Showing posts with label Hecate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hecate. Show all posts

Monday, April 17, 2017

The ends of the Earth


One hundred years of rain falling in sheets of ice
eating away at the foundations of memory
and desire.
One hundred years of the walls moaning 
and slowly giving way
to the past.
Our whole lives are monuments to loneliness
words in a dead language chiselled
on scattered monoliths.
We travel wrapped in shrouds of past laughter
in ragged wails,
in tears.
Our wings marking us as outcasts
our eyes clouded with wonders
long gone.
The sky is filled with rain clouds 
forebodings of endings
and new beginnings. 
Ashes and bloodied footprints mark my passage
and under them
new shoots.
Twin spindly bridges of black stone
one leading to the land of the living,
one beyond. 
The one will lead me to your embrace.
The other,
home.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Feral


Listen.
I was raised by wolves 
in a land where water was poison 
and only shadows were my friends.
The wind howled with my swallowed pain.
Hecate found me bathed in my blood
and took me in as one of her own. 

Lucifer has three pairs of wings.
Black, as brilliant as night skies, to create.
Grey, to keep the balance.
And snow for death, destruction, and end.
His eyes reflect the Heavens at night,
obsidian orbs that witnessed Creation.

The dragons I command have a scorpion's tail
and the wings of a black dove.
I made them with the voids between the stars
tightly wrapped around the heart 
of a mother who killed her twins
and went mad.

My pillow is filled with small black pebbles
broken promises and chances that never came.
I don't always sleep well.
But late at night I open the door
and walk back into the Garden
I won with my tears.
I am revered there.

Now go. Do not look back.
Everything I said was true.
Never forget the name you were given
before the blade descended.
Clutch it tightly.
That's all you're allowed to take.

Monday, June 13, 2016

Burning down the Heavens II


I had a very long conversation with my best friend today. He's psychic, a holistic therapist and a specialist on behavioural disorders. He's also a quiet person with the patience of a saint. We are lucky to have known each other for more than 23 years, and he's one of the reasons I am still alive and relatively sane. 

Now, my friend and I share a lot, although we're also different. But one of the nicest things we can do together is divination. Why? Because our minds work in a similar way, we use similar methods and more than anything, we share the same core of information. When we close our eyes and connect with something, we connect with the same source. We share the same myths of creation, the same understanding. One could say, we're cut from the same cloth. Countless times his dreams and divinations and poems have verified my dreams and divinations and writings. Maybe the reason we love each other so much is sharing the same madness, each verifying the other's delusions, each embracing the other's illogical point of view. Maybe we're both sad fools than need each other's comfort to feel life is worth living. But it goes a lot deeper than that, and it's so accurate that it would have been scary if it wasn't exhilarating.

In my dreams I find answers that solve knots in your waking life. With your constant questions I discover the joy of giving you the right answer. And when I miss a piece of the puzzle or need help, you reach deep and provide me with it, because you can. You can do so many things, and through your constant feedback I discovered I too can. I can do countless things because you've showed me how, and in some cases because you've reminded me that I can. I can understand and heal and forgive and give advice and grow a thick skin, and know when to keep my silence. I can give you pieces of myths before any myth was created, because you too can take sneak peeks at the time Creation was still timeless. I can connect with the Heart without batting an eyelid, in the same way you can download answers without any instrument of divination. I can evolve and become a different person and ignore all odds, because the only real superpower we possess is the power of change. I choose to become what I want and not what my past dictated; you chose to overcome the past and ignore all odds and be who you are. And look at us now.

As the path becomes clearer by the day, and the stress is replaced by quiet inside, I look at the night sky and smile. The stars are always above, watching us both, and you and I know so many things no-one else does. We know what exists in no book, internet site or newsflash. We're the lunatic chroniclers of a world drowning in pain, blood and greed, and we can still discover pieces of ancient magic in the smallest thing. We rekindle that magic with our breaths and our fingers, our poems and writings, our dumb jokes, our friendships, our four hour long phone-calls, our odd conversations. We fight the good battle, the best fucking battle; the lost battle of idealists in a world brimming with mental cancer, violence and injustice. People can die but ideas are hard motherfuckers, the stuff from which not legends, but myths of Creation were made. We carry the banners of ideals in the battlefield of everyday life, through rivers of sorrow and disappointment. We don't carry them only when it is convenient. We keep carrying them even when our knees tremble and our backs bleed from being constantly stabbed and each breath is torture, when reality spits us in the face, when friends and lovers betray us for those very ideals, when death takes from us what little life has left us with. We carry them through madness and loneliness and we carry them through deserts and mountains. I only have one wish; that when my time comes, I'll be buried wrapped in those glorious banners. May the Heart make it so.

We know so much, you and I. And we'll burn down the Heavens. We'll bring down immortals and open holes in the fabric of this sad, rigged reality to let the Light shine through. There is nothing we can't do, nothing we can't face. We've proved it a thousand times and we'll do it a thousand more if we have to. There is nothing else to do, no other way. We'll pull through, move on, get it done.

I love you. Sleep tight. Tomorrow is another day, another struggle, but for now, sleep tight.
May the three Ladies watch over you. I'll make sure they will.
Goodnight.


Friday, February 19, 2016

Consequences

"We need to talk about Kevin" (2011)
The moon is yellow and not full yet, and the sky is dull and murky, like thick pearly dust stirred in inky water. The clouds are sickly white tufts and the stars are nowhere in sight.
The heavens seem to press down on me tonight.
I count stories of my life that never happened, or were interrupted before they run their course.
One, two, three, four, five, six... Maybe even more.
A night of counting wasted chances.
I embrace a book and smile at my inability to change the course of the river.
I pray to Lilith.
Second born, beloved, consort of the first born, three-natured, bridge and divider, mother and destroyer, take me by the hand. Come.
I pray to Hecate.
Goddess supreme, heavenly, earthly and chthonic, mother of horrors and magic, protectress, enchantress, she of the golden tongue, merciful one, terrible one, your horrors are no strangers to me. Come.
I pray to Kali.
Goddess of death and destruction, she of the terrible wrath, invincible, unstoppable, destroyer of the ego, blood-drinker, demon-slayer, mother supreme, fight by my side, lick my wounds and don't let me hold back from what has to be done. Come.
I pray to the Heart.
Home of my heart, heart of my home, heart of the innermost within and without, don't let me stray from your path. I serve you with everything I have; let everything I do be in your service.
I am what I am.
Everything serves the Heart.

I watched 'We need to talk about Kevin', and it was similar to the dark, oppressive, stifling night sky; a voyage through terror and delirium. The boy was a sociopath, he was insane through and through, but I know how he felt. I know why he wanted to kill. In another place, another era, such a young man would have been an invaluable warrior, but now? The only place we have for such people nowadays is prison, or an asylum built like a prison. And I smile. I don't know if I understand this character because my empathy is so high or because I see his blood thirst mirrored in me. I do know I am too much of a control freak to let that side of me roam free, and there is always the safe channel of writing about it. But I also know I understand. I fully understand, and I am not ashamed of that side. If anything, I love and embrace it.

Some nights I wish I was someone else, or even better, no-one at all.

Goodnight.


Sunday, November 22, 2015

On the warpath

Gosh, all this occult warfare is giving me a headache.

I am reading books like crazy. When I'm not reading, I write. When I have nothing to say, I edit. When I can't edit, I watch TV series. When I am sick of TV series, I go to the rooftop. When I can't do that, I go back to reading.

I sometimes call people, or send them messages. They reply, or don't reply. I shrug and go back to my reading/ writing/ editing/ watching/ stargazing routine. I hurry through the daily chores to go back to what's important. Important is not what society considers important. It's my flavour of it.

I know what it means not to be able to sleep at night or not have a normal life. It's okay. I get tired, but truth is, I wouldn't have exchanged this life for any convenient, perfectly arranged existence. It contains small slivers of pure delight, delight of such magnitude that I laugh and the firmament trembles.

Know this. The complete nobody, the deluded little idiot that no-one thought much of, amused you for a given amount of time. Now she is back on the warpath. Hell hath no fury like I do presently. I know who you are. You think you are so smart, so good at what you do. So bloody important. Watch then. Your arrogance has granted you seats at the front row for what is to follow. Watch as the quiet tall woman with the crazy look in her eyes will tear your extravagant coven apart with nothing more than a thesaurus, tea lights and an army of dead cats. Watch this reality become folded and rearranged under my fingers. I've done it before, I'll do it again. I have had no teachers and no training, no attunements, signed contracts or spirit allies. I command no demons save for my own, and that look in my eyes is not patience. It's despair with a generous pinch of madness.

Why won't you mind your fucking business? Why won't you all mind your fucking business for a change? Why won't you let the rest of us live, and enjoy whatever portion of happiness our personality has allotted us? No, you have to go and ruin everything, you have to stick your nose where it doesn't belong for the sheer joy of manipulation. You want to play god. You have to go and re-arrange and nip budding chances and toy with human lives the same way children toy with their dolls. The dolls don't have much to say on the matter, but this doll here, oh this doll you've been amusing yourself with has so many means and ways that you will only know how wrong you were when you find it tearing at your jugular. Last summer I was on the warpath again, because some people thought they were the dog's bollocks and kept screwing with my life. The same old song; arrogance married to pride. This winter will be your undoing, and come spring, you'll find me peeing on your graves.

This is my dowry, the inheritance, that which needs to be concluded and has been tormenting me for months. Okie dokie. Now watch those fireworks erupt. Pretty, aren't they? None would have thought it could go so wrong, so quickly, but life's nothing without the unexpected. 

Monday, October 05, 2015

Small things make me happy


 
"There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing—for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmon knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens… The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff. Keep looking up."
Jerry Waxman
 
Small things  make me happy because I can't have the big ones I dream about.

I can't leave this planet behind and travel to the stars, except maybe as stardust.

I can't understand everything, not without leaving this personality behind like a discarded piece of clothing. And this body, this personality has not had enough experiences to leave it behind. It's good to be human before giving ascended master status a go. It's good to scrape your knees before you learn to fly out of your body; to have mundane love break your heart before you draw conclusions about the Heart of Everything.

It's good to see the worst this world and you have to offer before you don yourself the title of messiah, avatar, empath, lightworker, earthly angel or whatever else.

Never before have I seen dust of our kind. We're dust, nothing but dust, yet the night sky speaks to my heart in the voice of the perfect lover I never had. When the moon is at its last quarter, it rises late, bathing everything in a weak yellow, almost negative light. The wind blows and shakes the branches, making me shiver with longings I can't put in words. It's four in the a.m., I am standing at the rooftop and can sense I'm not alone, but no human is awake at this hour. Four a.m. is not an hour for humans, except maybe for the sick, the mad, the broken and those too young to have responsibilities. 

It is a humbling experience to find yourself alone and outdoors in the small hours of the night. It makes you realise how insignificant you are. I can feel it during those late nights with waning moon. Other beings and entities roam the night and sneer at me, and the same rooftop I've been to hundreds of times is an alien, scary place. The stars are hesitant to lend their light and the failing moon spells sickness and death. Crawling night serpents with scraping, poisonous scales, and other, blacker things the names of which I don't know fill the skies and the shadows. My heart is a bird frantically trying to escape from my chest, and my only ally is my resolve. I know that same moon shines its leprous brilliance over swamps, and ruins, and nightmarish, desolate places forsaken by the so-called champions of light. So I kneel, and call upon the darkest aspects of being. I call upon Hecate, Hel and Kali, and the Angel of death, and ask for their blessing. Those strange, horrible landscapes are as much a part of this reality as everything else. I can't understand this world or myself without them. I can't reach comprehension unless I embrace them too. Because as above so below, as within, so without. Everything is part of myself, not just sweetness and light. And the night obliges. The heart slows down and opens. The soul drinks and is sated.

Oh, what would I give to go back to whatever dead, dark star the atoms of my being originated from. To go back home. But I can't. And so I strive to find a job, and find someone who understands, and love my cats and my friends. And make this world a better place, not because I love the light, but also the dark. I love the dark with all my heart, because the Heart encompasses everything and everyone. 

I serve the needs of the Heart, and through the Heart, all my needs are served.

PS: The soundtrack of one of my most favourite movies is as good as the movie itself. Enjoy.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Cabbages and turnips

Elend: “Winds devouring men”. Like a funeral march, or the walk to the gallows.

And I open any page from my story and it’s all there. All in detail. All my feelings, my anguish, the number of little deaths throughout the day. The number of times I say your name in vain. Aconite and nightshade upon my lips. All the times I cried out god’s name in vain.

Saturn/Lucifer watches silently with suppressed interest. Hecate walks dressed in darkness and endless possibilities swirl around her. I walk my path alone, knowing that which makes the gods laugh: the degree of human stupidity and frailty. The fact that we consider ourselves immortal and safe from harm. If the gods are nothing but figments of our imagination, the death of human race will mean their death too, or rather the death of archetypes as a whole. Hmph. The divine masks fall to reveal the emptiness behind them. From that emptiness, “both pregnant and empty” like the blank rune, from chaos, unformed and shapeless, came creation. And as creation slowly slips into chaos, I can’t help but wonder if change will be satisfying when it comes. I am certain it will not be, for it is human nature to hate change. But nothing is more certain than change. The whole of human race has been installed wrong software, I am absolutely positive.

It is hard to put into words certainties that make my skin crawl. It is harder still to explain the way little omens appear to show me the way of doing things, or puzzle me sometimes. Chaos magick is the next chapter. I think the Lady is happy with my choice. So let’s see: Tiamat would be one goddess related, Sekhmet too, Hecate another, and funny as it seems, there is Loki. I am not happy about the last, but I bet he’s having a field day. (I mean Loki, especially if we keep in mind my dislike for him). Discordia or Eris… Gah, this is so fucked up and so wrong that it ends up being the right thing to do. Eh. I am sure I’ve missed a turn somewhere along the way.

“Forlorn, I sailed/ and once I saw winds devouring men. /And I became the great deceiver/ to see what fair eyes still cannot see: /a tear in every sea, /a fragment of light exhausted. /Vision is all that matters to a wayward sailor. /

Through centuries of burning/ -we have waited for so long/ clothed in the serpent’s skin/ from the portal I was calling/ you lay me in the dust of the dead./ A swan in agony.

Patience, patience, patience…/ night moths on her wings, /a staggering moon murmurs./
The land blessed the manifold faces of your love. / The Garden lies asleep, the grave unclouded, /and we dance about a fallen sun.” (Elend)

It is all getting clear in a way that makes absolutely no sense. If we are to look behind the masks of existence, behind the masks of gods themselves, then we must claw our way through all the veils and even use a bloody spoon to dig under the bedrock of reality. To realise what? If the masks have been empty from the start then who’s wearing them? “There is no spoon”, I know. It is all a masquerade. The “harlequinade”. The end of worlds. A new dawn with the sun put out. The forms and the sounds are confused with one another. Reality is unraveling like an old rug and we are fleas hiding in that rug. Maybe this is what it takes to remember.

I need to sleep. My madness progresses smoothly. All is well. As Lord Fanny said, “we have the best corn”. In our ears, most likely, this is why we are incapable of making sense of the obvious. The symbols are dancing like the wings of a hummingbird and I want to laugh or run away like hell. Reality is overestimated. That and the joys of sanity. There is no pattern. This is a pattern. We can play just fine without bothering with rules once. We can play and I have missed playing so much. It is all an exercise in absurdity. I will not be angry again. It gives them the benefit of attention. I will not pay any attention to them ever again. I will only pay attention to what is important: the weather, the colour of ribbons, the way some bumblebees look like fuzzy zeppelins and are propelled like rockets. Now that’s worth taking note of.

Okay, my divorce with reality has just begun. Do they give away doughnuts when this happens? I want one with a hole in the center and chocolate. The archetypal doughnut. When I eat it and the god behind the archetype dies, its divine ghost will do what it must: settle comfortably upon my tummy and augment it a wee bit more. I fear no god, I am the avatar of Beligadesh, the tummy goddess. You can kiss my divine bellybutton and eat crow, the lot of you.

God, a doughnut would be nice.

PS: Some of the above might make sense if someone is familiar with the series "the Invisibles" by Grant Morrison and Jung.