The Things I Learned From Chaos Magick.

Nothing is Real and Everything is Permitted. 

I am 14 years old, and kneeling at my altar. On it are effigies of Sekhmet and Anubis. At some point in time these spirits have presented themselves to me in dreams and visions - and for all I knew (or cared) the images they presented were wholly valid. I did not stop to run these spirits through the wringer and make them declare themselves to me. I did not test or argue with them. I accepted that the faces they gave to me were the faces they wanted me to see.

I went forward with the knowledge that at any point in time I could be proven wrong, and that the flexibility of my paradigm would allow for that without fundamental damage to it.  And for probably ten years the flexibility was never tested. And then one day I evoked "My Mother", and her face was hard, and her hair was not ringlets of black mane, but serpents. And a bolt went through my heart "This is a Gorgon, not a Kemetic goddess." And I looked to "My Father" - and I no longer saw a Jackal-headed man. I saw a man wearing a wolf-skin.

"Well, fuck" I said "Are y'all still okay with being called Sekhmet and Anubis... or... ?"

"I don’t recall inviting you to my table."

The Elasticity of A Metaphor.

It all started with a tree. It was a very old tree which had grown from a nut dropped by an even older tree (and so on and so on) until, one might surmise, one had reached the ancient proto-ancestor of the tree. It was a peculiar and towering tree native to one region of the world, later introduced to countless others. The tree was in danger of being struck down and burnt, and beloved as it was someone elected to cut it down gracefully. They sawed the trunk into great planks and spread the planks amongst the people who loved the tree. From these planks were made tables.

One particular table stayed in one very small community, passed on and around between generations. Until, well, the story of the Table had all but been forgotten. Someone had put a heavy varnish on the once breathing wood, and that was that - the line of family who had cared for it all but died out. So, the last person remembering the tale gave the table to someone outside of the community. They hoped that the desperate act would keep the table's story going for another few centuries.

The new keeper had modern sensibilities, and did not like the "savage" woodgrain. So they painted the table white - white for purity and innocence and never once doing anything naughty, EVER.  They never saw the grain of the tree again, nor felt the texture of it's natural surface. The ribald undulations of wild wood were, thus, buried.

Later on they passed the table on, and the next person did not like the high-gloss white, and instead painted it a matte black. Black's the color of night, and dark things. And just looks -classy-. But in time they grew tired of the table and passed it to someone else.

And then someone spraypainted it. And then someone else did a faux wood finish. And then someone else did decoupage with Vishnu in the middle surrounded by Christian saints. And then someone looked a the hulk and said "I wonder what's underneath it all? I wonder how it was made so I can just make my own, the way -I- want?"

If Talk Be Bothersome To Ye...

If even seeing a photo of ritually anointed bread causes you to recoil and make snotty comments? Maybe you're not invited to their table. They have bloody bread on that table.
If the idea that somewhere, someone, killed something for their faith sends you into paroxysms of rage? Maybe you're not invited to my table. I have ritually slaughtered meat on my table.

The irony is that there are sources of information on true, deep, old, witching lines. Unbroken enough to be likely candidates for the shennanigans at Saveock Water - but if "seekers" balk at a photo of bread lovingly smeared with menstrual blood, I think they'd balk a lot harder at anecdotes like: "And so I had ritual sex with my high-priestess while her moon flowed. And those co-mingled fluids were then used to rim the wineglass from which the rest of the covine drank." Even if it's VERY Traditional, and VERY potent stuff... it's just not for everyone. It's not their table, and they're not invited, anyway.

Crossroads.

So, here's how it is - that whole downtime a bit back? That was about the tone of this blog, it's content, and the direction it had been taking.  That direction? Wibbly, apologetic, pagan. And I am not an apologetic.

Things change now. They change because demand has been issued, and need must be met.

As Peter Grey said: "The Western Tradition has fallen over itself to be respectable, and in doing so has pulled its own claws."

Safety and Pointy Bits.

Sometimes bloodletting is required. It's not something every person will have to do, or even consider doing, but sometimes the spirits take it without asking - we've all had an knife that bites, or a boline that gouges. For a very long time I operated in circles where bloodletting was a normal, and rather routine (even blase) part of the proceedings. I've been around it enough to see the sacred, profane and pornographic sides of it.

So here's an entry on handling "Sharps". Not just in the sense of bloodletting, but in the whole of one's "juju stuff". ATTENTION: This is not medical, nor legal, advice. Go to a doctor or a lawyer for that.

Icky-Bits Pt.1a - Responses.

Harold Roth, an herbalist, businessman, Juju-dude, and author that I have a lot of respect for left a rather large comment to my last entry. It brought up a lot of points that I felt bore following up on - unfortunately when I tried to copy the text of that comment, the blogger system consumed it with a fiery passion - I got the text into an e-mail, and it's from there that I'll be copying. Instead of posting it here first, I e-mailed him with my response. A far more candid version of what I'll post here.

I expected a reply in the terse-and-or-pissed vein. It's part and parcel to the topic, and I didn't question for a moment that someone would bring up the downside, dark side...etc. I did address ethics, but I did not address them in absolutes - that's not something I'm in the market to do. That's the "problem" with the Occult, what is an ethical issue for one is not for another.

Icky Bits Pt. 1 : "Permissions" of Sacrifice & Toadbone

The Seed of The Topic. 

Eric from "Philosophies of a Witch" asked a few salient questions concerning The Toadbone Rite over on another blog. Not only were/are my comments not showing up, that is just not the place to discuss this.

This is a topic that, right now, I could write you a book on the whole thing.  That is because The Rite encompasses a number of moral puzzles, social quandaries, and occult niches which are not routinely discussed - and there's reasons for that. Chumbley's treatment "One: The Grimoire of The Golden Toad" is meant for Cunningfolk and Sorcerers who do not need to be mushroom stamped (NSFW) by morality and ethics - The Witch is the holder of their conscience.  If I were to expound, 'cause I'm damned well gonna, I'd go into those nooks and crannies - they interest me. I like discussing them, I like the moral puzzles and what great power and wonder they bring to the table. These are part of what make the rite as powerful as it is.

This is a topic a little like the Dandelion - You would not assume it's ad weighty as it appears. You might assume a lot of the hub-bub is just bluster... but bound up in the discussion of one, small, English rite are matters that can apply to all areas of Traditional Witchcraft and it's modern incarnation.

The Prior Downtime

I've been noticing lately that the tone of my blog has gone into places I didn't really want it to. It nudged at areas I was initially pleased with - but I found the results of it displeasing.

I was also getting bored with my old layout. This one's more simple, and a bit easier to read.

The blog was down for a couple of days while I sifted, sorted, and re-designed. Sorry for the wait.