Eris is Dead. All Hail Eris!

I recently received another email from Alistair, this time it came with an attachment in the form of Claudia’s funeral and wake; Ali’s previous mail was to announce her demise.  

 

For weeks I stumble from the Death of Claudia to the recent passing of my father-in-law Roger and that of my mother-in Law Brenda earlier this year.  Lately I have been in the presence of Death and have been driven to contemplate my own unavoidable mortality through the expiry of those that I love.

 

Claudia Eris was special to me, a mentor and a friend, someone who chose to actively don the avatar of Discordia throughout most of her life. She succeeded in headlining as the Chaos Goddess in other people’s psyche with unparalleled magnificence and style.  She was a pro who shone like a true star and had the type of outlandish magic that was capable of rendering the madness of life tolerable and the insanity of the surrounding world almost bearable.  Her passing has left a small indelible scar on my heart which I incessantly pick at, not forgiving myself for letting her last message to me go unanswered all those years ago.

 

I was introduced to Brenda 5 years ago, who was already in the initial stages of pulmonary dementia, courting death much earlier than any of us had realized.    Earlier this year however she developed breathing difficulties and began to forget the simplest of matters or tasks.  One day she woke in a muddled state and was taken to Eastbourne District where on the 23^rdof February she died alone in a hospital under siege of a Global Pandemic.  Brenda was the most selfless, loving, caring and uncomplicated person I had ever met.  I am so proud to have called her my mother-in-law and not a day goes by that I do not think about her.  I wish I could have held her hand one more time. 

 

Roger was already very disabled by the time I met him.  Two successive strokes had reduced him to using his walker permanently 18 years ago.  Eventually I witnessed Roger become weaker and weaker as prostate cancer steadily claimed him.  Finally he became nothing more than a bag of skin and bones on a hospice bed, the morphine driver keeping him in a perpetual state of twilight, between death and sleep, for weeks.  Yesterday on the 23^rd of December he too died alone, try as we all did to take shifts by his side.  One of the last songs we played for him was Frank Sinatra’s ‘I Did It My Way’.  His large bushy eyebrow twitched one final time as if to so ‘Yes I did do it my way didn’t I?’.

 

These people, my Family and my Friends, have affected me in equal measures.  In Life they shared with me the most precious thing we all have, Time.  We spent treasured moments of humbling, vulnerable humanity forging trinkets of memories; loving gestures of tea and biscuits, hugs and smiles, spinning fleeting chit chat whose essence is now lost in the fog of time.  

 

Their Death also heralds my own imminent expiry and impels me to examine life and answer to myself the sum of all my actions.  The autopsy of my deeds is a difficult task but the process leaves me happy to be here.  I have made some puerile mistakes and I have made some good choices but I am glad to be alive and able to retrospect and remember. 

 

Recently I found myself standing in the kitchen thinking of Claudia, thinking of the last time I spoke to her at Festival 23, recalling how the previous summer I had travelled with her to Stonehenge for 2015 Solstice. At the time I had made a flimsy attempt at a blog about our adventure but never followed up, eventually misplacing my notes after my old MacBook crashed.  

 

Now, standing in the dark kitchen during a moment of stirring inebriation I felt Claudia’s absent presence so intense and overwhelming that it led me to declare if Claudia wanted to prove to me there is something beyond the Veil this would be her opportunity.  I marched up to my notebook and without much thought I opened the first document I came across in a defunct iCloud account and up popped the lost blog entry recalling the Solstice with Claudia. 

 

Reading it is embarrassing, an amateur attempt at documenting something wonderous and special, a flailing endeavor at writing, but the essence is indubitably there.  Firstly, there is the ultimatum of what was just agreed to in the kitchen; prove to me you are there, somehow, somewhere.  Then there is the fact that this lost blog was a private encounter between Claudia and I, no one else knew of its existence. 

 

Perhaps all this is chance or coinci-dance, as my friend Steve would quip.  But I know Claudia and I know she would say, ‘Just accept what is, do not question and do not doubt, it just is, Kali.’

 

 

 

 

June 2015

 

Mesmerized I watch as green and silver sheaths of wheat and barley softly rock back and forth, a verdant swaying sea as the wind races gently across the hills and vales of Wiltshire. Eris sits next to me with a fawn felt hat drawn down around her wild gold and silver hair, partially covering eyes that reflect the endless beauty of the countryside speeding by on our way to Stonehenge.  Smiling she reaches into her bag and passes me a small bottle filled with mushroom tea. 

 

We make small talk; I am trying ever so hard to impress her but it’s nothing she hasn’t seen or heard before. Instead, she grins and reaches behind her neck.

 

“I want you to have this.  Harvey and I whittled it, it’s just a small piece of wood we gave no particular shape to, it just is”, she explains as she removes it and places it over my head and around my own neck.  The carving is hung with a piece of soft brown leather, familiar, comfortable, original like Claude. It settles neatly on my skin and fills me with warmth and love.  

 

We arrive at the visitors centre and proceed to walk amongst the thousands of other pilgrims that are also making their way to the Stones. A river of bodies stretches for what seems like miles.  

 

We travel along green beside fields of poppies and lilac blossoms watching Wiltshire gently undulate in the twilight.  Claudes laughs and encourages me to take my shoes off then prompts me towards the soft grass and country flowers.

 

From afar we can hear drumming coming from the Stones and as the Sun begins to set we arrive just in time to Perch near a Sarson.  With Claudia by my side I watch in silent wonder as the Sun dives beyond the hills.  Long shadows are cast over the thousands that have come together to celebrate.

 

Claudia asks me to walk her around the Stones a couple of times and it is evident there are many people there that know her.  An endless stream of fans come to say hello until finally she tires.  We end up nestled on two fallen Bluestones near the entrance of Circle.  Stretching back completely I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to my chin and look up at the constellations with a smile.  With my free hand I rumble through a couple of pockets and fish out a small lighter and a silver pipe conveniently filled with hashish.  I manage to light it under my wrap with little effort.  Inhaling deeply I regard the heavens as I recline back on one of the oldest Temples in the world.

 

We watch as the midsummer zodiac makes its precession above our heads, this could be one of the most magical nights of my life.

 

As the solstice draws to its peak many revelers settle down to rest; imagine the biggest sleepover in the world.

 

During the brief night we visit friends here and there, people exchange hellos and hugs.  This goes on all night until the sky in the East begins to glow a soft honey gold.  Above, the sky is still a deep indigo that turns to magenta, then the velvet of the night sky eventually ripples into a deep blue.  Small passing clouds are set alight as they begin to glow an electric pink.  

 

The Sun begins to crest, lighting the surrounding vales and countryside, revealing a hidden landscape before our very eyes.  Everything seems to burst with effervescent life as Shamesh majestically makes His way over the distant hills. 

 

I look around to find Claudia and Susanna standing close behind.  They say hello then Claudia suggests we depart in order to avoid the exiting masses.  I take one final look around and glean Puck resting against a Stone, mandolin at hand, slowly strumming a medieval tune.

 

‘Bye Bye Stonehenge’ I whisper to no one in particular.

Barbelo the Shekina

Once again I find myself looking upward towards the great expanse as Levanah scales the twilight sky all silver and haze in Her Vernal Glory.

 

Lately I have been keeping company with the idea of Barbelo, otherwise known as ‘Shekina’, both the second and the final letter to the Tetragrammaton.

 

Barbelo, the Mother and simultaneously the Daughter of the Powers of Powers, second only to the Yod that makes up the Holy name of the Ancient of Days, pretty heavy principles right?

 

But what are they? What can they mean? Is there any point in attempting to decipher something that has its roots in origins stranded millennia ago on the forgotten shores of time?  

 

Sure there is! The Ancestors would have been alluding to something that is so sacred it is hidden in plain sight. This is how it has always been, the most profane mysteries are the simplest ones.

 

Many old school Rabbis, with a few modern ones also, maintain the reason and the solution to everything is right under our noses;  between our bottom lips and our noses to be more precise.  The answer to all the world’s questions is hidden in the act of Breathing.

 

Inhale and notice the sharp, near silent ‘ii’ sound that accompanies our breath? That is the fabled Yod.  Next exhale and focus on that sound.  Yes a melodic ‘hhaa’.  Both of these principles, in essence the act of one breathing cycle, is the closest thing we will get to experiencing God. 

 

The process of inhaling, the very first thing we do when we exit the womb, is the beginning of our Life, whereas the act of exhalation is the product of processing the initial inhalation, and so to does Life cascade into the rivers of time.

 

And yes, the initial the Haa, or Hey as it is known, is the first cyclical act we collectively take, it does not translate to anything coherent so to speak, but it is the foundation of existence.

 

Next up is the Vav, the Son or the Bridegroom.  It is an elongated Yod , the Flame that descends upon the initial process of the first breath and consequently birth, the first source of positive understanding that we are alive.  Prior to this everything is questionable, but the second portion of the Tetragrammaton  verily confirms the act of Life, with the final exhalation of Hey being the one that confirms consciousness; I AM and I AM ALIVE, and so in agreement with the scrolls and the books, the first and second Hey are Spirit and Consciousness accordingly. 

 

In support of what has just been written, on the Tree of Life Keter, the Head or Crown of the Tree has the holy name of IEHIEH, I AM THAT I AM, whereas Malkuth, the Kingdom, has the holy name of AHER ASHER AHER, translating to ‘I will be what I will be’, birth being the first act, consciousness the second. ‘I am and I will be’, and this completes the closed circuit of any individuals’ life.

 

Shekina or Barbelo, both referenced in the Old testament and many other texts and gnostic scrolls, is also known as ASHER whose roots finds it’s way to an ancient Sumerian Deity, the counterpart of Baal. Asher was the keeper of understanding and wisdom, divine influence so to speak, but notice how ASHER also seems to reflect the holy name of Malkuth, AHEI ASHER AHEI?  Indeed wisdom seems to have made Her presence known in many religions throughout the Aeons, and perplexingly enough she seems to have taken very similar sounding names and features.

 

What were the scholars trying to convey?  Why did they expend lifetimes trying to decipher and record meditations and studies often involving rigorous fasting, abstinence, isolation and many times persecution? What was so compelling ?

 

My prolonged isolation and contemplation suggests to me that it might perhaps be the other way round, that the Shekina is attempting to connect with us, on an individual and a collective level, Her experience transpersonal but also a numinous and ongoing process, a flickering flame waiting to baptize all of us in the exact holy fire that descended on the Apostles, the one that burned brightly in the bush Abraham so readily and willingly would have sacrificed his son to. In my opinion another metaphor for cutting away with childish things and embracing spiritual maturity resilient enough to endure what was to proceed ie Death.

 

The sparks of flames that Barbelo ignites glow within all of us but perhaps it is up to the individual to keep the embers alive and maybe this is why old age seems so cold, because we forget to breathe. We forget Shekina and sound of Her Voice, what some might refer to as conscience, but She is conscience and consciousness all in one breath and we know and understand this process intimately when we first begin to glean what is ‘Good’ and what “Bad’ although we have not yet been concretely taught these principles by our parents.

 

Shekina is also known as Kundalini, the Serpent, coiled at the base of our spines waiting to join Her Bridegroom as She ascends the stairway to Heaven, more esoteric principles to baffle, but perhaps not.  Both King David and Solomon the Wise sung about the effects of the Shekina and the mystical Alchemical marriage that happens once all the doors of perception have been opened.  

 

Very sexually suggestive and not isolated in their salacious and libidinous cantsicles, the intense erotic and sensual nature of Barbelo seems to be consistent throughout the scriptures, often building an atmosphere of carnal tension that the Jews have to satiate conjugally every SABBATH at precisely 3 am whilst employing a series of Mantras known to them, in an effort to ejaculate by meditating on being the Bridegroom and the Bride simultaneously.

 

Heavy stuff right?  But there are legions of religions that base their most sacred rituals around this principle.  Brother Crowley dedicated most of his fortune in an attempt to create the fabled ‘Moon Child’ through such practices. 

 

Perhaps it is during such rituals, which nearly the whole of humanity partake in when we fuck, that we all come closest to facing the Shekina, for it seems that within that moment of surrender and release that we all know splendor in its most purest forms; the potential spark of life waiting to seed another Tree.

 

At 50 without any offspring and with no inclination to execute further said ritual but I feel Barbelo within me burning brighter than ever before.  The more I abstain the more Shekina awakes and sends shivers up and down my spine.  Sometimes I feel Her wanting to gush through my legs and with a quick inhalation I send Her spiraling like a tornado made of flames, a twirling sword made of fire, up my spine, piercing my senses, reminding me to push higher, push the Dragon toward the Citadel of the Crown, do not let the Water and Fire escape, return it home and transubstantiate it into a Jewel.

 

It is then that Barbelo returns with more force than ever, a ten mile high tsunami, a black wave of immense proportions that annihilates my memories, my ego, my life, everything I ever believed to be important and real.  She fills me with the Knowledge that everything is perfect as it is, no Good, no Evil, just ‘Is’.

 

It is in that ‘Is’ that the Crown Jewel may be found, the origin of Her existence, Dante’s Heaven from Hell. Shekina originates and returns to the cycle of the flames of Yod.  A Perfect point in the Universe rotating upon Itself constituting the Axis Universum, Her coming's and going’s keep the Point twirling.

 

Look closer toward the tip of the Flame a terrible vision awaits you, it is NO-THING that is the Originator and NOT;  this contradiction of sanity is what maintains NO-THING and ALL.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nexuses

Today I stood still in the middle of the path I was trailing and just 30-40 feet from where I was a juvenile goshawk remained perched on a low branch regarding me intently.

 

It did not fly away when I attempted a couple of closer paces, it just tilted its head in that particular and familiar falcon way and spied as I came towards it.

 

Taking my jacket off and extended my arms to mimic a bird in flight, I started to dance in a clockwise direction occasionally looking up to survey it, it turned to get a better look and this is how we remained for a good minute or two, me dancing it watching, then it flew off low into a neighboring field that was being ploughed.

 

Jumping over the rusty tracks I was following I quickly made haste in order to steal another glimpse of my bird admirer but it was gone. Fleeting delicate moments of magick that dissolve in the River of Time…

 

I can see Pluto, Charon, Saturn and Jove tonight, behind me Aphrodite shines the brightest.  It is a little after dark and the dusty clouds that covered the skies today have now blown away, it is time for the stars to make their appearance.  My fire is blazing orange in the night, popping and hissing as the flames lap the sides of the large log I have just deposited.

 

My time to return to Babylon draws near with the knowledge that these moments are treasures to cherish and recall when the madness gets too much, but the madness not only seems to be getting ‘too much’, it is most likely taking over.

 

A week ago Afghanistan returned to violence and darkness with the Taliban taking over after the recession of the Armed Forces that were there to maintain peace, but peace did not seem to want to stay.  And so in acts of malicious madness the executions, beheadings and stonings returned with a vengeance; children and women paying the highest price for daring to dream the most.  Jesus wept.

 

Fires are ravaging South and Central Europe with Siberia also seeing the highest temperatures on record.  Central America is also aflame and Earthquakes are claiming thousands of lives in Haiti, this world is being annihilated by human vanities and there is nothing we can do.

 

Perhaps if I petition the stars could there be something they could do?  And how does one discourse with stars? Occasionally the books I read reference certain sacred languages although many times I find myself questioning the authors of these dialects and how is it they came about? Apparently the words are fashioned in such a way for me to be able to make sense of a system created to marry the stars with the human form, namely Adam Kadmon, but why am I to believe something a group of men generated in a paroxysm of their self-importance and delusions?  And yet there is nothing similar I can employ or work with in my endeavor to appeal to the constellations and heavenly bodies that have been with us since our inception.

 

I have started dreaming in this language now, often my dreams are accompanied by visions of a White Hawk, I am clueless as to how to interpret this, but I assume my psyche is shedding the language of Babylon and adopting something more befitting, I am simply worried that I am investing precious time looking for tools in techniques that have no actual function, just entertaining to the intellect, akin to creating structures in the mind that are just that, solely in the mind.  Were these men deluded or is there method to their seeming madness?

 

In the middle of the Australian Outback my principal lingua franca with the galactic forefathers have been my emotions and feelings as I encounter the beauty of Gaia and the majesty of the Cosmos, everything else seems to be futile, my only genuine connection with the All are the chemicals produced in my nervous system and brain when beauty appears in my reality.

 

Perhaps these ancient languages have been created to prepare the mind for the eventuality of Death and give it structure as to how to maintain some semblance of human familiarity for when the Veil is drawn.  But if we can commune with celestial bodies and events in the thereafter perhaps there is some way to call for help whilst we are still corporal.

 

The clouds have returned but my fire is bright and hot and although all the other stars are hidden in the darkness now, Chronos and Venus are still with me and so quietly I intreat them to look down and take pity.

 

In some of the texts I am studying Saturn is the abode of Fire known as Shin and is the Mouth of Adam in anthropo-astro associations, whereas Venus is East or West according to which system you are studying, and is associated with the left nostril.  These nexuses are relative and open to personal interpretation and study. 

 

Should I refrain from the temptation to breathe out fire and incinerate everything I know to be Evil or do I simply use the Fire to encourage the Serpent known in lay terms as Kundalini to ascend the Central Column?

 

And yes these simple mediations are all I have all I can offer in the face of this adversity that is Humanity and that I am part of.  

 

My fire is now ambers and even the last stars have deserted me and my musings. 

 

 

 

Selene and Jove

A while ago I left all things civilized behind and headed off to the jungles of Costa Rica with a lover who was over a decade older than me.  Apart from being a champion cyclist he was a tantric master, our time in the mountains of Rica were spent mostly naked and exploring all things carnal.  No electricity, no roads, if he were to choose so I could have disappeared, melted into the darkness of the jungle and no one would have ever looked for me nor found me if they did.

 

Besides from being yogic in his abilities to rouse the Kundalini he was also a deeply intrinsic and spiritual individual who had something more than just a prodigious penis.

 

Olympo was also an expert in all things Avian, he was adept when it came to creatures with wings, his favorite the Northern Eagle.  One evening whilst we were locked in our tantric dance he narrated the story of the rebirth of the eagle.  Apparently when an Eagles reaches 40 years of age they are so weighed down by beaten and dirty feathers that their plumage becomes a thing of confinement, a grisly disarray of matted quills and tangled down, what was once the source of their power becomes the thing that impedes them and renders them vulnerable because they can no longer fly nor feed, they are as good as dead.

 

And so in a feat of tremendous tenacity and strength they land near the top of a mountain and proceed to pluck their own feathers, beak-full by beak-full, until finally they as bare as the day they were hatched.  Then on surrounding rocks they repeatedly slam their beaks until they break and in this state of even greater vulnerability they remain for over 5 months until new plumage and beak are restored.

 

At the time I gave this beautiful bit of love making no real consideration, we said so much more besides, and the myth of the Reborn Eagle was put aside in the recesses of my memories of that time, a mnemonic chest of sorts that hold transpersonal treasures waiting to be curated when the moment is right.

 

Thousands of miles away on the other side of Gaia years later I sit by my small fire made from cured acacia and eucalyptus and watch as Selene rises sterling and perfect in the Southern Skies, convoyed by Jove with four of its moons on full display, chaperoned by Saturn who tonight bares witness to this celestial alignment during an August Full Moon.

 

All of the surrounding nature is silent as Luna ascends to execute her dance in the Heavens above.  I hear little birds occasional chirp in the dark bushes behind me and crows muttering down in the Eucalyptus grove, but other than the occasional tweet everything seems to have given over to this heavenly display.

 

It is in this moment of stillness and quiet that I come to glean the full meaning of Olympo’s allegorical and cryptic tale.  The myth itself, as any google search would attest, is exactly that,  just a myth. But behind this fable, in that libidinous moment fired by the ecstasy of our breathes and bodily fluids, I overlooked one minute detail, it is not so much the story, rather the message hidden in the parable that must be heeded. Olympo gave up so many mysteries, however in the paroxysm of my carnal elations my treasure chest remains considerably bare, still when the time is right its treasures will make their way to this blog.

 

Under the Full Moon in this moment of divine inspiration the mysteries begin to unfurl and their messages take hold in the empire of my mind. Accompanied by the myth of the Eagle Reborn, I sit in solace with Jupiter and Saturn as the Light of Shaddai brings back what is mine:  an understanding of true personal nature and the need for rebirth and resurrection, no matter how painful nor how mortifying it might seem.

 

Cradled in the arms of convenience and comfort we overlook the importance of transformation and transpersonal transfiguration.  This metamorphosis is the pinnacle of Life’s reason but we maintain to live a life in complete and stagnant devolution for fear of the discomfort and pain that metamorphosis might bring. 

 

I will not lie to you, it hurts.  It hurts when the cocoon of your entire life raptures, when you realise the fallacy of your entire existence, the fact that your entire life has been centered around a lie, the lie that an antiquated and outdated system has imposed upon you, the fact that you might be a product of transient desires, values and prejudices, not all entirely yours.

 

These seeded desires and the dross of rotten fruit that is offered you as a certain way of life slowly enshrouds you, envelopes you, until like our legendary Eagle you cannot fly any longer.  Similarly to our Eagle this happens around 40 for most of us.  So what are you gonna do?

 

Most often we have no other choice but to continue in our dead-end jobs, our dead-end relationships, our inert and comfortable lives, wings clipped and bound there is no way out.

 

Why is it that we try to silence the raging fire that pecks at our sides and keeps us awake at night?  Why is it we turn away at our screaming faces in the mirror, gradually avoiding our reflections as time goes by?  Is it because we fear that we have no control, that there is nothing we can do to encounter the unavoidable?  And what is the unavoidable?  Old age? Death? The deep wrinkles under our eyes and around our lips?  All of these things and no-thing of the above. The transition  into our destiny has only one way, through the Pyre and into the Water, utter transformation and dissolution of all that is worthless and of no use. Death is one way to look behind the veil of change, there are others too if we are brave enough.

 

I can see Callisto, Europa, Io and Ganymede with my binoculars, its enchanting, the sky is so bright, how fortunate am I to be bathing in this spectacle? The Snake-Barer is dancing with the Eagle and the Swan rises.

 

For those friends still interested in what happened with my mother well nothing happened, nothing at all and that is the exact point, the things we seem to think are important, the feelings we hold valuable are just a lie, it’s maya all the way, all I had to do was let go of the things that did me harm, one of them happens to be her.  That’s just how it is, another feather lost. 

 

Another log on the fire. Sweet fragrant incense for you Diana.

 

The Kingdom groans under the weight of Humanity’s Vanities but change has to come.                                           

 

 

 

 

 

Rainbow Serpent

There is always an ‘after’, have you ever thought of that?  What I mean is that we are all looking toward an impending event, an inevitable eventuality that will occur simply because we exist.

 

We make arrangement about this ‘future’ of ours, we try and infer it, try to prepare ourselves, be ready for what we will encounter, with the actual incident never really manifesting how we conceptualized it.

 

Sometimes the event itself is like a supernova, a massive bomb, Enola Gay’s ‘Little Boy’ falling onto our tiny sleepy minute lives, annihilating everything in its path.  A brutal act, an exposure of past transgressions, the facing of our deepest Daemons, and then it is over just like that.

 

And often life goes on.

 

This story, my story, is not about redemption, it’s not about some transcendental miracle that liberates the past, a magical act that ends in doves flying free toward a blue sky, rather it is about acceptance and perseverance, the Philosophers Stone that resides in each of us, a product of the lessons learnt whilst we search for our private Ithaka.

 

In the Theological books I am studying there is reference to Three main principles, these Three are the predecessors to all the religions on Earth; Water, Fire, Air, or otherwise known as Mercy, Justice and Temperance.  There cannot be One without the other Two or else you will either drown, burn or never do anything at all.

Juggling Water and Fire is like drowning and burning at the same time, balancing is an arduous act to master, your one hand is forever cold, the other ablaze, but bring them together and you can achieve harmony, like Goldilocks porridge, not too hot, not cold, but just right.

 

In this exulted state of being there is nothing left to fear or anticipate, you simply ‘are’.  To expect anything else is to deceive yourself and risk expending all that you have worked for.  I liken it to being able to see for the very first time, although you are gleaning from the reflection of a great Sea, an Ocean of existence, if you remain very still and balanced the ripples cease to exist and you ultimately discern your own Truth. 

 

Personally I cannot attest to other personal Truths, all I can do is observe from my watchtower in the Mountains and give myself time to become familiar with burning and drowning simultaneously. I know now without a shadow of a doubt there are higher truths, higher purposes at play for each and every one of us, no one is more important than the other, we share the same water and fire, together we make up the same Earth.

 

Like undulating ripples stretching out into eternity, endlessly returning to us the fruits of own actions, we must take responsibility for the things we have done as a whole, commencing with our own selves.  Within each of us is the Breath of our Spirit, encoded with all that is needed to give us the power to carry on, to persevere, to create miracles and make right that which is wrong.

 

From where I stand I can see a shimmering iridescent translucent veil.  If I look closely I shatter the vision and it melts into the background of the gum trees but if I close my eyes I can feel it brush against my cheek and I hear it’s native language that IS the song of birds.  

 

It’s not a Place, or a Path, it is a product of overlapping Place and Path, one atop the other, to endlessly create this special place within us which some know as ‘Heaven’.

 

I believe this is where we come from, this Divine garden that has its roots within each of us.  We water it with the Water of Mercy, keep it alive with the Just Son and breath the Air of our being into it.  The more you tend to your Garden the Taller the Tree of Life becomes.

 

This Tree is planted in the Seat of your Mind, its roots extend into your very Soul, animating everything you see around you.  Your life-force comes and returns to it in endless cycles of being, one experience after another. 

 

Deep within it’s core there is the Fruit of Knowledge, a hidden pregnant Pearl, swollen with Wisdom and Understanding, perpetually guarded by the Serpent known as Death. 

 

You can see this Dragon at night, nestled amongst the stars.  It is the Alcheringa Rainbow Serpent holding within its sharp Talons everything that was, is or could be.

 

Guarded by Astronomical Events too immense to contemplate, we are the Children of Eden feeding on the nectar of potential, nothing can harm or destroy us.  We are cradled in the Bosom of the Aeons, planted in the Dreams of our Ancestors.

 

And just like that, like passing clouds dispersed by Aiolos wind, the vision is gone and I open my eyes to a field of golden flowers. 

 

Burn away the old

I never thought the day would come when I was going to have to face the person responsible for the destruction of my childhood and innocence.  Those of you that know me recognize who I am referring to, we all somehow suspected the events that transpired could have never been avoidable. 

 

Everything that happens has an action and a reaction.  Like waves that ripple from the point of impact, if left untouched they transform into a Tsunami of emotions and counteractions that need to be liberated or will keep destroying everything within their path.

 

I am clueless if my magickal training might have amplified said re-action, causing it to swell exponentially.  In tandem my mind has also mushroomed in unpredictable and unique ways, unhelpfully not according to the books I have been occupied with either, leaving me rather desperate as to how it is I should react and what it is I should do to mitigate the impact of the memories of childhood trauma and abuse caused by returning to the scene of origin.

 

The process was simple, some trigger, a comment perhaps, now forgotten in the explosion that issued.  Bubbling up like hot tar, it took everything in its path.  All of it came rushing out.  Every single moment of torture made its way back into our lives.  I smashed every semblance of family or unity we had so hard tried to nurture and preserve. I exited that house almost as fast as I could scream the words that shattered our lives, and in a blizzard of confusion and exhaustion I made my way away.

 

The room I had managed to locate during strict Australian lock-down was more than adequate and private, I wondered to myself if I was going to manage to leave it in the days to come and then surrendered to what came next.

 

Day and night blended into a cocktail of dark and light, a haze that covered my bed and blanketed my room.  My breathing deep and hot, I started to experience changes in my body and mind.

 

It felt as if though I had set myself alight, blazing from the inside.  My intestines so hot I was afraid I would be setting the bed on fire.

 

I stayed with this feeling in and out of consciousness, aware what was happening was not passing, some ephemeral mist ready to part and give way to a better light.  Rather it was as if I was being reborn in some metaphysical way, the experience so transpersonal yet so excruciating I feared it would lead to permanent injury.

 

I kept recalling tales about the ‘Phoenix’, things I had read or otherwise observed in movies, but this was nothing of the kind, this hurt bad.

 

I had to empty my bowels constantly too, the pain was that intense.  Towards the end all that exited my irritated colon was just water.  Then came the menstrual blood, a torrent of red agony which lasted two whole days.  This is when the voices started.

 

A chorus of entities all conversing about what had just happened, some scornful, others supportive.  My mother’s voice somewhere in there too, so different from the monster I left behind hours earlier. 

 

I feel like I am going mad.  I know the symptoms of schizophrenia and this is beginning to look a lot like crazy.  

 

As I write this I can feel my stomach churn and my spit hot and acrid in my mouth.  I feel bits of me are starting to peel off in cinders. 

 

Tomorrow I leave to go and stay in the Australian Bush for 2 months to try and fix the damage I have done.  Sleeping under the stars for 60 nights and walking the Ranges for 60 days should put things into perspective.  

Although I feel like I am dying I am beginning to feel very much alive.

The Kingdom Burns

A few weeks ago a handful of red-necks attempted and insurgence and stormed the United States White House in an attempt to take senators hostage and perhaps kill some of them.  They were spurred on by the then 45th President of the United States Donald Trump.  Things are starting to stir in the Kingdom. 

 

The Wheel of Fortune revolves, as does the Chariot, and along with great villains we are witnessing the birth of great heroes.  Journalists, activists, comedians, artists, dreamers and magicians;  the list merely limited by our imagination, all finally focusing on one cause, the great final battle,  galvanized ineradicably in each of our DNA.  We have been preparing for this moment for a life time.

 

In our handful of decades on Earth we have witnessed justice and injustice alike.  Some of it caused by us, other times we were on the receiving end.  We came to know what is good and what is bad, not because some absent God taught us so, but because we mastered it through blood, death and tears.

 

Time claims it fare.  As we age and wizen we also attain the intrinsic powers of Knowledge and Logic, or at least this is what is on offer, this can be your prize, the penultimate Treasures to the Final and Last. Thing is do you have the skills to use your reward, or are your eyes fixed on the dew of samsara, dissolving in the Light of the Black Sun Rising?

 

.

And the seconds keep ticking away.

 

Here in the UK our Death Toll now surpasses 100, 000.  The politicians lie and look away, spurred on by the media moguls we are being forced to return to work and comply. More die by the minute as those in Power make money.

 

Sometimes I think I am going to go mad with anguish and the prevailing sense of Injustice that floods the world.  The rich are becoming outrageously richer as the poor die by the masses, exposed to the full consequences of a reality we so hard tried to plaster up and avoid. 

 

As the days pass the all encompassing shadow of death throws its veil around entire families and communities, finally stripping us of absolutely everything we love, our very children and parents, or spouses and friends.

 

The stories of tragedy and pain come in massive waves that multiply by the hour, people expose their inner most grief in order to show us that those that govern us have finally taken everything we have and are; our very lives, even our very Gods. 

 

As the rivers of misery and sorrow flow and we bare witness to the great injustices done towards our brothers and sisters another epoch has been ushered in where it becomes apparent that our God seems very un-apparent.

 

Where are you Shepard?  Great Archons of Balance and Harmony why have you abandoned Your Thrones? Or is it finally that we will find ourselves in debt to our transgressors because they have cast the dark veils of religion and superstition ablaze.  Is this the Eon where Man becomes his own Master through the murder of his very own God by his overlords?  Surely if those that murder us in plain sight go unpunished and instead their heinous acts make them very wealthy individuals that live long and prosperous lives, then where is our Justice and what have we really become? Or is it that the price to Paradise is the sacrifice of everything we ever loved and hold sacred?  What kind of sick mind would believe that? 

 

Well, slaves for one, because death is the only hope they have.  Death is the only hope WE have. But it does not have to be our own Death.   Think of that for a minute.

 

It is nearly midnight and the death toll rolls on even faster.  Outside this Millennium’s plague claims more souls. The bank accounts of the wealth swell with our ancestor’s blood money as we huddle close to our loved ones in terror and dread. All the politicians and their parents have had the prophylactic vaccines needed to protect them, now they tell us there are not enough vaccines to go around for the rest of us.

 

The Kingdom mourns its dead whilst the powerful laugh and laugh and laugh.   And here behind the Veil, watching through my dusty blinds as the wind pushes on in the winter night, I surveil Malkuth and its many woes, waiting for the time Bridegroom will awake to avenge His Beloved and Her flock.

.......................

Then there was Fire