First of all you read that right. Last night was only my first performance of the rite of imprecatory Psalms against the plague-on-toast transphobe I wrote about yesterday and against whom I devised the rite with a little help from a friend (cough—Michael Strojan—cough). I plan to do this rite until, well, I don’t feel like doing it any more. Say, at least a week, and knowing me I’ll miss a night or two. It’s the way I roll. Sometimes the Black Dog or the Mammoth catch up to me and leave me rather helpless. And that’s just got to be OK.
The first hitch in the rite was that I could not find any incense charcoal, none, anywhere, and I turned the place upside down looking for some. —Oh well, I improvised. I chose a purple candle, blessed it and filled it with clear Azoth as taught by Jason Miller in his Strategic Sorcery Course, anointed it with Van Van Oil, said a prayer to Iao Sabaoth and a rather longer one to the Master Yeshua, and lit the candle. During the prayers I pointed to a picture of the offender (please see the relevant post because I want to avoid his name — all publicity is good publicity they say) and asked that all the imprecations in all the Psalms I was about to enunciate be visited upon him.
You may wonder why I chose a royal colored candle and a blessing oil like Van Van in a curse. The reason is simple: I chose those items as a small sacrifice to Iao Sabaoth and the Master Yeshua and not as part of the curse. End of story.
The second hitch was that my voice got tired. I was croaking out the Psalms by the end. Except 109. I managed to enunciate that one really well because it is truly full of damnation. I need to practice which pitch I speak at, how loudly I speak, etc., etc. —It’s not easy being a trans woman sometimes. After almost four years of transition I haven’t yet figured out yet how properly to enounce magickal phrases, and never mind vibrating voces magicae. Embarrassing but true. Practice however will make perfect.
The following wasn’t a hitch but a change. I had the urge to perform the rite at the Great Hour, which in Quimbanda-speak means the midnight hour. I’m a big fan of nighttime and am particularly fond of the Great Hour. It was just a whim but I felt, I think, that I performed the rite more successfully at that time than I could have at any other hour.
During the incantation of the Psalms I felt a distinct and strong energy flowing through my body, concentrated in the Fire Center which is just below the navel. I don’t know what that means but I kind of took it as a good sign.
Lastly, I believe that one mere repetition of the Psalms will not be enough to overcome the power of the egregore protecting the piece of shit in question. Hence I’m going to attempt, I repeat attempt, seven repetitions at least.
Really lastly, it would be great if some of my readers would join me in the rite, whenever you want and however you want to modify it. The more of us doing it the more power we bring to bear against the noxious egregore that this so-called pastor worships in a hideous symbiotic relationship.
Much love to all my readers — Rachel Izabella