Spider Jerusalem is a close personal friend, and hero of mine
I love Christmas. There. I said it. I fucking love Christmas. I am a Christmas unicorn. I’m not exactly sure why people automatically assume that a weirdo magical star-man with a penchant for virulently contagious vitriolic rants and SARS-potent spite for things that are outdated and oppressive, or offend his delicate sensibilities, can’t also be full of virulently contagious Christmas cheer. Well here’s hoping that you are either fully innoculated against my choleric Christmas contagion or, like me, are already suffering from crippling sugarplum syphilis because Daddy Chrimbo has come early and he’s delivered the traditional gifts of dried Amanita muscaria mushrooms, reindeer piss, and a Christmas rant about Christmas. So gather round because Santa Claus wants some lovin’.
Usually, to celebrate the rebirth of the sun and the birth of sweet baby J, and to kindle the spirit of the season and remind folks that they have an actual spark of divine light and stardust inside them I find a reindeer, feed it powerful psychedelic mushrooms and follow it around with a jar until it begins cavorting like it’s off its face on drugs and collect the piss it sprays everywhere once it looses control of its bladder. Upon completion of this harrowing task, for it is no laughing matter to be kicked in the head by a reindeer while trying to get high, I steal swiftly out of the petting zoo and get to work.
Firstly, I don my traditional Christmas garb by slathering my body in a bucket of goose fat. Then comes a drinking game I call “visit the local mall whilst wearing nothing but said goose fat and some giblets and have a large swig of reindeer piss every time you successfully slip through the greasy fingers of your would-be captors”. After a quick stop at home to reapply the traditional and protective Christmas grease it’s time to get to work.
Sliding down peoples chimneys while naked and out of my tiny mind on hallucinogenic reindeer wee can be challenging at the best of times, but it’s worth it. I’m not really bothered by Santa’s whole not-being-seen rule whilst delivering joy to the world. I hope to startle people awake from their drunken Christmas dreams after sliding swift and smooth and nude down their chimneys and crashing into their, hopefully, cold fires in a mangled and giggling soot-covered tangle of contorted, gangly limbs. Unfolding six and a half feet of naked, greasy, skeletal drug-fiend amidst a roiling cloud of chimney soot and floating embers is enough to fill even the grinchiest of home owners with enough Christmas spirit to send them reeling backwards into spasms of terrible delight and Yuletide catatonia.
While the occupants of the house are still stunned and comatose with Christmas cheer, I quickly drop off gifts of dried mushrooms, loose change, and haribo gummies, and fill all the mugs in the house with my powerfully potent psychedelic piss. Then, borrowing a move from Kurt Russel (the best film star, and Santa who ever lived), I place my index finger against the side of my nose and, in a swirl of smoke and sparks, burst into coal-dust and fly back up the chimney, with care, to continue Kringle-ing the city until dawn.
These nightly excursions go on for weeks. From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas day and sometimes even up until Easter, depending on the ambient levels of Christmas spirit and my supplies of goose fat and reindeer wee.
And that, you wassailing weirdos , is what Christmas means to me.
This week, you glorious sparks of the divine, pulsating, cosmic trash-fire, I shall be rambling about eclipses. Specifically what a series of eclipses can do to a broken and neglected life.
Open on a college town in the Pacific Northwest circa 2009.
The writer’s life has gone completely tits up: no job, no life, few friends, only source of income is the buying and selling of illegal narcotics, existential beliefs are getting more nihilistic by the day, massive drug habit, suicidally depressed, and sleep deprived. Heroin withdrawal and cocaine psychosis have become integrated parts of his personality; tall and emaciated, but somehow oddly charming to those few humans he still interacts with. Things are going about as well as can be expected, our intrepid hero manages to get his fix most days as he burns bridge after bridge and isolates himself from any hope or lifeline. Even at this point, he knows that all this is building to something terribly final. Our anti-hero is going to go out like so many of his favorite musicians: smacked up and cracked up and alone. His genius cut down in its prime.
At least that was the romantic horseshit our star and lovable, junky-idiot used to paint his life with. The main problems with that depiction being: our hero is not now and certainly was not at that point any sort of genius, even as a bullshit-artist (which was his sole talent) he was only ranked among the best in his small town and would never have survived among real top-tier bullshitters, and he had not produced any evidence whatsoever of this supposed genius.
Enter the Cancer-Capricorn eclipse cycle.
Eclipses, in this writer’s humble and under-informed opinion, are about transformation. Explicitly, the sort of blow-up-your-fucking-car-while-you’re-inside-it-because-you-neglected-to-get-the-oil-changed transformation usually associated with the Tower card in tarot. The clearing away of old structures, relationships, habits, coping mechanisms, people, cars, money, belief systems, limbs, trust funds, etc.. If, like the writer in 2009, your life is a fucking shambles built out of lies, drugs, and broken coping mechanisms then the clearing away of those structurally unsound and massively dangerous slums can be uncomfortable and dramatic.
The areas of life being swept clean by an eclipse depend largely on which houses the eclipses of a given cycle are occurring in within one’s own birth chart. Here’s a quick and dirty breakdown of the houses and their meanings for those of you who don’t know and an easy site to get a free birthchart with interpretation for those of you who would like one. How vigorously the sweeping is done and whether or not the broom is actually a nuclear bomb depends largely on prevailing astrological influences, how the life in question is being lived and the level of adaptability currently at the disposal of the person living said life.
Smash cut back to 2009.
Our beloved, fucked up, junky loser totals his car at 8 in the morning after staying up all night doing drugs and arguing with an ex at her parents house. Lucky to be alive (he put out the driver’s side window with his head and the airbag didn’t deploy), he gets lucky again when the owner of the tree into which he wrecks his car comes out of his house radiantly high on meth and wants nothing whatsoever to do with the exchanging of insurance info or the calling of cops.
Star wipe to one and a half year depressing, junky montage of disappointed parents, no transportation, no money, and lots of intravenous drug use. Set to whichever the saddest Jeff Buckley song is, maybe “Lover You Should’ve Come Over”.
Fade to black.
Fade up on a cold and snowy Christmas season 2010. Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusher Man” plays as our writer, driving a new car, high as fuck, pockets filled with drugs and cash enjoys the last fun time he will ever have on the hard stuff.
Hectic party montage, lots of glitch hop, hotel rooms full of well dressed junkies, film speeds up as two weeks go by in a blur of bad decisions.
Smash cut to black.
Fade in on our hero, alone in the grossest apartment imaginable: used needles, empty baggies, rotting food, cat shit, and bills are piled up everywhere. The only “clean” areas are the couch upon which we find our writer and the path from the couch to the bathroom. Looking very frail and feverish, we see his arm is swollen to four times the size of its opposite and his fingers are beginning to turn purple. Delirious with fever and pain, he picks up the phone and calls his mom for a ride to the hospital.
Fast forward through a heartbreaking hospital scene, rehab, move in with girlfriend from rehab, relapse.
July 17 2017.
After purchasing a large amount of drugs and going to his parents’ house, his parents being out of town for the week, our hero proceeds to inject all of them in hopes of relieving the vast amount of inner turmoil, anxiety, depression, fear and shame that accompanies not being on drugs all the time. Nothing happens. No relief. Panic builds and a serious bout of cocaine psychosis and paranoia strikes leaving him locked in the top floor office with a loaded gun talking to himself. Suicide looks like a very good option.
And then something spectacular happens.
With the gun cocked and in his mouth he hears a voice. Not the whispering voices trying to scare him into pulling the trigger. A pleasant voice, a clear and sonorous voice with a warm and slightly effeminate British accent, spoken as if through a modest smile. An image flashes into focus of the scene he will leave his loved ones to find if he pulls the trigger. It is an utterly brutal scene that will remain with him forever and does not need to be described here. The soothing and utterly charming voice says, at the same moment the image is presented, “We can’t very well do that now can we, darling?”.
Flabbergasted and assuming he is in the presence of capital-G-O-D, he asks the only question his drug-addled brain can put together: “wait… you’re gay?”
At which the spirit laughs and, in the same fantastically charming hybrid of David Bowie and Freddy Mercury, responds, “I’m everything, darling”.
Our mind-blown and mystified mess of hero puts the gun down and calls his saintly girlfriend. She mercifully decides to keep him out of the psych ward and then drives him around town for three hours as he physically pulls the hair out of his head while raving about seeing demons on every street corner.
Fade to black.
Our hero wakes up the next day feeling fucking superb and not wanting to shove narcotics into his body for the first time in a decade. That feeling persists to this day.
“Cool story and all but what in the fuck did that have to do with eclipses?” Well, I’m glad you asked that, tired-literary-device; let’s shove some dates into the story above and see. December 21 2010, when I was partying my way through the holidays, there was a lunar eclipse in Cancer in my second house. January 4 2011, when that party was screeching to a halt due to scarcity of funds, there was a solar eclipse in Capricorn in my eighth house. I have no doubt that that one-two punch is what sent me, dying of a blood infection, to the hospital. Luck and my fancy, British guardian angel kept me here with all my arms and fingers intact. Then we had a solar eclipse in Gemini on June 1 2011 in my first house and a lunar eclipse in Sagittarius on June 15 2011 in my seventh house of partnerships (bless her heart she had almost as rough a time as I did). And then to cap it all off, on July 1 2011 there was a solar eclipse in Cancer.
As far as I can tell there wasn’t much else going on astrologically for me during those times so I, for the sake of this post and convenience, shall be blaming the total destruction of my terrible, junky life on the eclipses of 2009-2011. And I shall be crediting the glamorous and charming British spirit with the snatching of my life back from the abyss.
The good news is this; if your life is not a giant ball of neglected, junky cat shit then eclipses don’t have to be life-changing, horrific bummers of psychosis and bad decisions. We just passed out of the Cancer-Capricorn eclipse cycle and I had no issues at all. Or at least no issues like I did in 2010-11. I mostly stayed inside during the eclipses and chanted mantras or slept but I know folks who magically harnessed the power of those eclipses and used that dragon energy to power some pretty cool shit. Not my jam at the moment, but it seems to work for them.
I was going to go into remediation measures and the nodes and all that but honestly I would mostly be quoting the Coppocks so I shall link to Austin Coppock's stellar page (bad pun, boooooo) as well as his wonderful partner and super badass Kaitlin at Sphere and Sundry's post about south node remediation.
That’s all for this week you glamorous, galumphing, galaxy-brained glory-bees. Stay as joyful as you can in these crazy days and I’ll see you next week.
I’ve got a short one for you this week and it comes with a disclaimer: if you are easily offended by intimations of wrongdoing by the folks in charge, foul language, hyperbolic but/and completely accurate reportage about the state of the system, I suggest you set the device you’re reading this on ablaze and duct-tape a pair of horny scorpions to your eyeballs and think about your life choices.
Like this guy
Here’s a great example of why I would love it if the bloated and rotting corpse of our long-dead and parasite riddled empire would implode under the weight of its own corruption and decay: the Washington state unemployment system. During the first round of p(l)andemic bullshit, the system was overloaded with new claims and it was an appalling bureaucratic wet-dream; filled with rape-clowns, Dutch angle camera work, rusty filing cabinets, miles of red-tape bondage ropes, and dim, flickering, fluorescent lighting, to click through the questionnaire before the session timed out and you were forced to start again while, at unemployment headquarters, the bureaucrats swimming in self-hate and atavistic ecstasy at the suffering of the people all finished at once and ritually drowned an out of work electrician in their acid bukkake rain. We were told that hundreds of millions of dollars were paid out to Nigerian hackers who defrauded the state. And now during the second shut down 7 months later the head of the unemployment department is under investigation for embezzling funds (sorry Nigeria looks like it was actually a terrible white lady who stole millions from her constituents and not your infamous hackers). And now, somehow, with seven months to upgrade, the website is even worse than before, adding splintery wooden buttplugs and Carolina reaper lubricant to the nightmare. To successfully fill out and submit a claim I had to pray to every spirit of mercury, to Ganesh and Garuda, Dakshinamurthy, and Durga and the Ashwini twins and stay up until two am on a fucking Wednesday to get it through. (Praise be to the Divine Creator, Archangel Raphael, Hermes, Mercury, all the other spirits who helped—Mercurial and otherwise, Ganesh, Garuda, Dakshinamurthy, Durga, and the Ashwini twins, as well as saints Cyprian, Justina, and John the Baptist)
This is Lord Garuda
This amazing example of spirit teams in action and the horror of government in general seems to be a solid juxtaposition for 2020 as a whole: the entire previously stable material world shat the bed spectacularly for a lot of folks, with systems that felt solid and safe (like food and toilet paper supply chains and social welfare systems) crumbling as if they were made of tissue paper (that precious commodity) and held together with the dried semen left over from the drowning of sacrificial electricians, while the intangible took to the forefront and offered support and comfort. Of course the non-physical has, from the beginning of this flaming pile of covid fatalities of a year (still very low numbers in Washington with a 98% survival rate so the pile isn’t all that big) been harnessed as a weapon by those in power both politically and socially with fear and paranoia and social distancing and mask-shaming. It’s interesting that a country so opposed to the communism of the USSR reached immediately for the same fucking tactics of fear and self policing that they demonized as a justification their cold war but I suppose McCarthy, that fuck, did the same thing in the 50’s so it should come as no real surprise.
The good news is this: the people in charge of weaponizing the non-physical seem to have a very limited idea of what is possible and luckily for us, the folks in charge of telling us what to do seem to, as a prerequisite for being in power, have had the part of the brain responsible for imagination surgically removed with a sharp blow to the head from a rusty hammer. Which leaves the field wide open for us to build a better 2021. So, as N’Sync so brilliantly put it in their criminally-underrated song: Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays.
It saddens me to write this but with “cancel-culture” as popular as it is right now and with this blog obviously being popular enough to warrant canceling due to any one of the sentences above I feel this disclaimer has become necessary: (Sometimes) I, the writer, do not truly believe that the (lizard)people employed by the Washington state unemployment bureau actually sacrifice noble, out of work, electricians to their Lovecraftian Elder Gods by drowning them in their super-acidic reptilian jizz. Nor am I writing this to make light of the people that have died of COVID this year like that guy who was stabbed to death and then listed as a COVID fatality or the people with 5 co-morbidities like obesity, full blown AIDS, liver failure, drug overdose, gunshot wounds, etc, that died solely because of COVID. I simply enjoy using colorful language and hyperbole to really drive my points home. Think Hunter S Thompson writing in Rolling Stone that one of the candidates during the ’72 presidential race was addicted to ibogaine or any televised news outlet covering anything and you'll have a rough approximation of the liberties I've taken.
Engaging with my life and goals and taking the motherfucking initiative. Initiative, dear reader, is something that has been in short supply in my life from the get go. My moon is in Taurus and, because that moon is the ruler of my sun, what that means in a nutshell (or more appropriately a ferrero rocher wrapper) is; I am naturally drawn to the most comfortable route and, like a bull, can dig my heals in when it comes to change not carefully chewed over or chosen of my own free will. Said another way; I have an excuse written in the stars to be a lazy, stubborn, ass. I was recently standing in front of my mars altar asking for drive and courage, energy and passion, fierce will and tactical striking power (as one does of a Tuesday) and as can happen when one is barely awake and a bit stoned, getting very little out of the exchange when, like the impact of a hammer on a white-hot sword, it occurred to me in simple clear terms: asking for something every week and then, job done, sitting back and waiting for the results to show up on my doorstep like a fucking amazon package is asinine and insane. Outside of the all-powerful, all-seeing, all-dystopian, overlords of all time and space, the omniscient demiurge that is *all bow* AMAZON, there is not another situation that comes to mind where I can just ask for something, hit a button (or light a candle) and walk away expecting to receive what I’ve just requested without putting some energy or effort in before, during, or after. Of course I would have to, when asking for divine assistance with energy levels etc, put in some fucking energy! So I went in the next room and I exercised, something that I am about as inclined to do as I am to lick a spider’s asshole, and much to my surprise I was filled with the drive and energy and passion that I had been asking for, sadly the same cannot be said for tonguing spider anus. That energy lasted me through the busiest shift behind the bar that I’d had in weeks, fasting all the while, I maintained good energy and a (mostly) good attitude and people were friendly and energetic and it was a glorious, lucrative, fun, Tuesday. Receiving this insight from my friendly neighborhood Martial spirits and then acting on it is one of the reasons I love magic. Getting to know my own thoughts so that when one comes in from somewhere else I can recognize it, mull it over, and then do something with it or give it a miss.
Mostly I have found that acting on these outside thoughts has led to a much better quality of life with higher productivity and better mood, more joy and more fun, and more following of bliss as it skips merrily down the road in front of me pausing to sniff flowers and pointing out cute animals along the way while I stare at its butt. I suppose a disclaimer here would be appropriate, something like: if you’re working with some spirits and they tell you to start hurting people or sticking your head in the fire or stripping naked and tormenting a group of seniors, on leave from the home to buy soup and feed ducks, by swapping their dentures for those novelty chattering teeth soaked in LSD, then maybe think twice about acting on those impulses, or at the very least don’t blame it on me when you’re arrested.
This small success inspired me to try taking the initiative for a whole week, making concrete steps toward the goals that I was asking the planetary forces to assist me in achieving and, lo and behold, it worked out quite well. As I mentioned above, I started on a Tuesday and took steps to get energized beyond the usual routine of herbal stimulants and bitching about being tired and with only 20 minutes of exercise I was steaming with energy. Electricity crackling between my fingers, Martial fires stoking the furnace of the forge in my heart and tummy, pupils dilated like a jaguar munching ayahuasca and ready to strike, full to the brim with confidence and power. It was amazing and I had a genuinely good time at work selling booze and blasting witty banter-bombs at the endless stream of revelers, fast and calculated movements getting me from point to point, I quite literally danced and sang my way through the shift and made good money doing it.
Wednesday was my only day off in about ten days but I must’ve been feeling the afterglow from the day before and instead of weeping out the comedown as you do when you spend all night bursting with energy, dancing and singing, with your pupils dilated, I decided to take some more initiative. Since I was asking the Mercurial forces for assistance with inspiration, creativity in writing, magic, healing and the like I figured I’d just sit down and write and almost immediately my minuscule effort was rewarded with the idea for this blog post. I applied some of Sphere and Sundry’s* Mercury oil and felt an amphetamine lightning bolt of intellectual inspiration from my balls to my crown chakra and off I went, fingers fan dancing flirtatiously across the keys, clicking and tickling out surreal literary melodies in a state of ecstasy as I watched those divine digits decimate blank pages and deliver me dumbfounded at the end of this sentence. Another success.
Thursday was a bit different. Planetarilly speaking, I have historically tended to vibe more with Mercury, Venus, Moon, Mars than Jupiter, Saturn, Sun because of my own personal planetary placements: Jupiter in fall, Sun below horizon, Saturn retrograde in a water sign. My wife on the other hand is all Jupiter all the time, her chart is 256 bunches of Jupiterian bananas (or more appropriately grapes). Every one of her natal planets falls in a sign ruled by Jupiter; half in Pisces and half in Sagittarius, and she gets amazing results from her Jupiterian offerings and workings so I’ve been warming up to Jupiter who, it should be said, has always done me right and been there for me when needed. So Thursday I asked, as I have been for some time, for joy and beneficence, expansion of resources, and greater goodwill towards my fellow humans and I had no idea how I was supposed to initiate-ize those requests, until I got to work. It was cold as all fuck and blustery and pissing rain sideways on the pier where I work and there are a large group of families who were out there fishing for squid; mom, dad, grandad, uncle, aunty, grandma, and so many kids. So it occurred to me that a good way to foster joy and goodwill and beneficence would be to discount those folks’ bills and offer them hot drinks on the house and the like. Everyone was so grateful and happy and friendly and if anything got expanded that night it was my fucking heart. It was achingly sweet to have so much happiness created by such a simple gesture. I should also say that I received very good tips that night even though it was slow, which was never the goal but which seemed to me like a fairly Jupiterian reward. Jupiter for me has always been happy to provide assistance when asked, with the understanding that I will have to work for what I’m after. Want more joy? Be nicer and more jovial. Want more money? Here’s a week of double shifts at work. Want to expand your blessings? Go expand someone else’s and I’ll sort you out. Want success? Take the initiative. Success.
Friday, oh my dear sweet Friday. Venus was the first planetary Deity I ever made contact with and holy fucking shit did I make contact. With only Sphere and Sundry’s Venus in Taurus oil, a costume change, and a recitation of the Orphic hymn to Venus I had The Empress of Desire herself, in all of her resplendence as the Morning Star explode into my bedroom. That moment was the closest I’ve ever come to shitting myself with an erection. As with all beautiful beings I’ve come into contact with, I didn’t know what to do once I had Venus in my bedroom, and I basically ran away and tried to figure out if I should banish the whole house or just burn it down. After my wife came home and verified that there was definitely something not sanctioned by official reality in the bedroom (easing my overwhelming fear that I had completely lost my mind) I ended up apologizing to Venus for my idiocy and incompetence. Over the years I have gotten to know her vibes and she seems to find me amusing, she has been an incredible help to both my wife and myself and our relationship and made life sweeter, softer, more creative, and more beautiful, loving, and passionate in every way. The things I ask Venus for are none of your fucking business. Needless to say, I took the initiative and it all worked out splendidly. Success!
Saturday, dreaded Saturday. Ruled by the dark lord of time and death, boundaries and restrictions, The Greater Malefic, Saturn. I have never been a fan of restrictions, boundaries or limits and have done my adolescent best to rage against them, indulging in the excessive consumption of every illegal substance known to man and basically just doing the opposite of what any rule-crazy fucker or good intentioned adult told me to do. I do, however, enjoy well built, finely crafted things with strong foundations, dedication, the inexorable progression toward my intended goals, the ability to move boundaries that have grown too tight, magic, finding treasure, and wealth. All of which I have been asking Saturn for whilst doing fuck-all to make it happen. So on this Saturday I decided to put my nose to the grindstone and do as many of the things I had tasked myself to do to further my long-term goals, and had been putting off due to lack of fun and interest, as I could before going to work. Hard to say how it went due to the time depth of the goals in question, and it seems that acting without expectation of immediate, or indeed any, reward is what Saturn is all about but I got the distinct impression when making my offering and prayer the next week that I was moving in the right direction and that Saturn appreciated the effort which is, in my experience, about as close to overjoyed as Saturn gets. Success.
An Overjoyed Saturn
Sunday was lovely. I asked for an increase in joy, cheeriness, energy, and wealth, to illuminate the path forward, to be seen by those who would further my goals and remain invisible to those who would do me harm (infinite thanks and gratitude to Dr. Al Cummins and Jesse Hathaway-Diaz for this tip about using the luminaries magically both to be seen and to be hidden, and for their podcast Radio Free Golgotha* and everything else they get up to). How to take the initiative? I don’t fucking know. I’m not an un-cheery fellow, folks seem to like me, but I can be a bit cynical, and I’ve historically been quite prone to depression and enjoyed the comforting darkness of oblivion rather than the sweet light of day. I struggled here y’all, and I ended up settling on just trying to be extra joyful: singing and playing and acting like I was that baby on The Sun card, like I had the sun in my heart and could feel that actual spark of starlight and divinity inside me. It took a while but in acting like I could feel that spark I ended up connecting with it, actually feeling it, and having a really lovely day full of pleasant encounters with friendly sunny people. I’m gonna call this one a success as well but it was the least forthcoming and I definitely had to work the hardest to get it.
Monday. Luminous, mellow, relaxing, quiet, creative, contemplative, magical, Monday. As a member of the Crustacean Crew, I love the Moon, it does tangibly weird things to my body and brain when I look at it and I can’t stop myself from looking if it’s visible. The 3 days on either side of the full Moon are very productive for me because during that time I very rarely sleep. I always hated Mondays while in school because some part of me knew that it was a holy day, the true sabbath, a day of rest and enjoyment (moon in Taurus remember), certainly not a day for bus rides with assholes to a school full of the worst humanity has to offer: hormonal teenagers. Mondays are truly special to me now that I can choose to treat them with the respect and reverence they deserve; I will not, unless faced by some as-of-yet undiscovered emergency, work on a Monday. Mondays are sacred to Shiva and he’s super fucking cool, enough said. My Lunar requests have to do with increasing my powers of manifestation, magical and psychic abilities, creativity, and material resources, as well as shrinking those things which no longer serve me and remaining hidden from those who would do me harm, and lighting my way through the darkness. So I worked on some magical projects and did some writing and reading, and some extra meditation to stretch those psychic and magical muscles. Also, I smoked a bunch of weed. I can’t say for sure if Monday was a success, my relationship with the Moon is always evolving (the dad in me wanted so badly to say waxing and waning) and I have found that feeling the cycles of the Moon and acting accordingly, putting in energy and starting and growing things while the moon waxes and resting and finishing while it wanes, has been a great way to honor and work with those energies. Success?
There you have it y’all, an entire week of taking the initiative and reaping the magical rewards. I don’t know why this is a lesson I need to keep learning but I’m hoping that having a record of it will keep me in the habit more often.
Since writing this some weeks back, I have noticed that keeping up with my magical initiatives has been much easier and that, even though I’m doing more every day, I seem to have more time and energy for the things I enjoy than I did before I started. Which could very well be a testament to the incalculable levels of sloth I was indulging in before I started than anything else. Either way, I am counting this as a win and am super grateful to that spirit of Mars for kicking my ass out of neutral and into a spluttering first gear.
*Myrrhkwood.com has no official affiliation with or to Sphere and Sundry, Dr. Al Cummins, Jesse Hathaway-Diaz, or Radio Free Golgotha beyond being a massive fan of everything they do.
The ceremony itself was beautiful and awe inspiring and terrifying and time-warping and healing on a deeper level than I could’ve conceived. It was also delayed because of the wildfires that ripped through the PNW in August and September. The date chosen for the rescheduled ceremony was another massive synchronicity for me as it “just happened” to fall on the feast day of one of my patron saints, the esteemed, super badass, and massively popular among occultists, St. Cyprian of Antioch; patron saint of magicians. To have the ceremony rescheduled to his feast day turned out to be amazing and this final synchronicity was the one that eased my apprehensions the most. I have been working with St. Cyprian for some time now; he was actually one of my first introductions to an organized occult practice and he has been an invaluable guide, teacher, protector, and patron to me in that time.
Back to the ceremony.
We arrived around 7pm, set up our nest of pillows and blankets and sleeping bags outside and sat around nervously until 10 or 11. First we were guided through some meditations and then the ceremony leaders administered some ritually grown “hapé”, a type of tobacco grown in the jungles of South America, by blowing it up participants noses via a large wooden tube. I was told that since it was my first time I couldn't have hapé and I was super fucking bummed and wanted it even more. Then the vomiting began and I was perfectly fine with being excluded. Once everyone had their nose and throats full of powdered tobacco and most of the vomiting had stopped it was time to drink the ayahuasca. The ceremony leaders began to sing their “time to drink the medicine song” and my testicles quickly ascended up into the back of my throat, my mouth was dry but the rest of my body was clammy, I felt like a stoned and paranoid frog with his balls in the back of his mouth. I was second in line to drink and when I was given my ceremonial shot glass and swallowed my testicles back down to their usual place along with the medicine I was surprised at how sweet the medicine was: I was prepared for bitter and earthy and viscous, all of which were present in abundance, but not for the sweetness, apparently there are a lot of sugars present in the plants involved and the act of simmering them down for days of ritual silence concentrates them into a shot that is kind of like mud and opium and cough syrup but also not at all like anything I’ve ever tasted on this earth.
Ayahuasca is, for those of you who don’t know, a potent brew of (mainly) Banosteriopsis caapi and Psychotria viridis, with other plants added depending upon specific ritual purpose or preference of the ayahuascero brewing it. B. caapi contains a powerful monoamine oxidase inhibitor or MAOI and P. viridis contains N,N-dimethyltryptamine or DMT. DMT is actually found in a ton of plants but remains inactive if ingested without something to stop our natural supplies of monoamine oxidase from neutralizing it before it gets to our brain. Did I mention earlier that I have a deep and abiding interest in drugs and pharmacology?
About 30 minutes after I drank my shot the guy who drank before me started puking quietly into his bucket so I grabbed my bucket and waited… and waited, and waited. Nothing. I listened as the visuals began to kick in to everybody else vomiting and began to feel a bit left out again. At this point my body collapsed over my ten gallon bucket and the visions began in earnest. I had enough presence of mind left to begin silently repeating: “Mother Ayahuasca, I come to you with all due respect and supreme humility to ask that you please heal me”. This trick I learned after a disastrous run in with the plant spirit of Salvia divinorum served to ease some of the pants-shitting terror that I felt when my body turned off and left me semi-conscious and in between two very different states of being. I was experiencing sound on a level I had never known possible, as the songs began to take shape in front of my eyes and enter into my body and transport my consciousness to wherever it goes when one is being operated on by ancient, divine feminine, plant medicine goddesses, angels, and their operating assistants. At some point I managed to lie down and let myself be completely carried away by the medicine. I have no way of describing what happened beyond synesthetic snippets of seeing surreal, faceless giants made of a vibration closer to sound than matter above me as if I were actually on an operating table.
I became aware that something was poking my physical self and came back to my body by small increments as the poking turned into gentle shaking. My eyes came back into focus on official reality and I saw my love poking me and giggled and poked her back. She laughed and said it was time for the second dose. I was genuinely shocked that anyone could take more than what I was already experiencing but managed to sit up, the world around me slipping between states and morphing in sacred geometry and outlandish colors dictated by the vibrations of the sounds around me. I stood up like I had been huffing ether and wobbled my way to the altar like Johnny Depp as Hunter S Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, dropped hard onto my knees and tried to focus my eyes on the fiery-aura dispensing the medicine. I looked into his eyes and he gave me what I thought was a scrutinizing look as if judging whether or not to give me another dose and then he poured the ayahuasca. I took the shot glass thinking he must have poured me just a drop and held it to the light to verify and was shocked again to find that he had poured at least as much in this time as the last. Giving a sputtering snort of a laugh I downed the glass and melted up onto my feet throwing a “haux” of thanks over my shoulder as I collapsed down onto my nest and was immediately blasted, like a particle of psychedelic gelatin in the hadron collider, back into the medicine as my body fell over frontways into my still empty puke bucket.
It was around this time that things began to get weird and would’ve been face-meltingly frightening if I had possessed the capacity for rational thought. A low-pitched roar, paired with overtones of amplifier feedback began to tear a hole in the fabric of my already awesomely altered reality. I found that I could “see” the vibrations of this sound combination creating a tunnel in time/space/reality/matter and this tunnel had a pull that I was powerless to resist. Someone in ceremony was sobbing: anguish made manifest bounced around unseen walls creating harmonies of echoing despair. Moments later I was aware of the sound and presence of a giant being snuffling around my physical head and was frozen with what should have been terror but was somehow too detached to be afraid: I was in the presence of something much bigger and older than myself, something that could have, with no effort, ended my existence. The thing snuffled and truffled and made elephantine blasts in deep rhythmic patterns all around the ceremony and I began to have the impression of insects or scorpions for some reason. Then came the demon. In a low growl I heard a being that I could not bring myself to look upon chanting “Om mani padme hum”. Certain that this being had emerged from the underworld, I could feel the flames curling around it like Tibetan buddhist representations of demons. Another voice joined in a much higher octave and their power was terrible and awesome and I became aware that they, as demons, were an intrinsic part of reality and were there, not to hurt anyone maliciously but to bring healing in their own way and that the fear I should've been feeling was most likely just a reaction to their levels of raw power and not any evil or negative intentions the beings were harboring. As Gordon White says: “sharks gonna shark”, they don't eat us because they’re evil or bad, they eat us because they’re higher on the food chain, and these demons felt similarly powerful and indifferent to human life. And yet they were here in a healing capacity, of that much I was sure even if I was too awestruck to look at them.
The chanting stopped and the music took on a less menacing vibration, I felt the heavy under/otherworld power and darkness begin to lift, light began to filter into the music, my spirits brightened with the songs, and I became sure that I had shit in my sweatpants and, not for the first time, decided that I was in no position to deal with it at that moment.
The icaros took on a playful tone and the leader of the ceremony did a dance that channeled, or made him look like, an old man stomping around the circle shouting “hey” and everyone laughed and played and the joy of shaking off all of the heavy stuff that had been drudged up by the earthbound/otherword/underworld spirits was pure ecstasy.
At this point I felt as if I’d been in the medicine for about 10 hours and it was still going strong though my body was now capable of sitting up and shifting between official reality and medicine reality, so I was genuinely gobsmacked to hear the ceremony leaders announce that it was 3:33 and, as such, time for the optional third dose. I felt amazing and was quite sure that I had done the work that I had come to do that night so I declined and enjoyed the rest of the songs on a more superficial level. I could still feel them reordering bits of my body and energy but they were no longer slurping me through wormholes like lightspeed linguini into alien landscapes populated with scorpion demons or giant star doctors or snuffling elephant monsters.
The rest of the ceremony was like being around a campfire with my best friends even though I only knew 3 of the other 12 folks there. I felt better than I ever remember feeling: it was like being rebuilt from the ground up on a molecular, energetic, vibrational, and physical level. Ayahuasca reached all up in me and got rid of a bunch of coping mechanisms that I had grown out of and optimized me for actually living my best life. Which sounds fucking ludicrous and if someone had said that to me on September 25 I would’ve told them to get fucked but holy shit this medicine works and it works in ways that are not understandable through the lens of official reality. I genuinely feel like I had a vibrational tune up and an energetic cleansing and a physical healing all at once and over the course of like 3 hours that felt like 12 because Ayahuasca operates completely outside of time and as the Mother of All Medicines she can do it all.
I started this post a few days after the ceremony and, as you can see, didn’t finish it until almost 2 months later (blame it on 2020). Before the ceremony I had taken a prolonged break from any and all occult practices beyond check-ins with my patrons and some light prayer after an encounter with some spirits that left me feeling like I had grabbed hold of a high tension power line with my teeth. More on that some other time. Since the ceremony I have gotten back into some regular practices with much better results than I had been getting before; I feel closer to that realm or like it is more readily accessible and easier to communicate with, like part of my tune up was optimizing me for this work.
There is such an amazing presence with Ayahuasca and she really does seem to be some sort of incarnation or avatar of the divine feminine spirit, the All-Mother, nurturing and healing, powerful and ancient, loving and playful, awesome and terrifying. I am so grateful to have been given the chance to experience such an incredible healing with such great people in a safe and familiar environment with experienced ceremony leaders and two great friends and my wonderful wife. I would honestly recommend this medicine to anyone; it was like being in Tom Bombadil’s house; love and magic and healing and joy dripping from the rafters. And what could be better medicine for an epoch-ending year like 2020 than that?
Welcome children, gather round as your favorite rascal and ne’er-do-well fills your minds, and more importantly, your hearts with the AM radioactive, iridescent embers of his latest barefoot, tie-dye revelation: I am the messiah. Full. Fucking. Stop.
But then you already knew that, somewhere deep inside you you have always known that the messiah would be nearly unknown in this supersaturated, commercial plastic fuck-pile of a generation. The millennial messiah would obviously be someone who spent the vast majority of their life drawn to the filthy, degenerates of this world and would, getting lost in the wilderness of oxycontin, heroin, MDMA, cocaine, and their gratuitous intravenous application, bring light and love to those broken heaps of people at the bottom, the real people that the rest of society would prefer to ignore, before leaving most of the drugs and nihilism behind and accepting his divine birthright: the mantle of messiah.
Now before you completely lose your shit and call my mother, ruining her perfectly fine day by imploding her fragile skull with tales of her son’s complete psychological collapse into delusion, let me say this: you are also the messiah. Not in the dogmatic sense, I’m not either (probably). WE are, each one of us the perfect embodiment of the potential redemption of the human race stuck in the bullshit we’ve been fed since we got shoved into that perfect implement of soul-destruction called the public school system. “Forget your dreams, go into debt for the potential wealth available after you pay it all off, spend the most lively, productive, potentially-dangerous-to-this-broken-system years of your life putting off all but the bare minimum of government-sanctioned joy until you’re too fucking old to be a hassle”. Sound right? Obviously the powers that be are a tad more subtle and a lot more insidious than that but it rings true to me.
Now that you’ve accepted that you are your own personal Obi-Wan and the only hope that your life has of getting any better (you’re very welcome) let me tell you how this sentiment finally stopped being just words and really sunk in: ceremonial application of medicinal psychedelics, specifically ayahuasca. If you’ve read any other posts on this site or even the first two paragraphs of this one, you will no doubt be aware of my former propensity for using the vast majority of substances currently classified as drugs by the shit-lipped, cock-nosed, troglodytic agents of the archons, with squinty little anuses instead of eyeballs and a cold lump of shriveled, white wolf shit where a heart should go that would prefer to keep us small and NEED to keep us well away from our own sovereignty to continue living their best cyberpunk apocalypse. Ayahuasca was, until just a few months ago, on the feast day of St. Cyprian of Antioch no less, the last great frontier of mind, heart, and soul expansion in my life. I had always pictured my first time being in the jungle of Central or South America with a wizened shaman singing his icaros (healing songs) through a haze of tobacco and incense smoke and guiding me through a life-altering healing process at the hands of a healing goddess-plant who is made up of all the medicine and compassion that the universe has to offer. However, the universe had different plans and I was lead through a series of synchronicities revolving around tiny, feathered love-warriors to a five acre plot of land run by some of the sweetest and most magical people I have ever met. An oasis covered in cedar, Douglas fir and madrone trees with wild huckleberries in abundance and, as a simple boy from Oregon who usually prefers the company of trees, huckleberries, and cats to humans and who is already well-acclimated to the environment of the great PNW I can say without any reservation that I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing. The magic, healing, compassion, icaros, loving plant-goddes, even the shaman (though certainly not what I had pinned on my vision-board) were all present with the added benefit of being around two amazing friends who blazed the trail and eased my many fears about leaping into this uncharted territory, one spectacular and incredibly badass spouse, a very cool forest cat, and all of my favorite trees. Looking back it seams clear that this could only have happened in the forests that I’ve always felt at home in and been in love with.
Let’s get right to the heart of this thing; creating your own “Personal Legend” as Paolo Coelho puts it in his book The Alchemist which, though a bit basic, should be required reading for middle schoolers because it gives a fairly solid road map of how to follow the signs that the universe puts in front of us, the meaningful “coincidences” or synchronicities that lead us towards what you could be forgiven for calling your destiny. I didn’t read Mr. Coelho’s book until very recently but it reminded me of something in a book that I did read in middle school: Don Juan and the Yaqui way of knowledge by Carlos Castaneda. In it, Don Juan, an old sorcerer, mentions something about personal power and walking only paths that have heart and I am a firm believer that Don Juan and the titular Alchemist are speaking about much the same thing. As my favorite sorcerer of all time, that rakish chap Mr. John Constantine puts it; “surfing the synchronicity super highway” seems to be the best way to live out one’s Personal Legend; the great destiny attached to all of us at birth, letting the things we love lead us to our reward. This works regardless of what it is you focus your desire on, I’ve tried it. For years all I wanted were drugs and escape and they showed up in abundance and just kept showing up; more drugs, stronger drugs, better quality drugs, bigger drug dealers, more dangerous situations to escape from and holy shit come to think of it; even though they led me to dark, frightening, life-threatening, MRSA infected, cracked out, strung out places, they led me right back to my Personal Legend. All it took was shifting the focus of my desire from death, oblivion and escape three degrees back toward life. I had willfully turned away from all paths with even a pantyline of visible heart and yet, after a simple decision to turn away from my own destruction, here I am back on a path that, judging by the synchronicities and the way my life is going, seems to have heart to spare.
The hummingbird synchronicities started in June. By definition a synchronicity is a “meaningful coincidence of two or more events where something other than the probability of chance is involved” and because a synchronicity, like a dream, usually holds a bare minimum of interest or meaning for those outside of the event I will spare you the details and simply say that hummingbirds were drawn to me in alarming numbers and proximity for months, one actually buzzed my hair, and another hovered within a foot of my face while I was in my backyard for a full 30 seconds which for a hummingbird is probably long enough for a 10 course meal packed with fast-paced, effervescent conversation, gravity-defying post dinner sex, a tiny honeysuckle cigarette and a glass of lilac wine. At the time I was unaware what, if anything, the hummingbirds or whatever sends synchronicities into our lives were trying to point out to me but, especially with the warp-speed winged hair tousling and the long face-to-face hover, I noticed an immediate change in my mood and energy. During the tiny-feathered tousling I was coming home from a shitty day at work and was grumbling to myself and in a Bog of Eternal Stench kind of mood and just as I was unlocking my front door, a hummingbird launched out from under the eves of the house and tousled my hair as it went. My Bog of Eternal Stench mood was immediately replaced with a shocked, grinning wonder. A similar shift happened with each encounter I had (2-5 per week) over the course of the two months that led to me telling a magical friend of mine who came into my life, as expected, through another series of synchronicities, about my string of swift and sweet hummingbird synchs. When I was done with my laundry list of hummingbird encounters he mentioned that he knew of some friends who put on legit ayahuasca ceremonies out in the woods on beautiful property not far from us and that these folks were beautiful, loving, trustworthy, amazing people and that they had some openings for a ceremony in early September. My badass wife immediately said yes. Apprehension set in immediately. “I don’t know, I always wanted to go to Peru and do a proper ceremony with a shaman. Is it safe? I’m not sure if I could get time off work” etc.. Then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned the thing that made him incongruously start talking about ayahuasca after my hummingbird rant: “My friends that run the ceremony, they’re called Beija Flor”. Raising an eyebrow to indicate my utter confusion he cut me off as I was about to ask the question he was answering.
“It means ‘hummingbird’ in Portuguese”.
My chin hit the floor and I told him to sign us up.
To be continued...
Having a very loose idea about what the fuck this site is supposed to accomplish leaves one wide open to the blank canvas blues. Do i post about magic and the magical things happening in my life? or what about a post on psychedelics, or for that matter drugs in general and their effects on the lives of the sensitive people that use them. How about another vulgar astrology post with a side rant about how fucked up the world is; and by the way, why the fuck should anyone, outside the rulers of this system, be concerned about it collapsing into a pile of rotten, corrupt corpses that, we the people, could use to stoke the fires of our great and beautiful ascent into the gods we’ve been programmed to believe we are not? Maybe a delightful, poetic romp through the blasted caverns and ethereal dream-light of the lunar sphere. Oh, who gives a shit? Why choose one when i could just take all of those things and smash them into the crack pipe that works part time as my consciousness in between shifts at the gas station, take a massive lungful and see what comes out of my firearms and breeze-fingers?
The full moon was last night and i haven’t slept, the combination of psychic city sludge and selenite filtered solar reflections always makes my insomnia act up. Lack of sleep has never distressed me as it has some of my peers, my first hallucinatory experience was somewhere around 9 and it was caused by being consistently and quite amusingly awake for 5 days. I was taking a shower before school taking careful stock of my preadolescent sanity and noticing the odd sensations that accompany being awake for that many hours when i noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye. When i turned, with no small amount of horror, to confront the uncharacteristic ambulation of what had, up until that very moment been inanimate and quite lifeless objects i was faced with quite a scene: my shampoo+conditioner bottle, a sea-foam green Pert Plus, was gyrating in a way that instantly relieved me of all my fear and replaced it with a mirth to rival Midas (in those blissful moments before he hugged his wife and tried to have an apple) a crazed and cacophonous cackling rose up from my tiny belly and i watched with the glee felt mainly by the mad as the bottle danced and moved its lagoon-green curves to a song that only we two could hear. I joined in and danced until the water went cold.
Now before you write everything I’ve written off as the ravings of a mad man who has obviously been that way for a very long time, let me say this: crazy people can’t tell when they’re being crazy and although in that moment i could not have told you for sure whether the bottle and i were dancing to the music of the spheres in “official reality”, i was certainly still aware of the possibility that not sleeping for 5 days could effect a person in ways that might alter perception in strange ways, and i’m proud to say that nearly 25 years later i can still tell when i am experiencing phenomena outside of “official reality”. Though these phenomena do seem to be increasing in frequency the more i do magical things…
With a little luck, and that one simple act of lunacy (i’m quite certain that those 5 days must have been around a particularly powerful full moon), my life was ruined forever and now i am forever thinking that under the label of every cereal box and hair-care product there lies the soul of a dancing machine confined to inanimate stationary statuary solely by the static inflexibility and well-restedness of our modern western minds. Later that year in the fourth grade i was given, for the first time, the opportunity to choose a topic for a research paper or book report all on my own. The paper was titled: The Effects of PCP and LSD on the Human Brain. It’s lost now but my parents still remember it with a woeful shake of their heads as a terrible precursor to a life filled to the brim with narcotics, near-death experiences, narcotics, close calls, court fees, narcotics, speeding tickets costing them 2,000 dollars in one go and through it all a noticeable lack of jail time or criminal record. My fascination with different states of consciousness and the potential of psychic augmentation of said consciousness with substances usually outlawed and often prescribed by the powers that be still burns within me and will certainly be a topic of much discussion in future.
Laying down the crack pipe for a moment i must interject a small history lesson. There are not many drugs i would not take or have not already ingested in one way or another in varying quantities and with astonishing consistency but that, for the most part, is behind me and this history lesson is not meant to glamorize the life of a junky who inexplicably survived to tell the tale but to illustrate my abiding interest in chemical brain enhancement and give you a brief and horrifying glimpse into the life of the man you’ve chosen to humor. Roll the tape.
My first forays into drugs were mild but as far as i can tell from my rigorous research and painful interrogations earlier than most of the humans outside the weird spheres i prefer to occupy. Marijuana was a godsend to a terribly awkward and quiet boy who was bullied mercilessly for being awkward and quiet; no longer was i worrying about what anyone else thought about anything, least of all myself and the questionable fashion decisions dictated by household income and a preference for comfortable clothes. High school was full of booze, more marijuana and many mushrooms. The fact that i graduated in four years with a sophomore gpa of 0.35 is a mystery of math and statistics that i will never understand. The best thing about high school was that it ended… and that i had my wisdom teeth out and was (over) prescribed that perfect panacea: the princely Percocet who, in all of his operatic opiate opulence, turned all the keys and opened all the doors that had kept me apart from the rest of the world. More than anything before or since Percocet made me feel like i was home and safe and as confident as i saw the rest of the world acting. My college experience could be summed up by the word “more”. More of everything; life, human contact and drugs of new and interesting varieties with the constant insufflation of cocaine being both the high and low light of the whole shebang and ending with a severe bout of double pneumonia, three hateful roommates, and the loss of 25 precious pounds from a frame that could not afford the loss of even a gram. Needless to say things did not get better from here: my opiate consume ion increased until the new “war” on prescription opiates jacked all the prices up and forced me to switch to heroin. “Buy the ticket take the ride”. In 2 weeks i had purchased my first needle and there began a slow motion sprint to the bedrock and tragic beauty that awaits us all at the very bottom. Say what you will about self destructive tendencies, drug abuse, and thrill seekers of all sorts; there is no better way to find out who one is and what one is capable of than by taking a thing as far as it will go and then, when one finds the edge, jumping with a smile to see what lies at the bottom. Three and a half years later i had to decide, in the presence of an actual angel or God who, for the record, either is or sounds just like a cross between Freddy Mercury and David Bowie, whether i would die by the gun in my hand or try something i hadn’t done since i started smoking weed daily at the ripe age of eleven. That was nine years ago.
I love my life. I found the love of my life at the bottom and we’ve walked the hidden paths up the far side of the chasm together ever since. And even in this year of fucked up space-weather, atrocities, assholes, artillery, and otherwise, i wouldn’t trade my life or my past for anything.
Damn, that got heavy, I’m not entirely sure what this post was supposed to be about but there it is: a brief and fucked up history of the asshole on the other side if the keyboard. Maybe next time i will pick a theme and stick with it, but probably not. I began this post the day after the full moon and at the time of finishing it looks like its been nibbled in half by the persistent efforts of a whole hoard of interstellar rodents not quite believing that the crunchy exterior isn’t just some sort of protective shell surrounding a great glowing glob of gouda. In that time i seem to have lost the plot, but all these ramblings are just an ingenious plot to seamlessly bring us the the point: no matter what kind of awful shit the Powers or powers that be are perpetrating; it could always be worse, AND it can always get better, the choice is often more in our control than we are led to believe. We can always choose to smile as we fall and enjoy the ride. Who knows what grand treasures or mysteries await us on the way down or at the bottom, or what we’ll find on our way back up the other side?
"Alright, we're getting real and we're getting there on a rocket slathered with quantum KY lightning. Most of you have probably noticed that this year has been a dumpster fire from the jump. For those of you somehow blissfully unaware of this year's fuck-you-parade of trials, tribulations, treachery, and transcendental trash-fire, here's the hits: total lock down resulting from a virus that so far has killed less people than the common cold (before you shit out your eyeballs in rage let me point out that "cases" are not deaths), massive power grabs from the richest people in the world, government bailouts of lobbyists and corporate interests while the rest of the nation can barely pay rent, unemployment bouncing like a dead cat between 15 and 10 percent nation wide, more white police shooting unarmed black citizens, riots, lots of riots, the peaceful takeover of a police station in Seattle, the creation of an "autonomous zone" that was like watching San Fransisco from 1960-1972 at quantamphetamine speed, wearing a mask is now a requirement, 5G (no judgement either way, not yet anyway, but it happened), the blatant disregard of the will and welfare of the people by those in charge, nothing new there but they took it to a new level of depravity when they let the 600 a week that was coming from the federal government lapse so they could all have a vacation at their favorite pedophile ranch and ponder new and exciting hot sauces with with to grease the assholes of the American public upon their return. That about bring us up to speed for whats happening here in the good old U-S-of-A. Elsewhere there are drones patrolling beaches and giving out massive fines to those depraved souls that dare venture out with a companion for some fresh air, entire countries have shut their borders for the rest of the year, and a general pervading sense world-wide that we are living through the buildup of some sort of dystopian cyberpunk film as we lose more and more of our rights under the guise of protection. Sound about right? Those of you that have persevered through the above shall now be rewarded for your depravity: it gets worse. Merry Christmas.
The pervading space weather this year has been the worst in recent history. By "space weather" i am of course referring to the planetary movements, positions, aspects, and alignments that, whether you believe in them or not, do indeed effect things in this increasingly viscous cosmic duck pond that we call home. Around March, as mentioned above, the whole world ground to a smoke-yellowed-nails-on-a-piss-warped- chalkboard-full-fucking-stop, a crushing, cacophonous, and calamitous halt, and those same planetary nails are about to retrograde right back to that same piss-warped chalkboard with some spicy additions that will cause us to look upon the rest of this year as tomato paste in comparison. Basically we get the same malefic gangbang in Capricorn that started off 2020 on such a pleasant note with the addition of a voluminous fuck-tonne of volcanic lubrication courtesy of a very strong and retrograde mars in Aries making a hard square to the whole shebang. Slather all that with the Creator of whatever this is that we're living in choosing this year to end the Saturn-Pluto cycle's 200 years of Earth and switch to Air and you have the worst planetary porno of our generation playing in 4K on every screen in the world until late December 2020. If you would like further, more expert, and infinitely less vulgar information on all this pop over to www.austincoppock.com and check out his summary of the year; it is spectacular ("stellar" being low-hanging starfruit) as is the man himself.
What's the good news? I hear you ask from my heavily fortified aluminum foil bunker. The good news is this; in January, 2020 will be over and if we survive to spin the yarn, we can tell our irradiated grandbabies through their four superfluous ears that we did indeed live through it and that we were tougher and smarter back then and they will coo lovingly and wriggle with tentacled-abandon. The other good news is that with the increasing levels of chaos and instability present as the bloated corpses of useless bureaucracies are incinerated in the liquid hatred raining down from above, a certain amount of personal freedom will be restored to those of us who are willing to risk safety and the comfort of old systems and official reality to get it. I am truly optimistic that after being passed through the chaffed asshole of this year we shall emerge, bloody, exhausted, and laughing as the world burns and is reborn. Things will be different next year, for better and for worse, enjoy it; dance in the fires of the institutions that no longer serve us. We are perched upon the precarious precipice of a peculiar new cycle so make like the fool; grab a bag and a tune to whistle, start walking, and don't look down.
Welcome to Myrrhkwood, a blog about magic, stories true and truer, esoteric exploration, space weather, psychedelic hot takes, wild opinions and hasty walk-backs.
My name is Tyler and i will take at least partial responsibility for the things posted here.
I am relatively new to any sort of "organized" magic systems, having only come to realize that magic was something that one could study and do on purpose about three years ago. That said, I have lived in a magical/animist universe for a good majority of my life; never quite giving up the childhood notion that plants, animals and objects had lives and spirits all their own. The exception being the embarrassingly long time that I spent as a drug-addled existentialist desperately trying to numb out and shut the doors that had been blown off their hinges from the moment I read Tom Robbins and Carlos Castaneda as a middle school pot head and finally had something on paper that lined up with the world as I experienced it. But that, dear reader, is another story for another time. This is meant to be an introduction to Myrrhkwood and I’ve already been derailed but you’ve got a taste of my origin story and that’ll do for now.
My intention for Myrrhkwood is to have a space in which I can record my path through the magical landscape of this ever-weirdening world like a trail of Kerouac breadcrumbs, to share things that have helped or hindered me, to review books and tek, to find the others who wander these woods, explore magical experiences and world views, and hopefully create a landing point for a community of weirdos who love this stuff as much as i do.