Wednesday, August 14, 2013

This Blog has been killed.
There will be a new platform which will take it's place.
Stay tuned; we wouldn't want you to miss it.

Monday, August 30, 2010


I think I have killed this 'blog.'


Sunday, July 18, 2010

Creepy People pt. II

'Really?' They reply.
Then I have to stop, as I figure out that perhaps I have gotten ahead of myself. 'Look,' I say 'Think of magic as a sort of wayward psychology; as a process of understanding your own consciousness.' Again, at this time I lose their attention. Man, I should have never mentioned sex. 'Most of our consciousness is based upon experience. What we magicians try and attempt to do is experience different things, to go into our mind and creative processes to either break things apart or put them together. Solve et Coagula as the alchemists would put it.'
'So,' somebody says to get me back on track, 'what does sex have to do with it?'
'I was getting to that,' I respond. 'There is a state of mind that everybody can achieve, a place where everything seems peaceful and open, where your mind is almost looking in at itself, trying to understand itself. I like to call this gnosis.' I can see that the word puzzles them somewhat.

'Look, this has been around forever. It's as old as the mind itself. Throughout history we have found many ways of achieving this; prayer, meditation, rituals, incantation, studying, dance, fasting, physical exertion, writing, hypnosis, and even sex.' My listeners brighten up with this. 'Unfortunately, somewhere along the way this last aspect was lost for some time, at least in the west.'
'Probably due to religion!' Some liberal will cheer.
'Yes. Probably due to religion.' I agree. 'And also the industrial revolution perhaps. Anyways, for me at least sex is one of the best ways of achieving this special mind state. But it is also the problem, and I think a major reason that people steer clear of Magik in any way.'
'How so?' Asks a listener.
'Well, we can all agree that sex is a zesty delight, a pleasurable experience. But there have been those in the past, and those alive right now that make it the entire basis around which magik hinges. And they usually are not the silent ones. They get their heads warped by the whole 'experience' part of consciousness. They can take it to an extreme. These are the creepy people.'

A silence usually follows this. 'I can give you an anecdote, if you will. A few years ago, I was working at a video store. I was the only one working at the time; and I had somehow entered into a discussion with the sole customer in the shop. We were talking about Aleister Crowley and Kenneth Grant. The man was stout, pot-bellied and had a slight lisp. At several points throughout the conversation I saw his eyes almost recoil back inside his head, as if relishing some terrible thing he had done in the past. After this happened again and again, I decided to cut the conversation short. 'Well, best be getting back to work!' At which point his hand shot out and grabbed mine. 'We really will have to talk about this, just you and I.' I reclaimed my hand quickly, regained some composure and just said, 'probably not. Have a nice day.' And he left the store.'

My crowd at this point is somewhat rightfully disgusted. I explain to them that it seems like this man totally expected me to enter into some strange sexual relationship with him, because he knew a thing or two about magik. But you see, sex and especially strange sex is just one of the many things that make magik interesting, but also give it a very negative aspect. I explain that perhaps people do not realize that sex should go along with perhaps the most powerful benefit of magik; called agape. This is a simple expression that has many sides, but can probably just be explained as love. Fantastic, forgiving and truthful love. Make it the keystone of your magical expression and things will be fine. My imaginary listeners disperse either excited or writing me off as a simple weird type of hippy.

So there it is. I seem to be a magician. If you want to know more, I can show you where to look, but the information is there and has been for some time. Look to people like Austin Osman Spare, Aleister Crowley (but tread carefully with this guy), William Blake, Carl Jung, Peter Carroll, Robert Anton Wilson, and for a thoroughly modern magician; Alan Moore.

But I will not guide you by the hand, nor touch it; creepily.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Creepy People pt. I

When I was first invited to join this blog, there were in my mind, certain things I was hesitant to write about. How much do I want to give away about myself without sounding like an absolute nut-case? Should I just write about inconsequential things? Perhaps I cannot keep silent any longer. We live in a somewhat accepting society, one in which it would take a great deal to 'put people off,' so to say. Now, as I accept that when you read the next few paragraphs I am about to write, you may feel like I am pulling your leg or just being sensational. I must assure you that I am being very earnest with my admission and that I hope you allow me the same courtesy and understanding and curiosity that you would should I be sitting across from you.

I seem to be a magician. Is that what it's even called? Hell, I don't even know. The style has been called many things. Mystic, witch, occultist, wizard, hermetic, chaos magician, sorcerer, Thelemite and weirdo. Personally, I prefer occultist or as Erasmus Herzen liked to call me 'a Rosicrucian.' Well, that's partially right, but far too specific. But for all the names, magician is the one that sticks. I do not dress in dark clothes, I wear no trinkets or jewelry besides an earring, I have no dripping candles in my room, no crystal balls or incense. I live a very normal life which I conduct in odd ways. The way I conduct it is very important and not something that I shall share; for one reason in particular. When I do so, say, at a party or something, people rush off like I've just ignited a stink-bomb.

So yes, Magician. First thing I usually get asked when I say this is, 'Well can you do tricks?,' either seriously of jokingly. I laugh (laughter is actually the most important part of being a magician, it really is) and blush a little, but answer sincerely;
'Yes, if you give me time.' This tends to confuse people because tricks usually rely on being spontaneous and the tricks that I have pulled off never, ever happen suddenly. If they did, I'd probably be a far different man than I am today. No, the tricks that I accomplish are small things that are in aid of me becoming a better and more willful person, but most importantly- Understanding the world and my role in it.

The next thing I'm asked is usually 'So what, do you believe in gods and devils and demons and that stuff.'
'No, and yes' I reply, 'I'm open to every idea, but also not at the same time.' By this time, those who have been patient suddenly leave, writing me off for being a 'crazy.' Remaining an agnostic magician is a very beautiful thing. I shall have to quote at this point the greatest magician of the last 150 years, Aleister Crowley, who put it better than anyone ever could about what to believe in, so far as magic is concerned-

"In this book it is spoken of the Sephiroth and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them."

So, yes I think there may be Gods and devils, UFOs and ghosts. I also think there may be volcanoes and buildings, horses and chairs.

My perception and understanding of things is very unconventional. I have accepted this fact. If at this point somebody should ask the question (which nobody ever has, I really wish they did), 'Hmm. That's interesting, why aren't more people magicians?'
"Well, because of several factors. For one, it actually takes time and work. You make your own world.' I'd remark.
'So, you don't follow anybody?'
'No, but you listen to certain things and people and choose your own pieces of the puzzle. It's a great deal of work.'
'How so?' They would ask quizzically.
'Well, you have to understand certain things about yourself, and build from there. Once you have done this it moves to murkier water.'
Here's where they'd lean in. 'Murkier water? Like what?'
"Well, there's ritual... Ritual and err...' I would pause.

End of pt. I

Oh, and Happy 200th Post, Knowing Doing!
Let's keep on Knowing, but do more Doing!

Monday, June 21, 2010

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Happy Bloomsday Everybody!

Yes, I know I've been a non-entity on this blog for a while. I promise to be better. It brings to mind a song I once heard, while walking from Dublin to Galway.
It goes a little something like this:

The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly
Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
(Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
(Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
(Chorus) And religious reform,
Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
(Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
(Chorus) With his bucketshop store
Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
(Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
Then he'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
(Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
(Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
He is, begod.

Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
(Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
(Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
(Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
(Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
The largest ever you seen.

Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
(Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
(bis) That's able to raise a Cain.
- James Joyce

Enjoy your June 16th! May your house never be big enough for all your friends.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

football is retarded, as is my "opinion"

Hi, this is simply a short post to express my scorn and smirking indifference to the spectacle of the 2010 football world cup. See, I'm worldly enough to call it what it is... a world cup, but simple enough to admit my heavy shrug, my profound yawn, yes it's profound because the oxygen will not enter my lunges without earnest and well-funded coaxing. Yeah, young men showcasing their thighs whilst chasing an inflated ball sort of sucks sucks in way that is difficult to express without money. Luckily, money is a large part what makes young men chasing and kicking balls so meaningful to so many non-thinking human beings. Maybe this team will win, or perhaps maybe that team will win.... how exciting? Yeah, an obsession with young men sprinting around a carefully manicured field kicking an inflated toy around is the stuff of immortal legend. Wow, like, there is a super competition about who can kick the most balls into the most goals. I can't wait to see who wins because no one will forget and everyone will be talking about it forever more, just like the last world cup, which was also like very exciting and important.

Seriously, the universe is mocking us when we place our identities on the flexing thighs of unthinking young men. Is it really so exciting that a young man might kick a ball into a guarded net? Who gives a shit? No one. Seriously, let it sink in... no one at all cares about whatever young man protects and kicks a ball into a "guarded" goal. Woe betide, woe plague the many idiots, likely many corky thatchers, who assume that because they breathe and defecate that they are more important than the basic and forgettable individuals who are nothing but the extra help (this sentence is especially incoherent.) Life is great, for the worm.

I fully acknowledge the offensiveness and mean-spiritedness of this post. My many friends who love the sport, please accept my sheepish apology and know that I was a little drunk when I wrote it. What do you expect? My Irish heritage demands such things, ahem, such rants, from time to time. Enjoy the flexing thighs!