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If you’re at all interested in where I’ve been since this blog was last updated, the answer is EVERYWHERE. And also a lot of the same places. And married! And moved to New Mexico! This blog should, if all has gone well on my end, redirect toΒ The Orion Literary Repository and Tactical Magick Intelligence Center, where endeavors both fictional and non-fictional, mythic and mundane are discussed. We have two fiction series ongoing, and in the pipeline are a review of Iron Maiden’s new album Book of Souls, a weekly review/recap/speculation feature for Doctor Who Series 9, and possibly an unfinished 50-page novel draft I’m no longer keen on publishing directly. Come on over — I’ll pour you some of the good single malt.

Jon Page


Apollo 19. December 14, 1973. Fitful dreams led to the morning of the world…and to a NASA crew getting ready to travel to the Moon with their Soviet LMP. The prelaunch breakfast was a tense atmosphere, the Americans sitting at one end of the table, ignoring their ostensible crewmate, as if a Berlin Wall had been set up between them. That wasn’t how it was meant to be…but even Robin Conley coul

dn’t help it. Zaryov sat alone, munching steak and eggs, honestly trying to fit in as best he could…the slings and arrows of a hateful Jack had not deterred him, they would not. They could not.

At the other end of the table, Robin leaned across toward Jack and spoke quietly. “Why are you so mean to that poor guy? Invite him over here to sit with you!”

Jack, fully aware of the psychological conditions he was about to go through for the next fourteen days or so, shook his head. He swallowed steak and eggs, and then replied, hushed, obviously tense. “I don’t want to get too close to the guy. It’ll just tick me off.”

Robin, a civilian scientist-astronaut who was the focus of NASA’s experimental efforts aboard Apollo 19, shook her head sadly. “You fighter jocks…well, think of it this way. While I’m manning the SIM bay from orbit, you will be on the Moon for three days, with a Russian you hate. You will be subjecting yourself to this…you and your big ego. All out of patriotic duty.”

Jack nodded. “What am I supposed to do? Tell them I’ve come for the steak and eggs, but Haise is suiting up instead?” Fred Haise was the backup commander, a far more experienced astronaut who could not figure out for the life of him why a 1966 group guy with no class and no flight experience was commanding such a sensitive mission.

“No.” Robin shook her head. “But go talk to Zaryov. Get your crap together. Or I’ll fly home alone and leave you two to get it sorted on the lunar surface for as long as it takes. Capiche?”

Jack grinned. Robin sure was full of fire, that was for sure. But she was nice about it. That was a luxury he didn’t have. “Yes sir, Space Ranger Conley!”

Robin smiled, adding more Valentina to her steak and eggs as Jack scooted down the table with his half-eaten plate.

Zaryov looked up. “Hello, Jack. Is breakfast to your liking?”

Jack smirked, then softened it to a smile. What a cheap bunch of small talk this was. Oh well…it’s all they had. “Yeah…pretty good. You’re pretty mellow over here…excited to be flying where no Soviet has gone before?”

Zaryov smiled. “If my Captain were less like Kirk, I would be less like Spock.”

“Hm.” Jack was confused by this statement. Cryptic iced-over vodka-soaked proverbs did not do him well. “You know…the centrifuge doesn’t cut it, I’ve heard. The Saturn V is nothing like the Soyuz booster.”

Zaryov raised an eyebrow. Was Jack trying to intimidate him? “You would be surprised, Jack. I’ve been in higher-rated G tests than the Soyuz.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Alexei Zaryov knew why he was here…the Americans did not. Yes, the N1 had been a failure…this was a matter of public knowledge, since he had been assigned to the Apollo program. But he was one of the few cosmonauts who had trained for it…and the only Apollo astronaut who had trained on a simulation of the one-man LK lunar lander, during the height of the Soviet moon effort. “Let us simply say, Jack, that between you and me…it is my dream to walk on the Moon.”

Jack nodded, sipping orange juice. “I get ya. Did that get very far, then?”

Robin looked over indignantly. “Jack! No spying, you jerk! It’s against the rules.”

Jack sighed. As if Robin knew Zaryov’s REAL aspirations any better than he did. Why the heck did she think NASA had assigned an intel man as Zaryov’s commander and lunar partner?

At this high point in the breakfast Cold War, a pad technician entered the room. “Hey. Breakfast is over, you guys…” He put on a German accent that, given the background of a lot of the Saturn rocket guys, may not have been entirely fake. “The Fuhrer vill see you now.”

Jack smiled. “The Fuhrer” was Pad Leader or “Pad Fuhrer” Gunther Wendt…one of Von Braun’s cohorts, and assigned the task of managing the launch, seeing the astronauts off with each Apollo shot.

“Got it. Go time.” Jack swallowed another bite of steak, stood up, and motioned to Conley and Zaryov. “Let’s move. The Moon awaits.”

“I am going to just LOVE sitting still for an hour while I get suited up.” Robin grimaced, almost bouncing on one leg.

Zaryov smiled at the girl’s youthful enthusiasm as they filed toward their destiny. His relations with Fuller were tough…but Robin had helped him to understand why, and been a friend to him. If he was any judge of character for either astronaut, she just might be Apollo 19’s saving grace…


December 8, 1973. Houston, Texas. Advent 1973 was a time of turmoil within NASA and her ranks of barely controllable, rarely controlled test pilots. The original scheme of the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project – an orbital shot docking an Apollo CSM and a Soyuz spacecraft sometime in 1975 – had been expanded somewhat radically. Talks for the project between US and Russian factions had begun in 1969, the y

ear the Soviets lost the Moon race…one of the suits at NASA had had a radical idea. Why not offer the Soviets a LM pilot slot on one of the last three missions? This would improve relations drastically, giving the Soviets a booby prize for the whole last decade of work…the space race would end in a relative tie, and a Soviet flag could even fly on the Moon…but it would do so by the good graces, technological expertise, and taxpayer money of the American people! On paper, it was a genius plan. The Russian government, which by the time the decision was made in 1971 had shelved their rather execrable N1 heavy booster and their lunar program with it, enthusiastically agreed. Cosmonaut selection had proceeded quickly, picking a guy who knew English well, had good people skills, could fly like an ace, and who could be trusted to support the Communist agenda despite being paraded before the American people as an Apollo astronaut of sorts and training – bunking – breaking bread with the American military test pilots living in Houston for a number of years.

Jack Fuller was less than enthused. One of the aforementioned American test pilots, he had an extensive Air Force background…he was a signals/intel man who had joined the test pilot school under Yeager and nearly made selection for both Dynasoar and MOL. Lacking these military programs, he was an Apollo astronaut…it was hardly F-86 dogfights over Korea, but it was something. And it made his blood sing with the thrill of flight…they called him Lightning. Like Fulgur…it was an old classmate’s nickname, a far dweebier type…and the name had stuck. Jack Fuller was lightning from heaven, and he knew it.

Unfortunately, Alexei Zaryov did not know it. And the LM simulator for Apollo 19 was beginning to get a bit crowded, much like Germany circa 1946…

“Houston, Stalingrad here…we are go for descent burn.” Zaryov’s English was surprisingly good, though still peppered with a touch of Russian accent…the words rolled off his practiced lips in a way that Fuller found all too reminiscent of a Bond villain’s voice. The LM name didn’t sit well with him, either…the brass had informed him and command module pilot Conley (the first female astronaut, in a likely attempt to upstage the LMP THEY had agreed to, Jack figured) that the agreement was that Zaryov could name the LM. This way, Russia would have more “stake” in the mission…out of respect, perhaps Nobility, Alexei had named it after something somewhat neutral. Jack hated it, but he could see the worth in Stalingrad’s defenders…he wasn’t dumb.

“All right, Stalingrad…godspeed.” The CAPCOM for this sim, a Mick Butler, didn’t like the name either, from the sound of it.

“See ya soon,” Robin Conley said amicably. Dang woman was probably a Russian spy, mused Fuller. She actually LIKED Zaryov. It had not yet occurred to Fuller to wonder why SHE was the CMP, while NASA’s biggest, angriest, lightning dogma curmudgeon was commanding.

“Yeah. See you soon, Constitution.” The NASA planners weren’t stupid, and had casually suggested to Fuller and Conley that they give the command module a name that would cancel out – their words, not Jack’s – the Stalingrad.

“All right…this is Fuller. Descent burn engaged…should be a smooth ride from here. Keep your eyes open, Zaryov.”

Launch was later this month, Fuller mused…how could they land a Red on the Moon when they couldn’t even communicate from one side of the LM to the other? Then he crossed himself, physically (in open mockery of Zaryov, of course), in memory of Gus Grissom, who had burned to ash shortly after asking a similar question…


11 years. Abrahadabra, one might say…if one saw more in numbers than .357, C4, 2nd Amendment, 1776. 11 years I’ve been tracking the cthonic Wyrms of my inner struggles, my demons…they live in the Hell below my Malkuth, and after all this time they live in me. Twelve hours ago – or was it eleven? – I said I was a master of self-destruction, as my world went up in smoke…no. In flames. Bloody red flames, an infernal wind smelling of gunpowder, seditious paper from Soldier of Fortune to the Goetia, and MREs…food that was said to last a lifetime, the best nourishment ever – but tasted dry, like burning Nevada sand in my mouth. Yeah…that’s it. A howling, bringing doom to all I held dear. But it’s not over. Not til they take the cold dead right hand that works wonders, even without a point-and-click interface…

As I lie here in the wreckage of Nestor’s trailer, the Tank song “The War Drags Ever On” begins to sound the first chords of the death march, a literal ear worm consisting of guitar riffs, haunting whispers and keyboard notes proclaiming either eternal war or death and rebirth. My choice. I’ve lost all my guns, all my ammo, all my tracts and broadsides, even my Don’t Tread on Me flag (the Serpent emblazoned upon it a cruel mockery of the Wyrms I battle nightly on the astral and every three or four years in the physical, and an even crueler mockery of the one in the original Perfection Valley, who brought the knowledge of good and evil to Man, and with it clever fixes – ha! magic of another color! – and the engineering talent to build blasting rods, incense of death…the Reaper’s tools.) All of it’s gone…and how hollow was it? I know now it was worth nothing, if I don’t survive this…

If I ramble it’s because I have gone slightly mad. Choronzon, the Great White Graboid, is out there somewhere…and the dragons of hell attack me, here amongst the hallowed halls of a dead friend. I’d pour out a libation for Nestor during a saner moment, but I’m too busy trying to use his moonshine to light my last magical working…a potato gun. Is Jack smarter than he looks? Am I guilty of underestimating the hippies, the chaos mages, the slightly touched ones among us who know nothing of how the world works? JAK adds to 31, if you take the value of the letters in Hebrew…Pan adds to the same in one system of English gematria. Rings of smoke have been blowing through my trees since he came here…I don’t know. All I need to do is survive.

A flaming arrow lights its way toward the dragons, like Samekh to Kether…the first bursts of light upon the dead paradigm of a dying man. Dawn? Not yet…the chaos surrounds me, explosions, flying innards, flames…the stench of a hellmouth. And Choronzon rises from the Underland…I almost welcome him, tangled in the metal springs of an old bed as I am. To sleep, perchance to dream….I am helpless meat on a stick. He always knows where I am….heh. He always knows where mages live…and the only answer is silence. But the last shreds of gun nut ego refuse to go gently into that good night…to be reduced to desert sands. I struggle, screaming for release…but Jody, Jack…they can’t hear me. They’re too busy trying to survive.

An eternal wait…more chaos, more death. The spirits of the dead seem to urge me on…eleven years of work complete, if I surrender. And a being stands over me…he looks like Jack, but I see him as golden light of the Sun, of chaos reduced to one golden thread, spun from the light of cirrus clouds…the ebb and flow of chaos. If El Blanco (The White…how could such a dark being have such an ironic name?) is a bringer of doom, then Jack is the solid yet energetically vibrant, shifting link between all places of magic and myself…he is my key to the force of Will. And he speaks whispering, soft words…”You don’t need this.” He’s taken my watch! What the hell?! That thing cost me a million! (At the level of mental dialog, a whisper to a scream: “It’s the last tool I have left! It’s wonderful, it’s technological, it’s all the virtues I hold dear, encapsulated in ultrasonic vibrations, shining silver!” Yet the first cries of a babe of the Abyss: “It’s the last shred of my ego…beyond I shall use no tools, no powers beyond my own Will made perfect…”)

And so Jack throws it into the mouth of the beast, destroying the last dragon in the mouth of El Blanco…I am cut free. I live. I no longer suffer…all appears as shifting colors. A babe ceases crying, and begins to walk on its own two feet…

The next day – an eternity to Jody, perhaps, but all one instant for me, she stands in the store. I see through her eyes…and I realize. Earl just disappeared when he got his theme park, everyone else is dead except people who arrive suddenly from new places, to replace the dead or the ones who have forgotten the Quest for Perfection…I alone have endured until the end. I persist, because everyone else in this god damned valley is a shard of my own soul. That is why I’m seeing Jack appear to her, repeat his offer for her to step away from mundane life for a second and enjoy the clouds…and with a new awareness, I accept. We drive away, him at the seat of a trippy merkabah disguised as a hick’s jeep…and new adventures in the Chaos Beyond Time await us. But I have realized something, as Bert-Me stands in the dusty parking lot outside Chang’s…

I cannot live without my Wyrms, without my demons. Fire walks with me, and I walk with it. No longer does the cold dead hand hold the gun, for the hand is the bringer of fire itself, and it does not shoot the graboids for they are the hand, the arm, and the wielder…and the wielder needs the graboids to test it, to shake up its life and make it anew every few years. So I’ve left El Blanco alive, made my peace with the Chthonic Maw…and I have chased the grubby hands of greed from my little piece of Heaven, my City of God. My Perfection Valley…

“I am alone, there is no god where I am.” And the serpent burns upon my brow…hail the New Eden. Hail the New Flesh. Let’s see what happens in the next 11 years, as cirrus clouds float through the skies above my infinite point of stopping power, as Jack and I hit the road to really live a little…

Author’s note: This has been a Tremors III fanfic disguised as a meditation on the Great Work…or is that the other way around? πŸ˜€ Hope you enjoyed it…I clearly take my movies far too seriously πŸ˜› As a side note, the anti-authority outsiders in Perfection Valley and their habit of ingenious “clever fixes” remind me of chaos mages…the whole thing screams Awesome. My favorite of the movies so far. Get it…now. And leave your thinking cap on, just like you should with any movie, no matter how silly a popcorn flick it is πŸ˜€

Here’s the song, btw ^^

Caffeine and movies ftw? πŸ˜€

♣ 37

I’ve been looking for a name for some time, at the suggestion of Isis…I was going to pick a name that embodied me for all time, but I remembered that names tend to invoke energies a lot – I had terrible luck going by Frater Blackthorn at one point lol. So I’m sticking with a name that invokes who I am and who I want to be now – Icarus Eagle 11. Here – in true Verendian copy/paste tradition πŸ˜› – is part of a message I wrote to my friend whom I love, telling her about my name and how I found it…she’s a Kemeticist by trade, but knows a little QBL and Thelema. I hope she understands what the heck I’m yammering on about πŸ˜›

I reach for the sun (or star…poetic license ftw :P), like Icarus…I am the Eagle, which sets off a whole chain of symbolism. 11 indicates double heads – a double eagle is a symbol of the Great Work, as is the number 11 itself – Abrahadabra has 11 letters. “I Shall Create As I Speak” is a rough translation – the Great Work, and Heka β™₯ Then we have the role of the Eagle as high flier, reborn victor, lord of birds…and we have also Apollo 11 – the lunar module, the only part of the craft to touch the moon, was named Eagle. Apollo 11 was our greatest scientific achievement up to that date, and depending on what you think of the Internet, it’s still the boss lol…it’s definitely our highest aspiration in the Search, the Quest…and it’s a part of human Myth. Who’s the god of the Moon, the Great Work, and science? πŸ˜‰

Also, there’s a path from Kether to Malkuth on the Tree of Life that applies to this name…going by letters, it’s Aleph-Heh-Ayin-Shin. The breath-voice-power; the Aries/Martian window on the world – the Shabaoth Panopticon of headspace spirits; the Eye of God that also symbolizes the Devil – he who questions and leads humanity forth in Promethean Set-fire :D; and the fire-spirit of God Himself, Jon πŸ˜€ When you add the connected Sephiroth together – Kether = 1, Chokmah = 2, Tiphareth = 6, Hod = 8, Malkuth = 10…27. This is the age of a certain Star-Kindler, and also 2 and 7 would be Chokmah and Netzach. Overmind of Mercury and Victorious Love of Venus. I’d tried to consider making a name based on this little jewel of overthinking and apophenia, but it was too hard to condense πŸ˜› However, it definitely applies β™₯

I just have to be wise and actually *get* the Star this time…the name will invoke powers of Not Falling. And you can guess what that applies to as well πŸ˜€ β™₯

Three notes of explanation – the aforementioned god of Apollo 11 stuff is Thoth, the part about Not Falling was related to our decision to Love and not Fall in Love, and the whole thing was inspired by Dio’s song Sacred Heart. I spent roughly an hour or two searching and grasping for anything that would indicate a form the name should take, only finding Netzach-y connections, but started looking for terms inspired by the sequence with the paths and eventually came to Sacred Heart, from which point I remembered my Apollo 11-related vision about gods know what the other day, and there it was πŸ˜€

Keep rocking!


I’ve taken to dialoguing with myself via a lot of apophenic methods…freewriting is one of them. I’m all of the gods, and they are all of me…freewriting what comes to mind is an image-rich method of obtaining their wisdom. Shabaoth is the name of my higher self, btw…he is Tzabaoth with a fiery metal tooth instead of a Star πŸ˜‰ The Host…the Inner Multiplicity of Awesomeness. Tiphareth is the jack that holds our Ego to the Totality that They are – all spirits, all entities. I’m finally beginning to adapt to this model, and exploit it.

To illustrate: A messy freewrite mixing directional cognizant writing of my own, and the flow of images…corruption level is below 5%, but it’s all images from my mind anyway. What corruption? πŸ™‚ I had just finished being erotically, violently torn apart by Sekhmet, a goddess whose nature I seek to understand, as it’s apparently not “personal attack kitty” – ooooohhhhhhh the things we Aries Fools do when we’re angry πŸ˜› I continued the experience in the following freewrite, and learned a lot about who she is and Why πŸ™‚ Read up…but you don’t have to take my word for it πŸ˜‰ (Oh – Aldavira is the local haunt known as the Garden Deli’s genius loci – the songs are currently playing shufflewin πŸ˜€ Aldavira had mentioned my favorite table would be open at 1:45…long story xD)

Judas Priest – Visions. The word of Sekhmet in blood-red liquid fire,

flowing from the Nile and the wand of the Beast.

There are cacti in the village of dreams, no answers in the pond of

fish. Your passion indemnifies you…but wheels turn. Be her fire, but

also burn sacred light for the oil-rich dawn of the goddess


*I said that. There was no interest in betraying you.* The sight of a

heaven on fire. The burning ledgers of times past, the becoming of a

demon on fire for Her, a shattered tempest of force breaking

free…what Brennan said about dropping the other shoe, making her

laugh her loudest in the face of That Ancient Serpent…maybe it will

apply to me. A tree – strong and vital. Thick as hell – a crick in the

middle, a branch of two ways. Or a perch. A place to sit, “amid the

pentacles…” The earth is bounteous. She giveth and she taketh away –

black sands of fire erupt in your name, at your coming. But he who

raises stone obelisks would be wise to interpret the words of Ptah


“Use your fire to build. If you seek to arbitrate Ma’at, destroy

nothing but vengeance, gain retribution against nothing but piety.”

The voice of blood continues. Iron Maiden – Can I Play With Madness

plays, and madness is a lump of clay in my hand…are word and deed

anything but the same idea? Ptah is the forward motion of the Thoth

Explosion, words in time solidifying from wave-function to particle

action…as we speak, so let us do. We shall become, and Sekhmet shall

be our fire. There is destruction…but there is beauty, joy. There is

no answer if you seek to impose a cognizant form upon the chaos of

time – all will be as it never was. And you shall be swept away.

I speak: “The Tao?”


WHERE PARTICLES SPEAK!” It all seems strange…I consider shortly.

Would this imply that doing is a positive action in time? Hell…I

don’t need an answer for this one. It’s not some idea of Hubris

against Tao, it’s the idea of contributing what you have, making a

positive imprint on humanity. I see it as a potluck – I’ll bring subs,

someone else will bring pizza. And it will be Awesome.

*Hammerfall – The Fire Burns Forever* And the raging red and yellow

fires sweep across the black land, my blood-swept black land. The thin

slit in time that is the nile, engorged with red wetness…you shall

becoome as this. You shall receive the word of Satan – wait, Satan?

The cactus. A baseball bat and ball. Wolverine’s fastball special –

images drop in and out like wildfire and ants. McCandless in the MMU,

the shuttle, the earth as seen from the Moon…and Djehuty rises in

his power, to inscribe this learning on time. Michael Ford’s song for

Chokmah plays, and I bleed blood-red tears…the earth is fertilized

by this wetness. Perhaps tears are themselves treasure, Sekhmet an

answer to hard times for civilization.

“Reap, that ye might also sow…” Her anger – purity. Virgin vengeant

virulence – but Sekhmet no virgin. Fire and answers indeed, sexual

purity expressed through rage – ripping of the vital organs to reveal

the weak adamantium beneath.

“This can be improved…” Fire rapes my very bones as black metal

plays in the distance, and I live again…the signs of the tao and of

peace. An algiz rune encircled and inverted, a broken cross to hang my

fragile bones on; and not-too-much-but-not-too-little, the Goldilocks

method of Hermetic pwnage…what is the meaning? Pie. Pie in the sky

with diamonds…her vagina my organs. Disturbing imagery, but a point

to it all.

When that man on a flaming pie comes sailing up to you, you answer

him. Become what you can be. *Tim “Ripper” Owens – It Is Me*

Is it you, then? “Destroy yourself…that others might live.” What are

you talking about? The ego again? It occurs to me that all these

visions confront that – she leaps on me and bites me on the ear. Does

pain teach you, beggar? THEN NOTHING WILL!

Okay fine. I understand…that’s the point. It’s a lot of cool imagery

when you could just say that…

“Oh, since when have we ever just said ‘that’? We’re a part of your

organism – we cannot be denied or distrusted. When your body speaks,

do you not listen to it? Rage, hunger, pain…”

My mind adds “no socks, minor discomfort…” and I know she is right.

There is no reason to distrust parts of myself that are not concordant

with the ego – I could have been at the deli if I’d gone down there at

1:45 today like Aldavira said. It’s 3:33 now…I’ve learned my lesson


*End Credits: Dreamland – All For One*

And the glass shatters, the black mirror separating soul from

self…fire destroys the credits on the shattered screen.

Coda: Am I inviting delusion? It wasn’t the dormouse that said “we’re

all mad”…but I’ll follow the words of the song and remember it

anyway ❀

37 new horizons break

A vision quest of sorts, guided by Miles Davis’ awesome 26 minute, 52 second groove “Right Off”, celebrating Beltane and the goddess, be she primal blood-soaked earth or heaven’s Queen Sophia. I did my usual rituals – LBRP, MP, LIRP of Water, invoked her and the higher self, and invoked Miles through the song. Within moments, ideas started to form. It wasn’t much, but it was beautiful. The Witches’ Sabbath…awesome. Most of the references to people here are RP characters, some are friends. It’s intensely personal, but for the benefit of those who might want to see it, I have posted it anyway. Thanks for at least reading, even if you scratch your head and think I’m nuts πŸ˜› Also, listen to the song – it ROCKS! πŸ˜€

By the way, I have totally not become Wiccan. My spiritual path is integrating the divine feminine, an element I had discarded but that remained a part of my being until I chose to acknowledge it…I still worked with goddesses, demons like Lilith and Gremory for sure. But I found I’m really more comfortable with them at times…and the Earth is primal, funky, dark. These concepts are important to my path, to Sophia, to Binah, to Malkuth. I am learning…only the future knows what it holds. And what is time but an illusion? I can’t wait to see what happens even the rest of today…it seems my Walpurgisnacht awesome insight spell became true after all πŸ˜€


The beat, chaos undefined. The clean slate, pulsing bass of the mother’s heart the drums her lively dance. On this slate, a guitar forms, rising, falling, soloing, Nuit. Then silence, or the appearance of it. McLaughlin’s guitar drops out, quietly whispering to itself, then becomes brighter. Then MILES! The unveiling of HADIT, BURNING STARFORCE!

Is that what he was trying to teach me? He mentioned starting and stopping with regard to funk…perhaps primeval blood-spattering with moments where the red blood meets the dark soil. Where pain-fire dissolves into night, where crack addiction and busted knees give rise to art. We all tour the world in search of something – usually our own art. In night we find respite. And she descends around me…

Her hair brushes mine, her cheek kisses mine. β€œI will always be there for you.” The interplay of Hadit and Nuit happens around us, she takes me to dance. Firelight of Miles, night sky of John. It is Walpurgisnacht again in this our dream…there is no time. We dance. No stars, save myself. I blaze with fire, she a deep blue. Now swords – for no dance can forever remain peaceful. A few parries, and I find myself stabbed in the solar plexus. Blue sword like an icicle, yet warmth. β€œIt is here you say YHVH ELOAH VE-DAATH is it not? The Lord God of Wisdom, or the Lord God of the Abyss?”

I am tossed about on the end of a stick, meat for her. Miles is soloing, only Hadit remains. Well, in the interplay he’s Hadit, but in the sound he/she is Nuit.

β€œAnswer me.” A playful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. I gasp for breath.

β€œThe abyss!” I cry. β€œIn water is found knowing, yet also Devastation.”

β€œThere is a reason you capitalized that,” she says knowingly.

β€œYes…Devin. The original devastator, the Deva, the Devil. All that is dark and hateful yet feminine that I am able to manifest in written form…my intuition tells me she is myself.”

The dance continues, her shielding my smallness against her naked body. As if she is bounding, running, The moon over us. Menstrual blood springs to mind.

Some self of mine – the bridge I erected between myself and her – the Anima? – speaks forth. β€œIs this how all the feminine mysteries are to you? Violent and dark? There are only hard women, tomboys, fighters. Even your Schrollmouse appears as a leopard, a beast.” I nod.

β€œThere are Kylies, there are Robins who are not so evil…” But I know Robin kicks ass too. There is not one feminine soul in my mind, one entirely uncorrupted by Hadit’s polarity. And Nuit-Miles is blazing away in the darkness, echo effect on his horn…the band cuts in, ruining a spiritual moment. Fuck.

She is a horse now, a ghost-horse. I ride within her under the moonlight, to places unknown. There is a grove of trees…I hear the name, see the image. Lucifer. Is this my own mind? A big-brother voice speaks to me – 37 for sure. β€œIt doesn’t fucking matter. Enjoy the show.”

She is in the center of a ring of people, a lone point amongst the circle. Roles are reversed in that shape.

She has blond hair, Galadriel-fire eyes that are yet nothing-wells, wispy clothing. Miles and the bass duel – Henderson’s bass. She dances, a congruence – congroovence? – of funk. Casting off her clothes. The circle begins to clap in time, swaying as John returns to the beat. Now Herbie’s organ. She chooses one of us – one of us from a circle of tyrants, my mind tells me. A representative sample of all humanity from all time. She and this person begin to have sex in the fire before us, not burning. For where there was only my Sophie, now there is a fire….and Herbie plays this gigantic fucking BBRRRROOOOVVVVMMMMPPP on the organ and the place erupts. She is a goddess – a female lead in a musical, a pop idol, and we are her backup dancers. Her fucking some no-name sample of humanity matters not.

A crown rests on my head as we dance. It is gold, with a black hole in the center. The hole radiates white light. I begin to dance, smiling and reaching out to her. She says β€œno, not yet,” and pulls away, ripping free the last bit of clothing. On her torso is a giant black sigil – it looks like an angelic sigil from the Theurgia Goetia, and is yet an ankh as well.

Now the repetitive part. Drums in the center – a clapping crowd. A two-second riff, repeated a thousand fucking times on John’s guitar. I hated this part…but it is where we fuck. She is a beast, wild, biting, clawing. Is she a lycanthrope in disguise, my wisdom?

The sigil is a snake. It winds around me, up my throat, out my mouth. The tongue flicks – my tongue. The eyes light up yellow – my eyes. That drumbeat is syncopated, oddly…never noticed that. The crowd begins to dance in two wings around us as synthesis is attained. Music is beginning to play again, organ, bass, guitar, drums…groovy. She dances with snake-me – β€œman attained to Lucifer”, my dream-words say. Am I Gnostic now somehow?

How now, brown cow? She mocks me…or someone does. Wisdom is an illusion, unless you are experiencing it. This sabbath of the witches is just the path.

Miles should be here…where is he? He’s the Cain type…and there he is. On top of a rock outcropping, playing like the kokopelli figure in Southwestern native imagery. There are trees forming around us…a new phase in the music. We are done with sex, I guess. She hands me a knife. Simple, yet formed of black metal. β€œNow kill me,” she says. Her eyes glowing red…not with hate, with KNOWFIRE.

I cannot fathom what to say. I know I must, but the dance cannot end. β€œWill you be reborn?” She says I know she will…there is an image of a dove fluttering to the sky, a ghost-dove. I raise the knife, and hug and kiss her.

β€œMay the earth swallow thee.” BAM HADIT EXPLOSION LIKE FUCKING FIRE AND FORCE AND KNOWLEDGE, starlight. My head is spinning. The area is rock and desert, no trees, no dancers, no shit. She is gone, except for her stars in the sky. A campfire appears next to me. A store, like a truck stop in the distance. A car pulls up, small red four-door, about 1992 model. Two guys get out – regular joes.

β€œYou going to Albuquerque?”

I do not have time to answer. The song has passed. But in the words of Led Zeppelin…the song remains the same?

β€œSophie…you there?” I pray, for there is no other word to describe it.

β€œAlways, hon.” Her voice smiles. One finger touches me. β€œWhat did you learn?”

That we must love, that others must be loved by you without my jealousy and with my approval…


That I must one day kill you. Is that the abyss?

No. It’s the death of the you you clung to, a cleaning of the slate. At some point a dreamstate must end, and you must cease dancing. You must wake to a cold reality where no magic exists…and this will be the start of a new journey.

Wait…you don’t mean that magic will stop forever?

Hell no! I mean (and here I realize it’s what Miles meant earlier today about starting and stopping) that gnosis gives way to re-entry….you can’t burn all the time.

Have to be able to keep going, even when I’m not engaged in magic.

Yeah…that, if anything is the lesson of the abyss. Dark nights of the soul, she says. Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. But in between the wild nights, the dancing. And in that circle is all of us. All of our peace, all of our knowledge, all of our pain.

A triangle appears to mind. The circle in it – an evokation triangle. β€œYou must realize this is the shield of the Abyss. Keep spirits around you, always be happy. No Abyss can constrain the Leviathan who is always roaring, raging, re-ifying.”

Reifying….reinventing the Me?

Yeah, sorta. (Here she seems like Robin.) No Abyss can hold a new creature.

So it only holds the me that was.

Yeah…and there can be many abysses. Pluto, Saturn, Uranus. Consumers in the cold dark. Devouring maws of worms and grass.

But in those abysses your blood, healing the magic and making the worms and grass of the grave grow to a new light.

Miles – JoJo is playing. A happy jazz-funk-pop tune from the 80s.

β€œYup. You must always acknowledge rebirth. Don’t you see? Blood has brought new life all along. It’s just that some people haven’t understood it properly.”

I can almost see a paradigm shifty thing here. Become tired, lose sight of the goal…kill you and start fresh in the jungle.

(The wolf age of Ra-Hoor-Khuit, child of the predator comes to mind…)

So we can start a new me. A heliocentric me, a pranacentric me. A Terra Nova, a Terra Firma, a Terra Incognita. Whichever fits our being at the moment.

(Or our doing, someone says. The self that read Psybermagick earlier?)

More or less. Do you wish to create a new you?

Jungle drums…funk guitar. Blood – metal percussion like the clash of swords. Maybe my gnosis is not so gone after all.

β€œI don’t have the faintest idea where to start…the ideas are gone. All of you has passed from me with the end of the song. I’m sorry mama.”

β€œIt’s okay, hon.” She rocks me to sleep amongst a cornfield, singing a song about…something. Maybe a key, a sailor. How he found the moon and it kept him swinging into the sky’s eternal, infinite nether regions, where no man dared to dwell.

The Strange Love A Star Woman Teaches….

goodnight mama. Thanks for everything. And thank you too, Miles…thanks for bringing me peace and clarity and at least a measure of understanding today.

Thanks for reading…keep being awesome!


Cross-posted from OccultCorpus forums for the enjoyment of regular blog readers – way too much jazz playing here lately, and it makes me happy πŸ™‚ Turns my thoughts to a new angle, one I had not considered in my metal heaviness xD Here goes…kindly either excuse the beatnik posturing, or nod and smile from behind your beret and shades πŸ˜›

Miles Davis – the jazz shaman. The red-lacquered horn was his fetish, Cool was his aura of power, and his sidemen were his spirit helpers. He was known for picking the best sidemen to make his music more than it would have been alone, and he was actually influenced by them as well. If not for Tony Williams and the younger players in the Second Great Quintet during the early 60s, and if not for his “spirit wife” Betty Mabry, he wouldn’t have met Jimi Hendrix and gotten into jazz-rock fusion. His album titles are even magical – Bitches Brew, Sorcerer, Dark Magus, there was a suite he did with a big band in the 80s based on colors that the composer saw in his Aura – the title of the album.

Jazz instruments – elemental attributions – microcosmic correspondences:

Sax/Trumpet/Lead – Fire – Will/Spirit/Soul (the lead instrument in both melody and improvisation, the key to the piece. Without Will, there is no magic. Without melody and improvisation, no Jazz.)
Piano – Air – Mind (thoughts running along like tinkling keys even under the sax’s stronger solo)
Bass – Water – Emotion (Deep, prone to solos at times, with its own characteristic of deep vibration)
Drums – Earth – Body (What is music without time, without measurement, without rhythm? What is the moment without the illusion of previous and future moments? And why be locked in when you can solo at times – dance on a snare and cymbals?)

An LBRP can be constructed for any jazz quartet using these attributions – for Miles, with the trumpet as Spirit and the sax as Fire, and the magus as Miles, the Sorcerer, the effects are fiery, electric. Thrilling, unlike traditional LBRP effects. Album titles for the Qabalistic Cross, a Middle Pillar with the five subgenres or Aeons of jazz that Miles created or influenced? Epicness.

And lastly, the crux. The nature of improvisational music in magic. Melody – ritual. Structure. The bedrock of an operation. Then, influenced by music theory and knowledge of one’s chosen instrument, or symbol set…improvisation. Kia. A Love Supreme, fire music of Impulse! Records, the chaos of 60s and 70s free jazz. One disconnects from positive, measured, planned space, and – to break the jazz idiom for a moment – connects with the principles described by Seether’s album title Finding Beauty In Negative Spaces. (That came to me in an exploration on chaos and jazz…it’s a recurring theme in my mental keywords. Deal with it ) Space is not empty at all. Once one gets down far enough into an empty cosmic void, Nuit is revealed to be at union with Hadit – Kia emerges. Negative spaces Seethe with beauty.

It is in this negative space that CHAOS – KIA – IMPROVISATION can occur. Break free from ritual, play a passionate solo.

Second consideration – swing, the nature of being in the pocket. When a jazz band gets up to speed, hits the right rhythm, they are said to be “swinging”. This is no idiom of hep cats from bygone days – this is a technical term. The rhythm section drives swing – they are “in the pocket” when they fire on all cylinders, instinctively, yet with finger-snapping drive. In the pocket, music occurs. In gnosis, Will becomes manifest amongst the Spheres. Swing is key for jazz…or for jazz magic.

That’s all I have on this topic per se – except that a sense of experimentation is key. Don’t be Wynton Marsalis, tying yourself and your brothers down to a 50-year-old idiom, or to a 500-year-old grimoire. Be John Zorn, Bill Laswell, Peter BrΓΆtzmann – the heroes of jazz in the 21st century, melding old principles that have worked since 1917 with musical forms and extremity unknown to even the “underground” kids buying Slayer shirts at Hot Topic. They are the heirs of Miles, the Black Man Of The Sabbath, the Man With The Horn, the Dark Magus. Perhaps with proper skill and creativity, you can be too. Even if you previously thought jazz was old people music


Me and my friend UraTriUra from the OC invoked the Doctor today at 3:10 my time, 10:10 PM his time. The date was not an accident – we were going for numerological correspondence with Ten. Synchronistically, Matt Smith’s run premiered today. Energy was explosive -I even created a memetic Bussard Collector to soak up fan energy from the season premiere/first Smith episode πŸ˜€

I did the LBRP, MP, invoked the higher self and Jim Kirk (a pwnage godform in my personal system), then traveled in the Enterprise to a location in space, and began to speak to the Doctor. It took a few seconds, but I’m sure it was him πŸ™‚

First off, I kinda forgot to be Smith (UraTriUra and I were going to use the magical personas of Smith nd Jones, lol) and tried to switch to that persona at the beginning of our conversation. He said “no, you are not Smith. You are you.” So I was πŸ™‚

Then he started a..confusing line of thought. I’m not sure where I interfered. It seems that he was kinda peeved at the idea of me plotting requests, with no thought of actually learning. I’m like “but I’m a mage, not only a mystic…I want power and control, too!” Well guess what buddy…Torchwood were after scientific secrets and power too, and look at them! Gee…y’mean my ego has to die for you to like me? Not die, Jon, unite with the rest of you. (Paraphrased anyway :P) We had a big discussion about overextending the ego leading to destruction, and I realized that not only is the Point of Hadit the ego, but the Circle of Nuit gives it a big hug – union and void-peace. One could say that this union with the void is what sustains the fusion-star Point, like a big nutrient bath. (Heart of the TARDIS, maybe? :D) I kinda extrapolated that bit in the last few minutes – but it fits with what he showed me. Circle and point are a current obsession of mine πŸ˜›

Then we went on to the requests: Improvisational win powers like the Doctor has (for magic first, then, if possible, for daily life) and astral travel skillz (related to his role as a time-space sojourner). The first cannot be bestowed, it must be learned. But he gave me a boost for it – I saw a staircase leading up, deeper into space, and I moved up the first few steps πŸ™‚

Then he showed me a secret for the second request – it seems that the Doctor is big on letting people find their own way. He showed me hills and valleys, and asked me how they got that way. “Erosion?” No, people walked on them. You have to find the pathways – grooves, memetic linkages between ideas and concepts, places that have been traveled to or reinforced before. Sort of…roads and trails. Following these makes traveling easier.

Then I asked him if that was all he wished to speak about – I was done. He said no…look out there. We looked out a window, and there was an ocean of stars. He told me that they were there because people had the drive and the dream to travel to them – I asked him if he meant physical stars, the spiritual idea of a star (truth and light, maybe?) or people Stars. He said “all three.” Is it possible that the human drive to explore and to forge connections is what creates our findings, what we connect with? Or do I need to meditate on this more? I’m unsure. But I know that I will find out…all these mysteries are mine to discover.

Oh! I should totally add that I offered to pour out some of my Dr Pepper for him, but he refused. Instead, with his permission, I evoked his awesome into it πŸ™‚

Now all I need is a companion…my mind is already bigger on the inside than the outside. The Doctor may soon find himself with an astral competitor πŸ˜€

If UraTriUra agrees, I’ll post his magical record, or at least a rough recap of his side of the evocation here when I get it πŸ™‚

~Jon 37

Okay kids…time for some serious QBL mind-blowing. It’s gonna be awesome…you following? Hold onto your hats, true believers…

First: God is an infinite, eternal sea of glorious, Limitless Light, right? Everyone knows that. it’s just the way it is.

Second: I evoked Satan once a long time ago, when I was first starting evokation (well, three months or so ago lol) in the bank parking lot, with nothing but an averse pentagram and some words of power. I don’t remember much of our conversation, but I am reasonably sure I got the real deal, and I do remember one thing. He mentioned that he was “enthroned in the vibrational consciousness of mankind”…I couldn’t for the life of me figure it out, except for a general guess or two. These guesses were hella wrong.

Third: That Limitless Light I mentioned? It wants to divide. It’s like a Star Trek Q-being or something. It wants to know itself, to know what life is like outside of the endless light that Sisko talks to the emissaries in. To do this, it has to create existence…the four worlds, the Sephiroth. One of its most useful tools is Malkuth, where all of us humans live. The microcosms, dividing like fractals as testbeds for the great macrocosm of YHVH.

Three propositions to set the background…now we knock ’em down with a kickass conclusion. Are you ready to rumble?!

Here it comes….
Satan is the force of division in the Left Hand Path, right? The force of isolate intelligence, of hiding in your room with the black metal blaring and telling your square old fundie parents to fuck it. And God…he wants to know himself. What better way to do so than by using the opposing force of Satan to divide Malkuth into fractals, creating tons of humans to blare the black metal in the name of teaching God what humanity is like? Hell…I bet YHVH would actually enjoy having the crap walloped out of it by Captain Kirk if you look at it this way.

So…Satan is enthroned in the vibrational consciousness of mankind. We cannot conceive of reality without individuality, without division…a return to mindless union would be destructive, and negative to the Great Fractal that Ain Soph Aur is becoming. And a second conclusion: both Geburah and Chesed are necessary for the tree to flower…but you knew that already, I hope.

Summary: GOD NEEDS SATAN IF HIS GREAT EXPERIMENT IS TO SUCCEED. There’s no “war in heaven”, except that which causes the fractals to expand and creation to become full of more epic awesome. Ave Verendus!

Thanks for reading and putting up with my rampant insanity…I hope this one made more sense to you, and managed to make the Left Hand Path a little bit more palatable for people like me who can’t stand the way black metal has turned damn good ideas into total teenage rebellion BS πŸ˜› Maybe soon I shall do an article on how Christ is actually Lucifer and vice versa…that’d really blow your minds πŸ˜›

Oh I should add…lol…I’m practically in gnosis from just thinking about this. It’s that awesome. I gotta thank my buddies Voidgazing and Jes at OccultCorpus for helping me come to this conclusion…and gotta thank Satan for putting the thought in my head in the first place. Learn something new every day…sometimes it’s a real awesome nugget of epic win πŸ˜€

~Jon 37