated in Christian Bibles at least as the glory of the Lord. But the Shekinah is much more than than the shine (the literal, etymological meaning of glory) of Yahweh. She is regarded to the present day in some branches of Judaism as the consort of Yahweh and also regarded as part of Divinity Itself, although separate from Yahweh. Despite the demonization long before in the days of Hebrew polytheism of Yahweh’s original consort, the Goddess Asherah, he still — even to this day — has, perhaps must have, the companionship of a Divine female.

What does that have to do with Samael and Lilith? —It means that Samael and Lilith are mirror images of Yahweh and the Shekinah. That they are, when you get right down to it, the God and his Divine consort of the Other [Evil] Side (and Divine Consort means Goddess and nothing but Goddess, I mean come on!). Just as Yahweh and the Shekinah must always be bride and groom, so must Samael and Lilith. And what about the contained in him part? — that can be regarded as hyperbole, as exaggeration. Because in closely related lore and myth, since the destruction of Herod’s Temple in 70 CE., the Shekinah has remained in mournful exile upon Earth, while Yahweh sits in Heaven — but He still might well not be alone after all (more on that later)… This sort of comparison of Samael and Yahweh is undoubtedly what gave rise to Samael’s title The Other God. Or maybe the title The Other God gave rise to this sort of myth: Who can say? Likewise, the comparison of Lilith and the Shekinah is the reason why, for example, in the writings of Kabbalist cum Rabbi Isaac Hacohen from the 13th century it states that “Lilith is a ladder on which one can ascend the wrungs of prophecy.” —Clearly he viewed Lilith as a source of what Christian theology calls revelation, and what today’s pagans and polytheists call Unverified Personal Gnosis, or UPG for short.

But wait! There’s more!

First I have a confession. I don’t really understand the difference between the Matronit and the Shekinah. Mention of the Matronit is coming up. Perhaps the Matronit is a more personalized way of conceiving of the Shekinah — the word, though Hebrew, clearly contains the root of the Latin word for mother: mater, matris. I don’t think I’m wrong if I conflate the Shekinah and the Matronit as one and the same. If I am wrong, I’m in good company because many writers conflate them. Patai sees a slight difference that eludes me … enough, you get the point I hope.

So when the Shekinah remained on Earth and Yahweh returned to Heaven after the destruction of the Second Temple, I hinted that Yahweh might not have remained alone. Who could possibly be more fitting, in a delightfully twisted sort of way, to take the Shekinah’s place than Lilith Herself? Of course that’s exactly the story other myths tell. Patai writes —

The Zoharic idea [is] that the most terrible outcome of the destruction of the Temple and the exile of Israel was that because of them [i.e., Israel, the now exiled Jews] God was forced to accept Lilith as his consort in place of the Matronit…

Of course the mythographers rail against this state of affairs. When the Messiah comes —

Those Messianic days will mark not only the reunion of God and the Matronit and the rejection of Lilith, but also the end of Lilith’s existence. For, although Lilith has existed since the sixth or even fifth day of Creation, she is not immortal.

Alas, the Messiah is a no-show, whether you’re a Jew and deny Jesus as Messiah or Christian and affirm him as Messiah. Neither the Second Coming, nor the First, are happening. As Ronald Reagan famously once said: “Mistakes were made.” Maybe the Lilith-Yahweh-Matronit soap opera is a mere figment, a not-even-a-myth. If not, it looks like Yahweh is stuck with Lilith forever. Despite the protestations of the pious, I somehow suspect that having Lilith as consort for all eternity has its perks for the old Semitic Deity…

—Two more things are left to be discussed. —First, I’ve related these tales in the manner of those who don’t believe in them at all. Yet I’m a sorceress, I work with spirits, I pray to Gods and Goddesses and assorted other non-physical Entities. I summon angels and demons and they come and speak with me. I’m a believer. I believe that Lilith and Samael exist, and Yahweh and the Shekinah to boot. This begs the question Which of all these stories about Lilith are true and which aren’t?

Lilith exists, I accept that as a fact. To deny it would be to deny my own lived experiences and betray all that I am. What are we besides the sum of our memories of our lived experiences plus some genetics thrown in? Nothing. I won’t be a nothing: I won’t deny my lived experiences. So I claim Lilith lives. If one accepts Lilith as a living Being, then the answer to the above question becomes None of all these stories about Lilith need be true.  If every tale told of Her is a figment, She still exists. And yet because we can learn so much about Her nature from these myths, there must be a connection. Either She Herself inspired the myths or some of the myths really are true. We’ll never know if any of the myths are true. And if some are true we’ll never know which ones those are. Still Lilith lives, the myths still teach.

Which of all these stories are true and which aren’t? isn’t actually a very important question after all.

The second thing is the remaining sentence from the Rashi quotation that began this entry. The female of Samael is called Serpent, Woman of Harlotry, End of All Flesh, End of Days. —Serpentalthough medieval iconography very often shows Lilith as the Serpent who tempted Eve, Rashi was a Jew. I believe he would have denied the truth in the doctrine of the Fall. The snake would have been neither Lilith nor Samael nor Satan to Rashi. In other myths about Samael and Lilith they are given the names of Slant Serpent and Tortuous Serpent. But I haven’t read up on that for over a year, not since the last time I read The Hebrew Goddess. So I can’t explain or expatiate Serpent right now.  —Woman of Harlotry … that one’s easy. Lilith as succubus. Lilith as the seductrix of Adam. Lilith as the corrupter of men’s moral qualities and stealer of a certain bodily fluid.

End of All Flesh, End of Days … these two are hard. As Kabbalistic and rabbinical thinkers believed that Lilith would be destroyed when the Messiah came, they could not have taken these epithets at face value. It could be simply extreme hyperbole: Lilith is in fact a very dangerous Spirit. But calling Her basically the end of all life and the end of all time — I can’t believe these epithets are just meaningless hyperbole, they’re too poetic and evocative.

Like so much about Lilith, on this point I have no clue.

I, Adversary: Personal Mythos [EDITED]

[EDIT: Memory is untrustworthy, a construct of the imagination. I’m wondering now how much of what I’ve told is true, how much figment construed together long after the truth was forgotten.]

In my post Conflicted Over Apocalyptic Witchcraft I come down against the adversarial stance of author Peter Grey’s marvelous book. In doing so I was being disingenuous, I now see. I didn’t mean to be, I really am conflicted. I have more “issues” concerning the adversarial stance than I let on.

This is personal. So personal I don’t know whether I ought to click Publish or not. On the other hand I’ve told others and myself the story so often that it’s just a story. If you’re reading this, I clicked Publish.

So … let me tell you part of my personal mythos and practice know thyself through story.

The Unnameable

As a transgendered child rural ignorance caused me much suffering. I grew up I believe in a time before the coinage of the words transgender and transgenderism. I grew up in a place where the word transsexual could never enter my internal lexicon, as linguists call our stock of words and the neural webs that attach word to word, word to image, word to memory, etc. I possessed no such concept as transsexual or transsexuality. Having no such concept, I could not conceive of them: transsexual was literally to me an unthinkable thought. I could not know myself. In the rural culture of Appalachia, I did not dare share my desire to be a girl with anyone, not even my parents. I knew I was different but had no means of enwording how I was different and no possibility of expressing what I did know. Saying to anyone I want to be a girl would have resulted in nothing but humiliation and lasting personal disaster, in that time and place. I knew better than to destroy what life I had.

Bearing the Mark of Cain

At the age of four or five the depressions that plagued me till I came out to myself began. So did the self-loathing: I knew I was different, and amongst children of that age different is bad. I was bullied verbally and physically by others from my first experience of day-care. I was ostracized by my peers and my adult caregivers alike. It was a different time and place from what we like to imagine ours are like. I suspect that things aren’t very different at all now, we only like to imagine they are, but that isn’t what I’m posting about now. —Children internalize other’s perceptions of them. My feeling of difference from everyone I’d ever known was so strong I was certain at that young age that I had some visible mark upon me that meant outcast and inferior. Some visible sign that only I could not see. Something very like the Mark of Cain.

The Cainite Gnostic

This was intolerable and I quickly developed a coping strategy. It was not I that was outcast and inferior, I began to believe, it was the universe itself that was evil and flawed. To any intelligent person this should be obvious, I thought. Misery was only logical and natural. I was an intelligent child, and I came to believe that I was surrounded by people too dumb to see the flawed wickedness of the world or who were willfully blind to it and denying it amongst themselves, denying this obvious fact to my face. I externalized my self-loathing into a sort of proto-Gnostic loathing of the world. I was a cult of one. Soon however universe was replaced by humanity. For I could not for long hold my secret loathing and contempt against the land. I began to walk the hills and mountains every day, losing myself in the natural world. And there are few places in the world more beautiful that the Appalachian woods and wilderness. I made them my true home. Our house was where I watched TV, ate with my parents, and read science fiction. My daylong walks by the age of ten or twelve were my own Cainite exile, and I reveled in them. T.S. Eliot wrote in his Four Quartets of “… music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.” In just such a way I was the land, the mountains, rivers, trees and rocks, and they were me: there was no line of division in my wilderness isolation, in my exile. Eventually I discovered the stars, planets, star clusters and galaxies. —As coping strategies go, hatred of humanity in general is not a very good one, but it was better than what I’d believed before. To humanity in the singular, consistently, I was gentle and kind as I could be in my misery.

But — such early and deeply ingrained self-conceptions are not easily shaken off: to this day I struggle with feelings of inferiority and of world-loathing. I still bear my personal Mark of Cain and I still feel the original loathing for the universe itself. On a good day I don’t think about these ideas. On a very good day, now, since I came out to myself, colors are literally more vivid than I have ever seen, the pink of azaleas pinker, the blue of an autumn sky bluer than I ever saw before, and an adversarial stance seems a thing of the past, ridiculous to boot. On a bad day my early coping strategies either weigh me down or I flaunt them with arrogance and pride. I have not yet sloughed off the child’s version of the Cainite Gnosis that I invented all alone.

The Adversary

I say arrogance and pride because they were my next coping strategy. To stop the bullying I lost a few fights but bloodied some noses and loosened some teeth in the process. That left verbal bullying. To cope with that I developed an acid tongue. There are many kinds of intelligence and I have average amounts of most, but as for verbal intelligence I’m off the charts. I flaunted my grades and my effortless mastery of every class. —Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not bragging about my little blog here: writing well requires intelligences other than the merely verbal and I confess my writing has its flaws. But wielded as a weapon, my verbal skills around age thirteen or fourteen were invincible. I crushed my enemies with words, trapping them in verbiage and cruelly insulting their every weakness and every blemish. This eventually awed and entertained even them. It became for a year or two a sort of game. The game eventually ceased but the acidic stream of thought — my adversarial stance against all who opposed me, and against the “world”, generally meaning humanity by this time as told above, and even brooding, wallowing in and covering myself with my own feelings of inferority because such feelings are “forbidden” — I, adversary had become as ingrained in me as my inferiority had at age four and my world-hatred at age seven or so. As thought requires a theme, as acid when spit requires a target, my theme was my hatred of humankind. I built up a personal mythos (some of which is contained in this very fragment of personal mythos) of my own superiority and demonstrated as often as possible that same very, very fragile superiority. —I had loved ones, especially the old people of the mountains who are now all dead, but imagining the abstraction of “society”, of the sheeplike herd of the “majority”, I became their opposer. I became their adversary. At least in the world of my mind and in small acts of verbal protest and very minor physical acts of vandalism, I was the universal adversary.

—A tangent, please. I can say universal because the culture I identified with, a culture that was more accepting of some eccentricities and differences than the mainstream, namely the Appalachian culture, was dying out. I became a young “man” without a country, because the mountains were different as other nations are different from the USA today. Neither were the mountains part of the South. —So I became free to oppose whatever time and chance blew my way that I didn’t like. Especially the increasing development that came with an increasing population, the faux mountain culture of cornshuck dolls made by crones from Sedona, and the mass culture or popular culture that came with all the people. —In the area where I grew up, just so you know, the old people are dead now. So is their way of life and so is their greater than you might have expected acceptance of some differences and eccentricities. I was somewhat effeminate and very bookish, but to them I was merely quaar, which meant odd. And that was OK. They’d never have accepted my queerness, my transsexuality. I still deeply mourn the old people. I’m now a woman without a country.

The Two-Headed Hypocrite

What I describe above was not my whole life of course. A life is irreducible to words. Like a normal kid I watched cartoons and later my parents’ TV shows, I went fishing with my grandfather, I always had a few friends that I hung out with at school, etc., etc. Most of all and in some ways worst of all, I always tried to do the right thing. I’m a deeply spiritual person, so I went to church. What else was there? Thus my prayers went unanswered, and my spiritual longings proving vain I often attempted to turn to atheism and nihilism for comfort but never succeeded. I always till 2011 returned to church, and, after conversion to Catholicism in 2004, to the Church. I know the King James Version and some Catholic theology, so I didn’t come away from Christianity entirely empty.

I was terribly lonely, I love children, and believed that I never would father any. When I met a girl in the final months of college and we fell in love, I married her. We’re still together with a houseful of kids, but I won’t pretend this is an easy thing. I love my wife, I desperately love my children, but had I never gotten married I would no doubt have come out to myself much sooner. This is both a curse and a blessing. I wouldn’t wish away my wife or children and being transsexual twenty years earlier would have been much more difficult. Those times were not our times. That’s the blessing. Yet still I mourn those lost years and can’t seem to stop mourning them. It doesn’t make sense but it’s the truth. That’s the curse. —All this mind-buggering complexity because I wanted to do the right thing. Probably it was the right thing but it’s a hard, difficult situation, I won’t lie. Still, we’re making the best of it.

I’m a member of an occult group one of whose stated goals is to make the world a better place. Intellectually I support this goal. My gut feeling is that it’s all in vain. Still I know — because I always try to do the right thing — I’ll do my best to help them, to make the goal come true.

I am a hypocrite, in short. Either way you look at it, either way I face, I’m a hypocrite. I’m still the Cainite Gnostic whose hand is raised against every man. And what am I an adversary against? Whatever I take a fancy against. And harm done to innocents.

The very name of my blog itself indicates these things. The Way of the Transgressor is Hard. I’ve transgressed an implicit social contract by transitioning into womanhood, and transition never ends. So my transgression never ends. I transgress another implicit social contract by practicing sorcery. Such things can’t be true, is the general consensus. A sorceress does magic. She does magic because she’s a sorceress. There’s no other reason and she can’t not do magic. The transgression never ends.

Meanwhile, I’m still the little pseudo-boy who does the “right” thing. I wrote against the adversarial stance of Apocalyptic Witchcraft even though deep inside, in my deepest parts, I agree whole-heartedly with it. The little pseudo-boy who always does the “right” thing: is “he” the real me or is “he” a veneer, my culture’s lie that I’ve swallowed whole and cannot — or will not dare — kill off?

I wrote Conflicted over Apocalyptic Witchcraft the best I could. I feel I wrote it wrong. If I wrote it the other way around … I’m pretty sure I’d feel exactly the same way.

Living a Transgender Childhood – YouTube

I just watched this video. I remembered my own childhood. I remembered when I was four years old … six years old … Josie’s age. I’m so happy for this little girl. But I’m crying over what might have been had I been born like her in 2001 and can’t stop crying. Crying over what’s possible for her now and a “never could have been” for me, thirty years older. Please support transgendered children. You might save them from more than merely thirty-something years of misery. You might even save their lives. Please support transgendered children.

Living a Transgender Childhood – YouTube.

The Horror: A Monstrous Spirit of Place

Pardon the sensationalism of the post title. Pardon the Lovecraftian prose. But this is a story, and the story is about me and a monster, and it all really happened to me in real life.  A true life monster story. So—

May 2011. This happened when I was living alone in the mountains. I did visit home near Chapel Hill quite often to continue to haul forgotten things back with me to the mountains and to visit my children. It was about a five and a half hour trip one way, so I’d stay the night in Chapel Hill, which also gave me more time with my kids. —Nothing unusual this time: I returned to my little rebuilt, reinforced, tornado-proof trailer in the hills and got out of my ugly blue truck — I hadn’t come out to myself as trans yet, that would hit me about two months later, after I had totaled my beloved truck because I was driving with a migraine — carrying my keys and an armload of necessities and useless junk. I entered the front door, put the stuff down and for some forgotten reason I picked up the hagstone that I kept on the table where I practiced magic.

Instantly my hand burned as if dipped in acid. I put the stone down fast. The burning sensation persisted and did not abate at all for about ten minutes. It hurt bad, and with no logical explanation. My hand was not red at all, and the stone had been cool to the touch. Then I held my hand under running cold water for a couple of minutes and the burning feeling started to pass. —I now interpret this as a warning, perhaps from the stone itself, or from a friendly spirit. It was almost sundown.

I slept when I wished, rose when I wished back then. Around dark I thought I’d take a nap. I lay down on the bed and I was struck with an utterly overwhelming feeling of fear, panic, pure horror. A pure psychic blast of … just horror, terror, fear of the unknown and the unknowable hit me  like an atomic shock wave. —My years of meditating saved me. Part of my mind was detached, observing the feeling, the horror. More importantly observing the directionality of the horror. It had a source, it was pouring through the wall, the one that faced the steep slope of the little hill my trailer was built on. I laid my hand on the paneling. An unstoppable flow of fear and loathsomeness was pouring through that wall: I could half see, half feel it, oozing like a river of rancid oil from a direction that pointed straight back to the stony center of the ancient hill (the Appalachians are the oldest mountain range in the world, I believe). I didn’t know what to do. I went the main room, where the assault of fear felt less strong and sat on the couch in half lotus and meditated most of the night. I think I slept a little toward dawn because I remember being surprised by the sunshine.  And then I noticed something. —The ferocious attack, as I then considered it, had completely subsided. I went into my bedroom and touched the wall. Psychometry revealed nothing but pine paneling.

I lived this way for about two weeks. I kept careful track of the exact minutes of sunset and sunrise, adding and subtracting a couple of minutes for the last shard of the Sun to disappear and reappear beneath or above the horizon, for that was the exact moment when the attacks would begin and end. I don’t know how I survived the first few nights. I fortunately discovered that a Zone Rite (more commonly known as a “banishing”, only more versatile) taught in Jason Miller’s Strategic Sorcery course called the Temple of Fire could keep out most of the oozing gush of fear emanating from the center of the hill. I would generate the Temple around my bed, it would destroy the intrusion as it flowed in but it flowed strong and a little always got to me, all night long, before that little bit was utterly annihilated. And the hideous oily flow of the most primal fear would continue, though I was mostly shielded from it, till the sun rose. At least I could sleep. —I never did figure out why the horror only flowed when the sun was below the horizon…

I didn’t keep notes or a journal during these weeks, so I don’t remember the sequence of events too well. At last I found something that helped, at least temporarily. I knew that many spirits are fond of spirits, so to speak, so I went to the liquor store and bought the cheapest, biggest bottle of vodka I could find. I’m sure I bought something for myself as well: the cheap vodka wasn’t for me, it was for the spirit that I was now convinced lived in the center of the hill on which my home perched. I had a tiny back deck, not really big enough to deserve the name. Each night I would take the vodka out of the freezer, take it out to the back deck, and address the spirit. I told it (I was inspired I suppose) that I knew it didn’t want to hurt me, but that it was hurting me unintentionally simply by coming too near me, and that I wanted to be its friend nevertheless and despite all. I even gave it a name: the Horror, of course, or just Horror, when I was speaking directly to it. I would fill my mouth with the vodka till my cheeks bulged and I would spray the hillside — so close I could touch it — with the atomized liquor. One, two or three times. This helped, but the calmative effect on the Horror lasted only a few hours. I slowly became convinced that the spirit — the spirit of place, genius loci, and/or perhaps ward or guardian of the tiny mountain — was not evil. It was only alien. Absolutely alien to all that’s human, thus creating the sensation or, better perhaps, the illusion of horror. I had come to think I had roused it from some kind of slumber, and that the Horror was merely … curious. Perhaps even lonely. It seemed as if it responded well to my offers of friendship, augmented by lots of vodka given as a peace offering. And quite frankly to make it drunk and sleepy if possible. It works with ghosts, I thought, so maybe it will work with this thing. But even though it would withdraw somewhat after such offerings, the atmosphere in the trailer was one of, well, you know what of by now, of horror. Just not nearly as bad. Then, in the middle of the night, It would return with its probing, oozing, amoeba-like touch. But I was protected, for the most part, inside my astral construct, my Temple of Fire.

Flashback. One of the key practices of Strategic Sorcery is that of general offerings to the spirits — all of them, or any who want to show up —, a concrete form of thankfulness, prayer and peace-making. The more advanced nighttime offering involves taking on a wrathful godform, and carefully and powerfully building up on the Astral plane a feast of oceans of blood and mountains of bones, and inviting the most terrifying denizens of the Nightside. It’s good to live in peace with all the inhabitants of the place where one dwells, and compassion should know no limits — even when one must curse or bind it can and should be done in a spirit of compassion. And another purpose of the Nightside offering is to avert possible necessary wrathful action against the darker denizens near one’s home. The spirit world of the night is very different from that of the day. But — I have an inkling that it was that same wrathful godform I would generate for my Nightside offerings that slowly awakened the Horror. After my overnight trip and my return, it was fully alert and probably simply curious. What the hell was that? it probably wondered. So I guessed and surmised at the time, and it still makes sense to me. Not much sense, but more than any other version of events that I can come up with.

Still, I could not abide this forever. I’d become nervous, jumpy and drastically underslept. Fortunately most days I did a general offering, the one straight out of Mr. Miller’s book The Sorcerer’s Secrets. No godforms required. —I recommend this book, by the way: you need this book if you practice magic. After inviting and addressing the guests, the spirits who’ve come to partake of your incense or water or food or whatever, there comes a period when you invite communion. I thank the Gods for one special period of communion during an offering one evening…

I felt the now familiar prickle of the chakras along the back of the neck. I invited whatever spirit this was to communicate with me in whatever  fashion would suit it best. It inserted pictures directly into my imagination. The imagination, after all, is a perceptive sense organ unto itself, among its many other functions and capabilities.

First the spirit showed me a picture: a dark sullen-red glow in the rocky center of the hill. It was an unpleasant color, almost infrared. This was the Horror I knew with certainty. —Then I was with this unfamiliar spirit, which looked a lot like a large man in a gilly suit, on top of the hill. The top of my hill was crowned with a small, private family graveyard. The spirit pointed toward the largest tombstones, toward one corner of that plot. It was exactly over the highest point of the tiny mountain, or almost. A sigil or seal had been drawn with cornmeal on the ground. I thought at the time it looked like an idealized drawing of the Sun, but I have no idea whether it was a Solar sigil or not. But there was a problem. The hilltop was directly visible from my landlady’s front windows, much higher on a mountainside across the road. At most any hour she might see me clearly, because at night I would need a flashlight to find the exact right spot. To remain nice, I’ll simply say my landlady was a nosy woman, always keeping her hawk eye on us renters. Also I could be seen from the road — by the openly hostile (to me at least) city police. I might get evicted or fined if I followed this new spirit’s instructions.

I negotiated. Will it be OK if I put the sigil on the border of the cemetery? A wild shaking of the head: No. And so on, No after No, till I asked Will it be OK if I wait till the next time it rains hard?Yes, the spirit nodded enthusiastically. I’ll do it then I promised. It nodded its head wildly and the vision disappeared.

It was two days before the next thunderstorm came, but it was a gullywasher as the old people called them in the mountains. I would get soaked but I would not be seen. I took my Tupperware cannister of cornmeal to the hilltop, the corner of the most prominent grave, and drew the sigil which the new spirit had shown me in the rain and mud.

That night. Oh that night. Triumph! Utter peace and quiet and solitude once more without  a tinge of fear mingled in. The unknown, unspeaking gilly-suited spirit had helped me in the most efficacious way possible — the problem of the Horror just instantly disappeared. Simply because I’d been nice to the local spirits with the practice of general offerings one had given me the answer to my intolerable burden.

—Needless to say I’m a fan of offerings, large, medium and small offerings, every day. I generally do one or two medium sized offerings per day, as I did that night in the mountains, and any number of quick and tiny ones. A quick gesture of offering to the “powers that be” or the universe itself, a stick of incense offered to the eight directions or to the four winds.

My weeks of preoccupation with the Horror were over. I lived in that trailer in peace and quiet, solitude and loneliness, till that September, when I moved back to Central NC. Because that little mountain town, which I don’t wish to slander, is no place for a transsexual.

Genius loci, plural genii locorum. Spirit of place, spirits of place. They are spirits to watch out for if you have any psychic ability at all, because they will check you out, they might come up and stand in your face and solve your worst problem, they might maliciously attack your mind for no good reason. There’s no telling. If you cannot See, there’s much less to worry about — I’ve heard other horror stories about genii locorum controlling the minds and vampirizing the weakest of the population of an area, but I’ve never seen such a thing for myself. Once I was psychically slammed by one while two … more mundane people noticed nothing. (Nota Bene: I did not call them muggles.) But if you can See you will be seen. Many genii locorum are actively agressive. They have reason to be, the way we’re changing and poisoning the environment, cutting down all the trees to make room for nasty-ass architectural perversions, etc., etc.

But now I’ve told my most monstrous, in the literal sense of the word, story. Now let’s leave the genii locorum in peace. Unless you’re a specialist (many witches are) then leaving them alone is the smart thing to do.

Conflicted over Apocalyptic Witchcraft

Samael

And the serpent is riding
over the voice of the raven,
the Other God, to his spouse,
magic, in which Samael,
the Other God, becomes complete.

Tiqqunei Zohar

That’s the epigraph of Veneficium (out of print) by Daniel Schulke, Magister of the Cultus Sabbati. As Samael can be translated as the Poison of God, He, Samael, is regarded by Schulke as the Patron of the Poison Path, the use of poisons and entheogens (often the same plant) in magic and to achieve Gnosis. Poison also kills. It can kill you if you’re careless with it. You can use it to kill your enemies. One Latin word for witch is venefica/veneficus, “one who uses poisons”. The link between witchcraft and poisonous herbs is at least as old as Classical Greek literature. The name of one of Sophocles’s plays, of which only a fragment remains, is The Rootcutters. The Rootcutters means The Witches. Thus Samael is the perfect Patron not only of veneficium, but of witchcraft in general, which in Classical Greece was almost synonymous with root-cutting and poison-making. (Let the record state that it takes a bit of fudging to get the Poison of God from Samael’s name, סמאל. To get Poison of God you need to add a Yod: סמיאל. That’s probably pedantry on my part.)

If we take it at face value, this snippet tells us many things. Samael is the serpent, since the rise of the monotheisms perhaps the ultimate symbol of evil — the symbol of the Devil according to Christian exegesis of the Garden of Eden story. Samael is sometimes considered the original but forfeited or the real true name of Lucifer and/or Satan. He’s called the Leader of the Satans in Jewish lore. In that Jewish folklore however He is considered a powerful archangel in good standing with God, albeit he has many unpleasant duties to perform. He is basically a chief prosecutor and, I assume, enforcer. See the Book of Job. In Renaissance Hermeticism he is named as the archangel of the Sphere of Mars. Nowadays Kammael usually holds that position but some mages still conjure the Renaissance archangels of the Spheres by their older names, including Samael, when the going gets tough on a large scale and changes are necessary in the world at large, no matter how harshly they’ll be effected. —Basically, Samael is many things simultaneously to many people. Or is there simply more than one Samael? Duplicate angel names abound in the literature of magic. But I simply do not know the answer to that particular question.

The voice of the raven could possibly refer to A’arab Zaraq, the Qliphotic counterpart to Netzach, whose corresponding Planetary Sphere is that of Venus. Unbalanced, as all the Qliphoth are said to be (whether they exist on a separate tree or not: I tend to think they don’t as the usual Hebrew name for the so-called Tree of Death is the Sitra Ahra, meaning the Other Side, while Qliphoth itself means husks, shells, peels) — anyway, being an unbalanced image of Netzach A’arab Zaraq may mean unbridled lust, unbridled fertility and production — as of poisonous plants, for example, or as the global economy’s never-ending need to produce new goods for us to consume. The Sphere of Venus manifests the pleasures of life, enjoying which we can lose control of ourselves. Addiction of every kind is a good example of this. A’arab Zaraq means The Ravens of Dispersion. A good name for unbridled lust, appetite and addiction. —If you’re interested in such matters I highly recommend Thomas Karlsson’s Qabalah, Qliphoth and Goetic Magic.)

You Nightsiders out there know that A’arab Zaraq is said to be presided over by the demon Baal. But if Samael is an archangel, or if He deserves the title “The Other God”, then He can go any damned (or undamned) place He wants. Note I capitalize His name, as is my custom when writing about Powers with whom I have however small an acquaintance. (Those meetings must be dealt with another time in another post.)

But the voice of the raven probably doesn’t refer to A’arab Zaraq at all. In the epigraphic snippet from the Zohar above every reference is either to Samael or to His spouse. The voice of the raven thus becomes His spouse, magic. Now Samael’s spouse, it’s pretty much universally agreed, is Lilith. Perhaps magic stands metaphorically for Lilith, as a sail can refer to an entire ship. (Mystical and magical literature is everything but consistent, this might not be the case at all, but let’s go with it for now.) The Akkadian phrase Daughters of Lilith may refer to female demons or it may refer to witches, of whom Sumerian and Babylonian society had a great fear. Also, remember, Samael is named as Patron of the Poison Path, a form of witchcraft. The Zohar quote is talking about witchcraft, not genteel 1700s angel magic practiced by doctors and lawyers. —So let’s just substitute the word witchcraft.

Read thus Samael, the Poison of God, also known as the God of the Left Hand, becomes complete in witchcraft. Adopting a maybe heretical, maybe not, bit of the Christian mythos as Traditional Craft itself often does, we can go on to identify Samael as the Devil in His most potent manifestation. (He is called the Leader of the Satans, after all, at least in Jewish lore.)

We’re left with this — The Devil becomes complete in witchcraft.

Let’s turn it the other way around and ask, Does witchcraft only become complete in the Devil?

I ask this because Peter Grey in Apocalyptic Witchcraft, which I mentioned here, devotes an entire chapter to the thesis that, yes, witchcraft can only become complete if the Devil is there, at the Sabbat. And you’ve probably made a pact with Him even, Grey suggests. Devoted yourself to Him. As Grey writes:

The traditional formula is simple, kneeling with hair loose, praying aloud for his help. You do not need a book to tell you the words. They are within you. If you wish to place an intercessor between you and your desire, then a tradition already exists for you, it is called Christianity. Witchcraft simply removes the things which are obscuring our sight of the narrow path [The Devil reveals a narrow path into a dark wood, Grey has written on the previous page], and this agency, this game, is called the Devil (pp. 66-67).

174 the devil+

Although I love reading and rereading Apocalyptic Witchcraft, it’s at this point that something within me says Wait just a minute. Is such an adversarial stance really necessary? Is it even possible that a group with such a stance might prevail in these admittedly perilous times, or is it all just a pipe dream? Still I’m conflicted. The world is headed, probably inescapably, toward drastic ecological and cultural changes. These changes will not be for the better. Thousands of species already wiped out, the rain forests still being cut down, oil spills every week it seems, barely enough fresh water for the current world population’s needs, drones and surveillance cameras proliferating, and things do indeed seem to be getting worse and not better, every day.

It makes me want to do something. It makes me angry. As I said, I’m conflicted. So the following clauses of “An Apocalyptic Witchcraft Manifesto” speak to me at a deep level. A level that responds Yes.

11 We call an end to the pretence [sic] of respectability.

12 We will not disarm ourselves.

13 The War is upon us.

—Part of me responds to this fierily with Yes. Yet still something deep inside also whispers Wait just a minute… Which voice am I going to listen to?

Let me state immediately that I harbor no prejudice against Satanists, Theistic Satanists, Demonolators, Luciferians, et al. I myself venerate Lilith, and from me at least She prefers the title Demoness over that of Goddess. I’m a votary of Quimbanda, honoring mighty spirits who are called the Devil and his wife.

But Lilith came to me, only a couple of days after I came out to myself as trans. Though I was afraid of Her for a long time, though I tried to drive Her away, She would always return — with comfort, solace and empowerment. She has proved unfailingly loyal to me and kind and wise.

LOUVAO~1

—As for Quimbanda, Nicolas de Mattos Frisvold writes in the opening words of his magnificent work Pomba Gira and the Quimbanda of Mbùmba Nzila:

Quimbanda is largely understood as a black art because it is here that we find the cult of the devil and his wife. The red world of the devil’s spouse and mistress merges into his darkness as roaring laughter bursts from the pits of hell and mischievous acts are incessantly
performed.

That’s one way to do Quimbanda. But it’s not Frisvold’s way. It’s not Quimbanda de raiz, Quimbanda of the root. He states the pristine nature of Quimbanda on page two:

The spirit retinue of Quimbanda has much to give and can aid in maturing our understanding of the world, if we can only allow them to do so. Doing this invites challenges, for to take on the devil as one’s tutor will not make for a safe journey. They are hard and demanding teachers that at times perplex in their responses and actions as they seek work to heal the tormented human soul [italics mine].

I judge no one who practices a tradition of adversarial witchcraft. Good luck and more power to you. I do not however believe it is the only way. I also believe that the war Peter Grey declares in Article 13 of his Manifesto is one that all the practitioners of magic in the world can never win. We are too few. What then must we do? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em? No, not exactly. —I believe the key is neither to go to war against the status quo, nor to be a slave to the status quo, i.e., to be a fully complicit member of it, but instead to master the status quo.

That sounds just as huge and hopeless as all out war, doesn’t it. But if we analyze our lives we can see how we can master the individual facets. Start with money.

Paraphrasing one of my teachers, it’s bad to serve money, to be a slave to money. Unless you take a course in survivalism and live in the woods for the rest of your life, you are complicit to some extent in the global economy that is ruining our world. Few of us are prepared to do completely without money, and making minimum wage at a coffee bar helps nothing — that leaves you a slave to your wage, a servant of money. And becoming the Monopoly Man and serving money that way by the endless accumulation of it solves nothing — that makes you the source of the problem. The solution is this: we must master money. We must know how money works, we must make money and more than just enough to get by, we must enjoy money, but never serve it. Make money do your bidding. Better the world a little with charitable donations or by giving your employees a living wage. There’s really no other way but just in these sorts of mastery, wisdom and good deeds.

Another example is the Internet. (TV is not an example: kill your TV or watch as little as possible.) Yes, the Internet immerses us in our civilization’s Borg-like hive mind, the words and images seep into millions of people, so some people say it would be better not to use or look at the Internet. —But just as with money, we do not have to be slaves to the Internet. We can master it. Look at the work of alternative news sources, the Web sabotages of Anonymous, the service that Wikileaks does us all by allowing us access to information that would otherwise be hidden by the establishment. It’s almost as difficult these days, because of our jobs, because of our desire to Skype with far-away loved ones, to abandon the Internet as it would be to abandon money. We must keep our critical faculties sharply honed and finely tuned to avoid becoming slaves to the memetics of the Web. But it can be done. What’s more, if you’re so inclined you can go on to master the internal workings of the Internet, to make it work for you and to work for the greater good.

There are countless more examples I could cite. But my thesis is this. —I believe declaring war against the status quo, the establishment, Western civilization, is a hopeless cause. And if we won, would we prove any better masters of civilization than the current ones? I doubt it. Instead, we must fight the hard fight of mastering each facet of our individual lives and then work both individually and in like-minded groups to make the world a better place.

I love Apocalyptic Witchcraft. It is a great read and a truly important book, idea-wise. But a flawed one, I believe.

Instead of magical war let us work to change and to better the world. Ultimately only as individuals can we do this. We must first change ourselves, then strive to change the world. We can make a difference. And if enough of us practitioners accomplish this lofty goal, we might turn magic into civilization’s trusted friend and helper and guide. I’m not positive that stranger things have happened. But like Fox Mulder, I want to believe.

Hekate

Hekate

It is false that the grave has no victory
It is true that death has no sting
For I will lead you to live again
To the grave again
And to die

All the times of your darkest darks
The kill of the most poignant of pains
If then you dared some
Wildest gnosis
Acceptance equal to these and more
That was My tenderest embrace

Then and now are all spaces
All places turned liminal strange
Between the proton and neutron
Betwixt the quark and the quark
I arise without end
I am the world’s bones and
I am the tree of life and death
Axis Mundi is My name

I am the blade sharp to divide
Flesh from flesh
Flesh from soul
Soul from spirit
These too are roads and crossroads
I cut them
I breathe free for
I am the breath of the world
Say my name
It is Anima Mundi

Every flaw in every space
Every sob of every pain
I am hidden there for
My name is Most Lovely
And
Allwheres I dwell so allwheres is beauty and
The heart of all is beauty
Thus all things are redeemed so
Say my name for
It is Savior

I am the keeper of the four way crossroads for
I am the Goddess of death
I am the keeper of the three way crossroads for
Death is but an in between
You do not know
It is again to seek My beauty
That you awake again
So say My name, say it now
It is Psychopompos
My name, sing it from your broken hearts
It is Resurrection

It is for You we wake
That we taste again of beauty
Serpent flower in the heart of fear
Beauty whelming all but beauty
Tender Girl
Infinite Goddess
Our tears stream for You
Our sobs sing for You
We love you unbeknownst but
Else would be but empty world
Therefore we psalm Your name
A final time
Trembling and fanatic

Hekate Creatrix

—-Rachel Izabella Parker, 17 aprilis 2013

Apocalyptic Witchcraft: The Reviews Are In

rouge_apocalypticwitchcraft

 

If you practice magic, read Apocalyptic Witchcraft by Peter Grey of Scarlet Imprint. It’s an important book. It will rewire your brain, push you, pull you and change the way you think. The reviews are in, and I can’t match them. Here are three:

Midian Books

myownashram

And my favorite from Pennies for the Boneyard

Only £10 for both the epub and mobi (Kindle) editions. Only £15 for the superbly printed and well made Biblioteque Rouge paperback edition. You know you want it. If you don’t want it, you need it. Cunningly and beautifully and seductively written, this book in a better version of this world would change everything. Be the better version of this world. Be changed by this book.