|The Necronomicon - Archetype of Dangerous Knowledge|
I do my best not to shy away from any topic here. I feel that shying away from something in a medium as non-confrontational and hopefully tone-neutral as a blog means that I can't discuss it calmly and I don't like that idea one whit. I've discussed insanity, self-sacrificial magic (twice), and a myriad of other stickiness hidden in the bowels of my blog. And I'll be adding this one to the heap.
There has been a recent spate of blog posts about "dangerous knowledge" and/or "oversharing".The crux of the arguments being that if one shares knowledge and experience, "teh noobs" are immediately going to go out and get themselves all fucked up on it. Except... it's just not that damned simple.
The issue of "Dangerous Knowledge" is not easily summed up. Not even a post with 30-odd comments has yet managed to rectify the misunderstandings, benefits and/or pitfalls of concealing information. A dozen other posts broaching the issue hasn't clarified it either; it's just muddied the water and made a few people rather cross.
To Know.When I first started getting interested in woo-woo things, it was not for spiritual advancement. It was because something was doing it's best to end my life, and I wanted the power to fuck it up. I had already attracted the fabled worst-case-scenario by EXISTING. I never did any of the things people claim attract that attention. I never invited presences, or toyed with magic/k prior to it's arrival. I never so much as touched a ouija board, or watched The Craft.
See, I was happily reading one night, and saw a shadow slice through the corner of my room. It scared the shit out of me. It came back, and every time it did it showed itself a little more clearly. And every time my mood changed a little more. It attached itself to me, and parisitized me for, all told, about three years. Nothing I did made it any better, and it became so persistent, and so constant, that the dread, depression and helplessness that came with it began to feel almost "natural" - and that's when intrusive thoughts about self-harm began. It was my internal monologue, but it didn't have my flair for the English language. I realized what was happening, and I began praying... and it didn't work.
To Dare.So, I got online and asked around - of the people that would give me the benefit of a doubt, not a damned one would offer any help. They would just sort of waffle about dark magick, how unprepared I was, and how I was courting disaster. They were blaming the victim for the rape.
One phrase that kept coming up was "Banishing" - and when I did searches for that, Wicca and Paganism kept coming up. I went to local stores that were "woo-ish" and asked the owners (Gods bless them). They actually offered some help, albeit minor. And you know what? Shit got better. I actively engaged with a demon, that one thing everyone and their grandmother's familiar tells you not to do, and shit got better. I held it at bay, but it never went away. Still it tried, demanded, insinuated that I wanted and needed to die.
Nothing in the mamby-pamby "banish with light" bullshit I'd read told me how to KILL it. How to teach it the goddamned lesson it needed to learn. Nothing told me what it was, or what it was -doing- to me. GROOMING me to accept it's commands. No one would help "Thems bad dealings, kiddo. I won't have it on my head" And so ... one time I actually got very near to offing myself just to end the daily torture. By this point I was maybe fourteen.
To WillOne night, that bastard wormed it's way through my wards, and shields, and membranes. And it came at me. It was either going to possess me long enough to make me kill myself, or just long enough to displace me. And lemme repeat: I never did anything to invite it, I never did any of those bullshit stories people like to share to pat themselves on the back about their Uber Secrets. It came spoiling for a fight and I was unarmed. All I had was my claws and teeth - so I used them. I ate the motherfucker. I chewed, swallowed, and turned that thing to shit. The shit that it always was, the shit that it made me feel like. I drained it's vitality to heal the wounds it had inflicted on me, and whittled away at it's hold on this world as it tried to do with me. And it ran screaming, 'intestines' trailing like rubbery snakes.
To Be As Loud As I Fucking Please.I learned the value of silence. Silence is what almost had me dead, or worse. I know what to play close to the chest - and true Work is not one of the things to cow and veil. Had no one been willing to help me, I would've ended up dead. Having someone give me even the smallest arsenal was priceless. But, just eating it's viscera wasn't good enough - I wanted to know why it wanted me - so I summoned a demon.
Yeah, you read that right. I summoned a demonic entity (an Incubus, which seemed a good place to start) and demanded to know why one of it's ilk had laid into me. And the demon said "I will tell you this: I did not send it, none I know sent it. It had your scent - magic in your blood, and all around you, and wanted to take you for it's own. But you did it before it could do you. Our kind will never bother you again. Where you go, we will flee. When your name is spoken, we will tremble."
To this day, the Incubus I summoned is one of my most helpful spirit allies. I only call him a "demon" due to his stock and trade in "sin". And to this day, if something demonic is bothering people - the mention of my name sends it running. So, I did everything wrong, and it turned out perfectly.
So, I guess what I'm getting at here is this: FUCK your dangerous knowledge. Fuck your morals and high ideals. Somewhere there is a teenager slicing thin strips of their forearms off because a parasitic entity tells them to, and no one will climb down off of their high horse fucking long enough to give them the tools to gut the fucker doing it to them.
I guess what I'm getting at is...Had even one person stepped up to the plate of authority and knowledge that they claimed - my situation would've turned out a lot differently. I would have a lot less scars (mental and physical, especially physical) and a lot less trouble in my day-to-day life. If you spend long enough in a state of fear, you forget what it's like to not be afraid. If you are groomed to accept the instructions of an entity it's hard to block them out. Oh, sure, I can tell pretty quickly when someone "not me" is invading my meat - but I tend to have to listen to their yammering until I cut them off at the knees. Your conscience can't take offering up something that might be used to cause trouble? My conscience can't take not saying anything. Different strokes.