Archive for November, 2014

I touched something in a moment of orgasmic ecstasy tonight. It was not what I was expecting. It was terrifying.

A “broadcast” of sorts—the harpy’s cry. The Aradian stream has been awoken, shaken awake, violently. Those of us coming into our voice now, sharing Virtue, that happened to us.

Our thinking has to change to “Apocalyptic” on all fronts. The threat to the Land is a threat to all life on this planet, all of human culture, even at the (H)Edges. We cannot afford to cling to illusions of comfort and conformity. Rebel, misbehave. Keep each other safe, and those who can, risk! Now. GO!

Especially for those of us who work occulticly, our response must be to the Land, to the spirits that cry out to us, and to our Ancestors awaiting rebirth.
Wear the Shadows, they are Her gift.


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Learning from a Witch.

Witchcraft is the seduction of the senses into the Game of Fate, embracing body and soul together as one great happening.

The sorcerous practitioner entices the body to extend itself, the Free Soul, into a wandering from the perception of self as static and individuated into that of an event whose origins lie within the deep well of primal creation: chaos, desire, and the birth of the cosmos.

Also, this:


Hail to the Dark Weaver, Old Dame Fate, God Herself!

“She has seen the fading light upon the boles, she says. She has been waiting for you, she says. Trees grow in a tangle from the knoll behind her. She holds the heart of the forest in her hands. A gift, she says.

Dark and firm, yet not unkind, Goddess with all-seeing hands, Mystery upon Mystery buried beneath Your throne. Hail the black birds who move about the Green and Burning Tree that forms Your crown. Embrace us, Your hidden children, and may our reach extend to You.”

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I’ve been saying this for a while, but perhaps not “here”.

In my estimation, in witchcraft, what makes someone part of one tradition or another isn’t necessarily that they have been passed certain lore, have become a guardian and receiver of it; I have ascertained in my studies that many of the threads of Traditional Witchcraft share the same Mysteries (with bioregional twists). None of our secrets are so unique.

What makes someone part of one tradition or another is with whom they throw in their lot—with whom they are clan, with whom they make covenants and vows. And this includes witches and spirits both living and dead.

The Craft as I know it is a familiar endeavor. In our traditions, we get up in each other’s business. We hold one another dear and support each other in tangible ways, not just sentiments. We can get messy, and we work it out when we do. We *love* each other. We are kin.

And it is as it should be—I wouldn’t want to be a part of a tradition that was individualistic and whose initiates numbered many who were distant and cold and not interested in true familial bonds and responsibility. In fact, that’s a big part of why I supported the split of Old Faery from public Feri.

Where the lore piece comes in, for me, is that our corpus of lore is the collection of stories we share with one another. All families have stories. Ours are about our clan and our relationships with the spirits we adore and are devoted to, and our relatives living and dead. That’s why they are private, intimate, and sometimes secret. They’re our “family recipes” for witching, for doing the work of a witch. Witchcraft is bound in Story, and the Cosmos is relational. To witch is to participate in the sharing and telling and furthering of Story—to participate in the weaving of reality, the Game of Fate.

And when someone new comes along, and we recognize that spark of kinship, we adopt them in. It’s a process that takes time and effort; the building of trust and intimacy, just as you would when joining any family.

It reminds me, in a lot of significant ways, of when I was dating Rj Spencer, and we had a talk about how different the white families of the men he’s dated were to the black family he grew up in and all the other POC families he was intimately familiar with. For him, there were some very obvious and significant differences in closeness that he witnessed and observed.

Suffice to say, I don’t wanna be in a WASP-y trad. I choose co-reliance, cooperation, interconnection, interdependence, and true family. Love is a verb, y’all.

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Andraste-Hekate in saffron robes,
Wanderer in the shades and tombs,
You Queen within the Deeper Well
Pray, lead your faithful into Hell.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

Keeper of the key to the crystal cave,
Your mouth is opened as the grave
and with cunning you have swallowed the day:
As our kind sheds mortal skin to join the Fae.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

Mortal man into immortal Elf,
A throng over-watched by a Skull on a shelf.
The tomb door swings freely, as free as true speech,
A pale hand is extended and longs for your reach.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

The Mouth of the Dead is open in hunger,
Your hospitality refuses none of our number.
Though your Cauldron boils not the food of a coward,
The Wise with feasts and gifts are showered.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

You are weaving all Fate within your dark halls
Of onyx and jet with jewels set in the walls.
The smooth polished surface is like a great mirror,
And in these reflections your children dance nearer.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

A Mountain, a Tower, a great burning Pyre,
An altar of bones holds the dark Stone of Fire.
To the Child of Promise, Midnight’s Black Graal,
Over the Ocean of Dreaming set sail!

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

Milk-white sails on a silvered ship,
Unnumbered nights on a misty trip;
The truly wise go forth and back,
Fleet-footed passage on twisted track.

Your torches are bright
In the dread of midnight.
Follow down the darker light
And feed upon the Milk of Might.

Welcome the children of the Sabbat Mountain
Into the Cauldron, the Tomb, the black Fountain.
Welcome them Mother wherever they roam,
Into your bosom you gather us Home.

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The body of flesh is an expression of the Free Soul. They are the same reality, they are the same, full stop. That the Free Soul can express itself as apparently extended and “apart” from the flesh is a great mystery of the witching ways. In historical and folkloric records one can often find the witch “flying” away from the flesh and clothed in the (second) skin of the Fetch-beast, their Free Soul “lifted” and filled with the vitality of the Breath Soul.

But the destructive teaching of the “split” of spirit and matter leads us to false notions of the body being distinct from the Free Soul. The immortal self of dreams, which springs forth from and falls back into the Unseen character of reality’s interior, is expressed as the body.

Let me reiterate: the Free Soul is materialized in the flesh. Indeed, within the cosmology of witchcraft, there is no such thing as immaterial. Spirit itself is material, material is spirit. They are the same, there is no “split”. It is human convention that has led us down this confused and overly-cerebral path away from the Wholeness of all things.

Such a conception is birthed, ultimately, in Neo-Platonism, and gave rise to capitalism later on. For when you separate the spirit from the material, you make the world a commodity to be used and consumed with little forethought; you have stripped the sacred out of the physical, especially the Body, which is the Holy Temple of the Mysteries, the prima materia of magic.

This leads me to further thoughts about the Compass Round, the Circle of Arte in sorcery and traditional witchcraft. This device of witchery is not only something that you perform and make upon the face of the Land, it is also a device that is at work within the Body: for the body of the sorcerer and the body of the Land are One, and they are both infused and interpenetrated with the Cunning Fire.

I have been focusing a lot of my attention on my Compass which I carry within my Self. It is a powerful tool with which to engage the living realities of Land, Sky, and Sea, Fire itself burning deep within the heart of the Compass, turning the heart Black.


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Imprecation to Ana

Ride me bone-white grandmother,
clothed in night’s mid-most hour,
wint’ry queen with your icy breath
who comes to reap us at our death.
Your long nails scratch upon my skin,
your song seduces me to let you in.
The scythe you wield dances over me
as nine blue suns come to set me free.
A shrieking wail erupts from my depths
to answer your presence in moment-darkest.
All cower and bow before your mighty grace
as braver kind dare to look upon your face.
It is in the eyes, the way they shine
with wintercold light and frosty rime.
Your chilly words can shake our souls
when you come to collect the faery tolls.
Heed, and peace, you ancient Hag,
Teach us, feed us, from your sealskin bag.
What is hidden please reveal,
and join our table at the silent meal.

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Fire & Breath

Princely One among the Dead,
whose heron footfalls softly tread
their winding way to my night-bed.
Conjoined, we make gold from lead.

You share your Fire, I share my Breath.

Fallen into the deep waters churning
my soul erupts with sweetest yearning:
quake my bones with shadow-gifts,
when on the night-wind my Spirit lifts.

You share your Fire, I share my Breath.

Rake me over the burning coals,
twist the threads of my three souls.
I am no witch without want of you,
So set me afire and forge me true.

You share your Fire, I share my Breath.

Sky Iron fallen into the depths of the earth,
beaten and shaped on the stone of my hearth.
My body is the same as the Land itself,
Re-member this knowing, my Princely Elf.

You share your Fire, I share my Breath.

Midnight illumined as dawning day,
the Murky Sun lights the Faery Way:
Between Stars above and Stars beneath,
Hand-in-Hand we fare Hill and Heath.

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