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WÜETUNG DER MYSTERIUM

:𐍅𐍉𐌳𐍃:

Are you familiar with the Goddess of the Harvest? Demeter was her name, as she was known by the ancient Greeks. Demeter presided over the crops and the fertility of land. Her daughter, by Zeus, was named Persephone: a truly intriguing name when compared to the powers of her mother, for the Indo-European roots would demand the meaning to be something akin to ‘female thresher/striker-down or corn/crop’. Thus we have here the relation between growth and thresh, or life and death. 

There are many mysterious aspects to the nature and practice of the various rituals our forebears chose to partake in, but there is one that stands taller, shimmering within the rest like a white pine in its prime. There is one ritual/festival/cult that even enamored the later Roman Empire and many of its greatest names and heroes. The Eleusinian mysteries, a festival or collection of events that took place within the town of Eleusis, which predates even the Greek language and can be assumed to have some connection with the name Elysium (afterlife). The cult that upheld the traditional ritual were predominantly female, and followed a strict flow of events which were said to have mimicked the descent, search, and ascent of Persephone’s capture by her Uncle Hades, God of the underworld. 

Not only does this resonate the same flow of Ragnarök/death of Baldr to all of those who understand, but it should be clear that this is a timeless metaphor for the flow of blood through time. This is the tale and revelation of immortality through one’s bloodline. It parallels the constant flow and care we must give to our crops and livelihoods if we are to continue on. To withstand the trials of earth we must find duty, and we must serve that which serves us. Without crops we have no civilization, no need for time, no strength to protect nor serve those we love. As Zeus the skyfather seeded Demeter, so too must the offspring grow and die, and then be born again, only to die again, etc… 

A crucial aspect of the Eleusínia Mystḗria (Ἐλευσίνια Μυστήρια), was that one must be silent as the priestesses hurled terrible insults at those who passed into their domain, despite one’s social standing beyond the confines of this sacred ground. In the normal world, within the waking world, you might be something —, but here and within the ritual, all were treated as nothing. It is in this way, rituals such as this have a meditative ‘knack’ for cracking our various and surprisingly feeble social constructs; much like ‘sharing is caring’, until a big flu comes along, and then all of a sudden we need to grab as many boxes of cereal as our little pink hands can carry away from the store… but I digress. This practice of ridiculing those who entered the sacred space would obviously be quite a humbling experience for many. It was designed to bruise as many egos as possible, and render those with astronomical wealth and power down to the same social level as all other attendees.

It is said that the rites mimicked the flow of the story, and thus would be extremely grueling and stressful, to the point where many would die. Convulsing was quite common after ingesting this secret elixir,  that was so important to the rites held within Eleusis. This mysterious potion would be passed around, ingested, and the trials would begin by immediately carving off those whose bodies rejected its powers. The almost random effects of those the potion would kill would be enough to throw many of us today into a state of mind that our decadent lives have sheltered us from almost entirely. Thus, once again, the trial demonstrates a deliberate chaos that mimics true equality among humanity, and further buckles us to the whims and mercy of natural selection/ nature. 

There are many theories that have arisen as to what this potion contained, but it is entirely agreed upon that it had psychedelic and poisonous properties which elicited varying results from person to person. It is important to note that Eleusis was an agricultural hotspot, and there is great proof to be found that rye was grown there on the fields of this domain. Rye has a rather daunting potential about it, and grows a mold known as ergot. Ergot is black, and appears to the human eye as a sort of dense sludge which forms on the head of the plant. The mold from corn is considered, even today for the highest classes among humans, to be a delicacy known as ‘smut’. Yet if ergot is ingested in a large enough quantity, it has been known to cause visions, sickness, and even convulsions which in some cases lead to death. 

To the medieval peasantry, the touch of this sludge afflicted thousands. It left them bruised and eventually limbless or dead due to its poisoning. ‘Antonius fire’ or ‘The fire of Saint Antonius’ was the name given to this affliction. An interested juxtaposition, indeed when contrasted with Ergot’s importance to the decadent rituals of mystic Greece. The bane of the peasants was the height of aristocratic inspiration. 

Great men and women from throughout ancient history would visit the fields of Eleusis and return to their daily lives with a notable vigor or ‘aura’ about them. In fact this can be taken as far as to say that once they return they were notable greater individuals, and were propelled into events which more or less made them known in the history books. Julius Caesar can be noted among them, as can Alexandros The Great. 

The mystery manifests itself in strange places and people for all time. 

To the Germanics, we see Baldr as he sits upon his throne of ash at the top of the world tree in a very similar light. The Ash is the ANSUZ, and the ANSUZ is the inspiration at the end of all things. The estuary has formed from the larger body of water and now carves its own path away from the ‘always has been’. The youth use this power as a means to ‘go their own way’ and they sit atop the highest point in the land and understand it all amidst the chaos, after all the dross has been burned away. 

Coal-black char descending like ravens black; quick like rushing shadows. 

I AM THE SPEAR THAT GUIDES THE WAY
THE EDGE OF GAR THAT DOES NOT SWAY

Where the peasantry burns at the mere touch, one might be rewarded in being mad enough to ingest the black rot. This is the trial of death and the healing. There is nothing more mysterious than those places others dare not go. 

Above all Gods did the Germanic people crown ‘The Rage’ as King over all. Not the sky but the storm. Not the thunder, but the madness found within. There are gods of steel, war, harvest, sex, sea, mud, earth, and sky. But there is nothing more ferocious and all knowing than the mysterious frenzy. The Christians saw all gods and made them bow to the TRUTH, but that truth was an answer. So clean was the answer, so satisfyingly simple. But life and death is anything but. We are, all of us, animals waiting to die. Despite what we cling to, despite what we acquire and accumulate, we are all of us beasts that have made ourselves something more through the heroin of this TRUTH.

I have a truth for you, and it is that we know nothing more than the mystery. That is where you will find your god, beast. It is ugly, formless, inspiring and terrible. As if on a rollercoaster with no safety belt do we ride up and down, around and around, until we fly from the seat into the unknown from whence we came, crying and naked from our mothers’ portals. And there is nothing more beautiful and Godlike on this earth aside from that fact; that joke, that lonesome truth. The holy mystery is always around, and if you choose to pretend, and fend it off with your feeble amygdala, then you will never know God on earth, nor after. 

Those grail-knights that seek the mysterious belong to he, Wüetung Der Mysterium. It is by this name that we children of this era should know Wodanaz. Is it not so very clear to you that he is the shepherd of goats? Do you not see that he seeks you out and demands your company? ‘With words of madness, and water of fire’. The Allfather is the ergot that poisons those that dare drink from his well without the proper level of madness to traverse through the poison and reach greatness upon the distant shore. His favors wear no armor, and speak no tongue of man. ’Static is the common language’ to those who have thoughts like hammers. 

Art is the language and weaponry of true magicians, those undead amidst this fetid world. They are those that would dare create where no one asked for creation. In a world where everyone and their mothers considers themselves artists, the true seekers understand that it is time to create new paths. You have created nothing of worth unless it turns the heads of those sound-minded buffoons who would find comfort in spiritual chastity: monks that tend to the idol known as ‘watercooler’, where they might discuss games and weather. You will find true art on the lips of these sheep as they whip it with forked tongues and scorn. 

Any time you wish to think rationally, and follow the more ‘logical’ path towards anything you wish to create, smack yourself in the balls and remember that you only have them for a fleeting moment in time and space. So start using them, and forget about all rational thought. Remember the paths you saw goblins laughing upon as a child. Remember where you saw a path that led off deep into the unknown trees of your local forest, and prey there. Sit for a moment amidst the stones of broken logic and find the fungi of madness as your mind wanders home towards Wüetung Der Mysterium, and you will find God quicker than you could say ‘I don’t care who else understands’. 

Drugs are the modern man’s key, crutch and excuse to become childish again, and most would rather be high than put in the legwork themselves. But there is nothing stopping you from being that mad without psychedelics either. Nothing rather than your own brain that has created henchmen to Yaldaboth within; they guard the spring of youth from you. If you are anything like me, whenever you find the breadcrumb trail that leads back to the madness and fantasy I could so easily find in my youth, you often find that something stops you from drifting into that realm now. I have often discussed with colleagues that this is most definitely brought on through the loss of virginity, or the pubecent bomb which replaces goblins with tits and cunt. 

Oftentimes I wonder if we are truly never meant to return, lest we find ourselves drifting into madness without even a small anchor within this world for us to use that madness to our advantage. For when I say ‘return there’ it is not as a means to escape from the hell we live amongst. But rather, to find the holy rail that we so often drank from as children, and bring its potions and powers into this world with us now. Not an escape, as it is seen to the soulless masses but a weapon of incomprehensible ability to all those who do not live amidst the splendor of Wüetung Der Mysterium’s great powers and majesty. 

It is of utmost importance for us to build our bodies into titanous machines that are capable of ripping the heads from evil torsos. It is important for us to learn the logical and temperamental skills of our forefathers also. But as children of Wüetung Der Mysterium we have the highest duty to uphold and that is to cast off the disguise of human flesh and become powerful and barbarous berserkers that are capable of wielding a magic that all others believe impossible. It is not enough to bench press and eat well. It is not enough to read and understand the philosophies that repel us away from the weakness of modern life. It is mandatory that we discover the ancient passageways which only children know. We must become immortal through magic and wonder, and rediscover the land of elves if we are to become something more, and something of a force to be reckoned with against our most mortal foes. 

They wield horrible magic that must be undone and can only be undone through true art and madness. We possess the key, we need only turn the lock.

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