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The Death Cycle

Everything that lives lives on the death of something else. Your own body will be food for something else. Anyone who denies this, anyone who holds back, is out of order. Death is an act of giving.”

― Joseph Campbell

Midway through January and the bitter Manitoban cold has surely been a stern reminder of it. Many of you other fellow North-Dwellers can most certainly relate. The solstice has since passed and the cycle continues. Winter seems to be a rather harsh teacher sometimes. Quite often hardships and strain go hand in hand with the season.

While this week’s article is a rather personal and cathartic one, it has a message I hope everyone can take something from. I aim to inspire, after all. The idea for this week’s article came to me one evening in particular. My shivering hand clutched my pipe as I tried to enjoy a smoke. A windchill of -48 makes that a tad difficult, but alas it planted the seed of inspiration. A concept further cemented in my head by the current turns of fate and the frigid jaws of winter itself. 

Nourishing Destruction. Death and Rebirth. Destruction of something to spur the growth of something else.The serpent devouring its tail, the phoenix from the ash.

To swallow down your own death, and let it birth new life within you. 


The Isa rune stands front and centre often this time of the year. A very challenging rune at that. It’s very name is “Ice”, and it embodies it. Imagine yourself as a river or creek, once running and flowing. The river is frozen over. The water once in motion now waits, stagnant. 

It shows energy of restriction, of stillness and the lack of movement. As with any rune none are inherently bad or good, however this one truly outlines one of the harsher parts of life we must deal with. 

Oftentimes the harshness of winter and Isa’s cryogenic touch do wonders to slow down our momentum, oftentimes stopping us in our tracks completely. We often very easily succumb to it as well, but it’s not necessarily bad. 

Just as death is the cessation of life in a literal or figurative sense, the freezing over of our river is also a potential to break free. The ice will always melt in the spring, or can be broken by our own means. 

Next we come to the idea of the phoenix. The mythological creature who is reborn anew from it’s own ashes. It achieves new life through its own death. 

The stillness of the ice has us in a state of either a slow trudge or immobile entirely. The reasons for this are entirely down to the individual. Whether tragic, self imposed or thrown upon unjustly, the reasons are there. 

But alas, we need to continue forward. Certain aspects of ourselves must now, for lack of a better term, die. 

As challenging as it may be, it’s a critical step in this collection of ideals I’m getting across here. Certain things may be a massive part of our lives. They may carry a lot of weight whether through nostalgia or memory. Perhaps even by blood, or by friendship. 

It’s seldom an easy task to put major parts of your life to rest. But would you not prefer that as to your total identity crashing and burning entirely? 

Certain dead weight oftentimes must be shed. Some events happen without warning. It is the volatile nature of the human condition. However regardless when those chunks of ourselves are burnt to ash, they can be seen as fertile. A birthplace of the new and the strong, the bird born from the ashes of its former self. 

Where there is death there is rebirth. The serpent devours itself to create itself. 

As it exists in nature. A creature dies, it’s body is broken apart to feed the earth once again. From the nourishing death new life springs from the soil. 

This cycle of death and rebirth exists within ourselves. It is a component to our development in all stages of life. Parts of us die, and are recreated. Elements once dear to us depart and we come back stronger through the struggle. 

The cold stasis we find ourselves in leads to glorious and fiery recreation, to continue on the cycle symbolised by the Ouroboros. 

We are all different. We all have our own demons, our own struggles, and most important our own achievements and badges of honour. I may not know what you’re going through, and I don’t need to. 

You yourself understand the key to growth. The key to new life where the old has grown stagnant and foetid. 

Shake it off, man. Let the old shit burn. A little piece of yourself that needs to die isn’t worth killing yourself over.

Is this the cathartic ramblings of a madman or something more? Perhaps both. 

But I’m already climbing from the ash, and let me tell you, my wings are gonna cleave the skies. 

You’ll become better, friend. I promise you that. 

Now let’s get after it. 

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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. 


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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The Waters of Sacrifice

The Ash Yggdrasil, F.W. Heine

In the northern tradition of Germanic mythology, there lies a well beneath the world tree, Yggdrasil. Located at the lowest reaches of the Nordic peoples’ understanding of the cosmic order, it sits in the shadow of a root that reaches into Jötunheimr, the land of the giants, associated with the ungovernable aspects of the natural world. The well is watched over by a mysterious being known as Mímir (roughly, “the remember”), whose origin and nature are decidedly obscure, but is noted in the  Völuspá as being potently enlightened (compare the symbol of the character Tom Bombadil in the Tolkien mythos). It is stated explicitly that his wisdom is derived from the influence of the wellwater.

As is the case with many of the themes present in mythology, the character of Mímir’s Well can be understood as being primarily symbolic. The situation of the well in an area that is so suprachthonic, beyond even a material concept of obscurity, and existing on a plane so spiritually devoid of light that it sits beneath the roots of all of creation, is no accident, and can likewise be interpreted as a nod to the nature of Ginnungagap — the primordial state of nonbeing from which all phenomena, both material and immaterial, emerged at the beginning of time. The mutable quality of the water as a force that takes on the shape of the vessel in which it is contained (be it cistern or body), its association with sagacity and freeness of thought, and its place in the structure of the universe, also speaks to the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious: something available to anybody brave enough to descend to the darkest roots of the inner and outer worlds in order to sample its quality. This is a theme also echoed in the symbols of two other wells present at the roots of the world tree in Norse myth, Urðarbrunnr (the well of wyrd), tended by the three Norns, goddesses of fate, and Hvergelmir (the boiling spring), from which all waters originate.

Reciprocity is the highest law of the universe. The material and decidedly positivistic field of physics teaches us that every action begets a reasonable reaction at parity with the original impulse. Hermeticism teaches us, echoed in the outstretched palms of the Magician of the Major Arcana, that there is congruence both “above and below”. Naturally, when the reputation of Mímir’s well aroused the interest of the gods Óðinn and Heimdallr, they were not exempt from this rule. Óðinn, having hanged himself by the neck already in the very fabric of the universe, was no stranger to the doctrine of self-oblation, and cast his eye, a powerful symbol of his sensory relationship with the external world, into the depths of the well. Heimdallr, the guardian spirit of the realm of the divine, whose conservatory nature binds him to the blowing of his signal trumpet, the Gjallarhorn (roughly, “yelling horn”) at the end if the world, likewise sacrifices his ear. Óðinn finds the influence of the well and its curator so tempting, that after his death, he carries Mímir’s severed head around, consulting it for advice.

A similar anecdote, perhaps derived from a common source, comes to us from the part of the Prose Edda known as the Skáldskaparmál (the “language of poetry”), is the story of the fabled mead of poetry, from which Óðinn derives his creativity and aptitude at composing verses. After the war that pitted the two tribes of gods in the North Germanic tradition, the Æsir and Vanir, against one another, peace was sealed by way of  a communal ritual of spitting into a cauldron. The saliva, imbued with the power of the now-united pantheon, grew into a man of considerable wisdom, skill, and intelligence, known as Kvasir, whose name is probably derived from a Proto-Indo-European root, to ferment or crush, *kwh₂et-, a stem that brought us Latin cāseus (cheese) and the Slavic beverage kvass. Kvasir travels among mankind, spreading the consequence of his intellect, and is eventually killed, ostensibly through misadventure, his blood being mixed with honey and turned into mead — thereby ensuring his abilities will last thereafter through the effects of alcohol. This process of beverage-as-currency-for-inspiration is echoed in the Indo-Aryan tradition of soma or haoma, the Vedic botanical ritual beverage, the origins of which are still debated.

In all of these paradigms, there is a common theme of sacrifice, of appendages that represent connection with the material world, of old grudges being laid down for common good, and the balm both of creativity and alcohol serving to unite pantheons and inspire humanity both. Not even supernatural beings are permitted to receive wisdom as gratuity. Certainly, you are not permitted to receive inspiration for free. The internal process of invigoration that allows us to transform our inner feelings and perspective into tangible results, artistic or practical, are not spontaneous (though they sometimes may seem to be), and cannot be created from nothing. Before the external work to spur results into existence is undertaken, inner work must be undertaken, and inner work must start with a catalyst that comes from without, however obscure or unconscious its origin may be. There can be no blood from Kvasir without the impetus of the spit from different mouths, there can be no wisdom without the removal of the part of the ego that thinks it already possesses the awareness to see what takes place in front of its face.

 And likewise, without the courage to descend, in the Jungian fashion, to the depths of the darkest places of the world, whether they be war or the reaches of the mind lowest and closest to the proverbial roots of the tree, there can be no opportunity for these gifts to be received. As the Medieval alchemical maxim was applied to the psyche of man by Jung himself, in sterquiliniis invenitur, or, put simply, “in filth, it will be found”. That which one seeks is often derived from its situation in the darkest, least tolerable places. These are the only waters from which the mead of life can be made:

The waters of sacrifice.

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Solar Punks of a Sunlit Sigil: Blessings of the Darkest Night 🜨

Before there were Gods, there was but one.

Before there was a middle-realm, there was but ice and fire.

Before there was spring, there was winter. 

Before there was light, there was an unimaginable dark. 

Before there was rebirth, there was death.

Before there was freedom, there was oppression. 

We need no science to explain this. We need no logic to wrestle with this deeply embedded truth. 

Chaos is not the opposite of Order. Order exists in many forms, and it is the nature of all things to adapt to the order of its time, or risk rebellion against such. 

It is the duty of youth to rebel against this state of stagnation.

As many books as religions might burn; 

As many truths a government might withhold from its peasantry;

The way of all things reminds us of this noble law, for it is the immortal call to arms. 

Winter is the end of a dynasty and era. 

It is the final motion of the earth as it completes its annual cycle.

It is the pantomime’s final act as the old clings to life before finally letting go in a bitter fall towards the unknown. 

What this leaves is the burning hearts of youth as they climb to the top of the charred mantle and claim the realm for themselves. Their new ideals were destined to usher in a new ‘perfection’. 

‘I’m the son of rage and love. The Jesus of suburbia’

Said Billie Joe Armstrong as he sung a timeless anthem to the youth of the modern world. 

Yet what he truly chants is the same timeless story that even the seasons scream to us. 

This is Baldr as he cries out for his fate to unfold. For he is literally the son of RAGE (Odin) and LOVE (Frigg).

Yet Baldr faces no true danger, or so he thinks. Like many youthful souls we believe ourselves to be immortal, and we also have an inherent venom for the safety we have been provided. 

It is often the thing we see coming the least that takes out the youth in their blind attack upon the world (i.e living the highest/most energetic life they can)

Rebellion in youth is an exhaustion of easy life, for it is nothing that our blood remembers. We are inherently hardwired as a people to undergo stress in order to become something more. 

This is Zeus as he trains to conquer his father Cronus.

The myth of Saturn / Cronus, father of the Greco-Roman Pantheon, is deeply troubling for any youth to digest because it is the cannibalistic oppression of the new from the upper hand for their paternal master the old

Zeus is the only son left after his father devoured all of his powerful, noble, and talented offspring. 

It is the darkest night that yields no hope. 

It is the soil which refuses to be harrowed nor house any seed the farmer plants to feed his people.

“City of the dead

At the end of another lost highway

Signs misleading to nowhere

City of the damned

Lost children with dirty faces today

No one really seems to care”

I imagine very vividly Baldr singing and understanding these Green Day lyrics the same way any punk might have when it was first heard by their ears. 

It speaks to the way the divine youth might see his surroundings. Especially now within this Kali Yuga. The world has turned to ratshit and concrete. The youth understand this.

Odin himself conquered the old state of the world as Ymir walked in solace between the ice and fire of two unkind worlds. 

The three brothers clearly said ‘how very boring this is’. Where the old simply strides. The youth juxtaposes them with an obsession with turning raw materials into useful and powerful new forms. 

Odin conquered there with his brothers and used the giants bones and flesh to shape the world you now read these words upon. Or so it is said. 

Where Ymir used his body, organs and lifeforce to simply exist for himself for aeons, the three divine brothers sacrificed his selfish form and blossomed him through a spell of rage and love into the world that now exists. 

So you see, there is every reason to burn a sunwheel in the heart of winter because of such tales gifted to us by earth, time, space and blood. 

To burn a fire in the heart of winter is the ultimate rebellion against the old. 

It is the ‘fuck you’ that man has always given to the foliage that the old become when they have clung to this realm for to long. 

For if the conqueror sits for too long, he will always see himself become the conquered. 

The spirit of youth and rebellion is the highest power that has ever existed, and it is a power that is fleeting for those who become too wise too soon. 

The Koryos conquered in chariots of fire, and a noble pursuit of manhood through chaos.

The chariot wheel burns forever.

As we ignite this symbol we keep the rebellion alive.

The rebellion against stagnation. 

The vegetation is stagnant, and we are the scythe of the reaper deep in the heart of winter. 

Go forth and conquer, go forth and raise chaos upon the dormant and dark. 

We spring forth from the maypole/Saturn/hagal and create powerful patterns that continuously multiply and conquer more space.

This is our duty to the flame of youth.

Photography taken at Oathbloods ritual 2021 by S.Riley 

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To worship the Indo-European Gods is to commit to a life of oaths and power. 

These oaths are fashioned by your own will.  

Oaths are an exterior aspect of your truest self. 

They are a tangible symbol of one’s character, and worth. 

Oftentimes they are more you than even yourself; for what people speak of you is far more powerful a force than what you believe yourself to be.

If a man cannot uphold his oaths in this life, then he is no man at all. 

Oaths are broken only by death lest you fall to lesser standing amongst your equals. Which I proclaim again, is no standing at all. 

If no repercussions come from such a case, then you have found your equals at rock bottom. 


From Latin Iūpiter (“father Jove”), 

From Proto-Italic *djous patēr (literally “sky father”) (cognate with Ancient Greek Ζεῦ πάτερ (Zeû páter, “father Zeus”)), 

From *djous (“day, sky”) + *patēr (“father”), 

From Proto-Indo-European *dyḗws (literally “the bright one”), from *dyew- (“to be bright, day sky”), and *ph₂tḗr (“father”). Doublet of Dyaus Pita.

The sky has always been of the utmost importance to humanity. 

Our ancestors navigated into the unknown via the stars, sought to communicate with the Gods and fates through their random trajectories and positions. Some even believed that the sky in-itself to be something of a holy realm that will forever impose itself unto the fertile earth in which all things spring forth from.

I speak to the legend of the Æsir and Vanir is such a sense.

The sky is overtly masculine in every way, and we have always understood ourselves -as a collective- to be the children of the in-between. 


Upheld by the greatest of all trees or perhaps the Irminsul. 

To worship our Gods is to understand that our oaths to them and to our eternal victory come before all other things. 

All jobs

All territories

All women

All peers

All laws

All eternally bow to the oaths we take to our most powerful of Gods. 

We have for too long forgotten this.

Not only are these Gods alive and well within our blood and spirit, but they await us patiently in the glorious future victories that we need only summon into fruition.

I am here today to demonstrate to you one of many rites. 

The following ritual (audio file found above) is tailored to invoke the powerful and hidden secret of your blood-given right to connect with the mightiest of our Gods.

While the thunder, striker, skygod, and supreme king has existed within all of our peoples traditions, it was by this following name and mantra did he so grant the fury and fire of Empire to the sons of Romulus.


Repeat this name loud and proud.

I dare you to discover the primal magic of these words for yourself.

They are fire.

They are power.

They are passion.

They are ours.

This is a name that has not been uttered nor worshiped properly for thousands of years.

I dare you now to search across the internet for a place that can tell you, let alone show you how to properly work with our Father.

You will find nothing more than fables. 

You will witness nothing more than common wiccan misconceptions. 

You will not even find proper pictures of this most powerful form of our holy striker. 

There is fear in the hearts of his enemies, and there is a need to keep his knowledge stifled. 

So I spit at this notion, and call forth the power that once was.

I directly challenge the notion that our true spiritual father should be kept in the shadows and shackles of ‘Myth’. 

It is beyond myth.

It is our eternal father calling us home. 

Furthermore I spit on the notion to confine ourselves to history.

We are not them and they are not us.

We must move forward and rekindle this fire with the embers.

My creation is based on, and not confined to the past.

May you find it beneficial.

Now, go forth and find him.





Let it be known that the men who founded this organization lived through a time of social decay and an unimaginable deterioration of morals, spirit power and dignity. 

Yet they saw that greater men had lived and triumphed through darkness immemorial. 

It is the energy and duty of our blood to move forward into the unimaginable darkness and conquer there. 

We are the Halithaz. 

The heroes that challenge chaos-eternal. 

We have always been and shall always be. 

Against any foe and any chaos that chooses to rear its many heads over and over. 

Whether within the stars of eternity or within the social hierarchy and machinations of bureaucratic jargon.

 We will find it time and time again.

And we will defeat it forever.

To the Halithaz and blood of the Koryos that has sought to commune with his highest of Chieftains;

To he who denied to wither under the watch and rule of lesser powers within an age of death and decay.

To he who saw the lightning within his dreams, and felt the milk of the wolfmother upon his lips;

To he who longs for eternal glory;

Let yourself now be washed of all dross and dirt found within and out of the mortal body and soul; gifted to you by the will of your blood and kin.

Let it be known that this rite was founded and practiced two thousand, seven hundred thirty-seven years after the death of Romulus Rex, first Halithaz to erect an altar of victory towards the glory and power of Jupiter Feretrius.

The initiate will begin by washing their hands in a bowl of pure water. 

The initiate will enter the dark room, cave, grove or mountain peak of their choice.

Upon their first step within -after beginning the ritual- they shall bow their head and touch two fingers of their right hand to their forehead and let their hand drift towards the primary altar of their chosen place of worship. This might be an idol, the stars, an oak tree, a stone, or storm. 

This greeting shall be done twice or four times. 

No more and no less. 

They shall walk towards the chosen spot in which they intend to kneel during this sacred reconnection towards the highone.

The initiate will then sit in silence and meditate upon the dark and cold, and remember the cave of Psychro in which the skyfather was once raised within. They will listen to the voices they hear within and without their head as they meditate upon the darkness.

Until the initiate truly believes they understand the necessity for darkness, they are forbidden from striking the illuminating candle of their choosing.

Fire is a forbidden fruit of illumination for those who fear the dark, and obsess over the light.

This is a primary law to the Halithaz.

Once the understanding is reached, and the three trees within the initiate understand this state of the world, the rites might begin. 

Holding the match, unstruck in one hand and raised high above should the initiate speak these words loud and honorably: 


It burns forever

The initiate might light the match and therefore the necessary light needed to begin the ritual.
This might be a fire, a candle, many candles, etc As long as they are oriented with a fixation on symmetry. 

With the Idol or focal point now illuminated, and greeted by the initiate of whatever time and place upon this powerful earth, might the initiate now stand and spread their arms wide in the shape of the Algiz rune of the Germanic peoples. This is a symbol of invocation known to all forces, and by far the most powerful that we remember. 

The initiate will then kneel, and speak these words: 

“By the will of my blood and forebears do I come here before this holy site in the ____ season of this _____ year after the death of the misled. 

To the spirits and majesty that here witness me, I, _____ of the tribe ____ do so now invoke the eternal majesty of our mighty sky father.


I know you as Father. I know you as King. I know you as the highest of all Gods and powers of this most unfathomable state of consciousness and opportunity.

I beckon thee to witness me and my tribe’s actions henceforth within this time of revival, within a world of ruins and lesser forces.


I am your spearhead

I am your striker

I am your will manifest

And I preserve the flame of people’

The initiate will then state their offerings towards the supreme, and give an offering of blood towards the renewal of these ancient vows. 

The initiate will then state that theirs is the will of the Halithaz, which is the archaic word for hero. Their associations with the thunderous force, and power of his eternal skyfather will therefore be bound through blood and gifts of treasure and good food. 

The initiate will henceforth bring all gains to the feet of this sacred space, whether by word or by literal offering. 

Through sitting and repeating the mantra of his name 


The initiate will reach a state of trance wherein they will find solace in meditation, and can transition into a state of silence. 

Within the silence the initiate will be greeted by positive and negative thoughts alike, and they are to work through them all until there are none left to conquer. 

The initiate will then say his name some final nine times.




And conclude the ritual by bowing their heads and touching two fingers to forehead, letting them drift towards the sublime icon four more times. It is then that they will greet the night once more by extinguishing the candle or light source. 

They will sit for some time longer, and then finally exit the ritual space.

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Into the Agoge

Insofar as any of us are aware, we are blessed with only one life.

If you’re a frequent reader of this site, I am able to assume that you possess an inherent desire to distinguish yourself from the men around you through your deeds and their consequences.

If that doesn’t sound like what you’re after here on earth, I advise you to stop reading and save yourself the time and energy — this article and the corpus to which it belongs is not for you.

Becoming a man worthy of the esteem of your peer group is not an easy task. Cross-culturally, the rites that separate boys from men, and men of status from men cut out of more ordinary cloth, are primarily distinguished by sacrifice, hardship, and the triumph of the self over the experience of suffering.

Naturally though, for those of us living in the west, the vast majority of even the most mundane of these structures have disappeared. In a world too cowardly to worship the flame of tradition, a society that has shaken the ashes of the fire out and scattered them on the wind, many of us still feel the draw to the principle of initiation. 

We choose pursuits that are familiar to our blood memory in their nature of triumph-via-ordeal: we form tribes, join gangs, and compete at martial arts that award us belts that represent our competence.

But unlike those who came before us, who were part of an unbroken lineage of men experiencing manhood in a traditional way, long before the advent of modernity of the social changes brought about by the restructuring of the world in the wake of the Industrial Revolution and the wars of the early 20th century, we are missing vital context.

Consider, for example, the concept of the Spartan Agoge – the system used to prepare men for war, the highest and most virtuous condition of their society. This graduated system of cultivating qualities that met the standards of the city state began when boys were as young as seven years old.

What is the consequence of this? Men of Sparta, effectively from the beginning of their lives, were trained to understand the caliber of man to which they ought to aspire;  they were raised with the quality of being estimable as an achievable goal.

For those of us who were not brought up drinking the black broth of Sparta, the But zōmós, we are left to contend with the inner condition that must be addressed before we can begin to measure up to the external rites of initiation that we hope to undergo.

As adult men, alive and kicking among the ruins, beyond the death of a society that values the qualities that make men great cross-culturally and supra-chronologically, it is imperative that we make holy the mind and the spirit before attempting to adhere ourselves to a standard that exists outside of ourselves; as always, the exoteric is downstream from the esoteric, and that which one experiences materially must be tempered by the law of the interior.

Naturally, we must construct for ourselves a kind of internal Agoge, a remedial balm for men born swaddled in the polyester palace of irrelevant A.D., and commit ourselves to it fully.

In order to understand what this must look like, we must look to the structure of coming of age rites externally, or more specifically what context informs them

While we cannot hope to actually enforce any real processes of sacrifice, hardship, or the triumph of the self over circumstance in an exclusively internal sense, without actual experience, and call it holistic life transformation, all of these values of the external must be mirrored within: the principle of self-denial and temperance, the principle of intentionality-that-precedes-triumph, these can be cultivated spiritually and intellectually regardless of external circumstances.

I am not suggesting that you live in your head. The process of the Agoge and the myriad cultural practices that echo its purpose in countless human cultures may be downstream from the internal transformation that comes with preparation for initiation, but they are still highly, highly important – especially within the context of a man who wishes to increase the efficacy of his manhood.

The truth is that, almost without exception, even those of us who have lived unbelievably difficult lives by modern standards have still grown up with the guarantee that we might coast by living a life of astronomical inaction by historical and mythological standards, so is the mediocre narcotic curse of the modern world. Unlike those Hellenic youths who were born and raised in the martial culture of the Spartans, even the keenest among us are ignorant to the principle of true initiation, and must be prepared through an internal process to reap the greatest benefits from our commitment to our commitments in the material world.

Is the jiujiteiro an athlete, or is he a monk whose devotional walking meditation consists of exercising his physical prowess on the mats against his teammates, drilling endlessly until his limbs move as seamlessly as the gears in the transmission of a precision machine?

Is the strongman akin to a hydraulic press, diffidently moving chunks of rock around for the simple, absurd purpose of picking them up and putting them down, or is he the focused manifestation of Indra exerting himself over the cosmos, he who so conquered the rain and thus brings it to earth?

It’s an easy choice, a simple dichotomy – the tyranny of the mundane or the transformative power of material allegory.

We in the west, alienated from antiquity and the spiritual and intellectual contexts that prepared the heroes of old for hardship, we have no choice but to accept the challenges available to us in modern life (physical training, mountaineering, et al.) with the cloistered aggression of a furious anchorite, and find transformation therein, or otherwise join or develop an honour group in which we construct our own.

But through this mosaic of smaller rites, through the tapestry of Agoges that we might expose ourselves to, with the wisdom and judiciousness of a Cæsar flashing behind our focused eyes, we can hope to make savage the body, sharpen the mind and the spirit, and live at the potential of estimable men: the path to which only initiatory experience can unlock.

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Baptism of the Lightbringer

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. This man came for a witness, to bear  witness of the Light, that all through him might believe. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear  witness of that Light.

[John 1:6] 

Meditate on death. 

It feels to me like we’ve all been saying this in some way shape or form for years now. The  importance of reflecting on our own mortality and the uncomfortable truth that our time here must end  sooner or later. It’s been popularized by countless internet icons in various overlapping circles of  influence. Huge social venn-diagrams of crossovers with hashtags and mutual followers and we all  share and re-post these cool sounding, tough, packaged phrasings with pleasing aesthetics like a sharpie sketch of a pointy iron gauntlet holding a flail, or Arnold (perhaps not so much now) with laser eyes  and VHS glitch filters. But are we sincerely in our heart of hearts considering not just the fact that we  will die, but if it must end sooner than we would like, and that we might have to make that choice? 

I discussed recently with another pastor at the church that I attend whether the spirit of  martyrdom still had a place in our world of 2021. Given the ubiquity of martyrs throughout the expanse of time and place, throughout myth and legend and history of every great faith, there seems to be a lack of martyrs in the same sense today. A cold grey zone, an intermission, an age of lead. An epoch marked  by a foreboding absence of the kind of Heroism that truly sets our hearts ablaze with indignation and  the love of true purpose. The Tibetan monk who self immolates, or the man of Tiananmen square.  Even Aragorn’s final charge on the black gate; “for Frodo.” We love this. We may shed a tear, even for  the fictional instances beset with triumphant solemn music. But if or when the axe draws near, while  we have many things to live for – do we have something to die for? Or are we “the voice of one crying  in the wilderness”? 

The unpleasant truth is that given the current climate that is settling in for a very dark night,  even if we collectively marched with vigour and purpose to a symbolic Black Gate of the “Empire of  Nothing”; let’s say a storming of Facebook, or Google, or a pharmaceutical headquarters, or the capitol  building. Well, we’ve seen how that plays out and how it is broadcast to the masses in our perpetual  information control campaign. I do not strive to deliver black pills to any of you – quite the opposite –  but this sobering truth can and should inspire in us not hopelessness against the shadowy hydra of “the  system” but empowerment to begin making an impact around ourselves on comparatively smaller  scales. We have been cursed by large media to believe that we as a lone pilot must take out the death  star. And while history and myth is saturated with individual Heroic figures that perform titanic deeds,  they must be taken as allegory, digested, and assimilated into our life circumstances. The alchemical  transformation from written word and scripture, into inspiration and awe through our emotions and  thoughts, and then into concrete action is the miracle. We reclaim Satya Yuga first within ourselves. It  is an internal, unseen hidden process akin to the cumulative gathering masses of hydrogen in the  expanse of the vacuum of Ginnungagap until finally, under the gravity of their collective weight of  congregation, the birth of a new heavenly body – a god – ignites and illuminates the void where before there was only darkness. 

We are hydrogen atoms, alone and adrift we do nothing and can offer nothing. It is only through interaction and collective power that we hold any sway over the course of our world and the void. It is  only in numbers that we can be a hydrogen bomb – implosive and irresistible, opening gateways to  worlds never dreamed of even by the greatest of utopians. 

Each of us is as John, a witness of the Light. But we individually are not the Light. It is our  interactions, our influence, and our collective force that creates the Light to illumine the shadowy expanses of our worlds. We are Lightbringers, Lucifer and Prometheus, who steal or free Light or Fire  to the benefit of collective Mankind. These figures are indeed individuals, cast about the archetypal  records of the cosmos and passed down to us to pull together us individuals in a united force as sole  atoms are to the unfathomable mass of fire, plasma, and lightning that is a Star. And we will be  punished; chained to the Caucasus, our crowns split by Michael to illuminate the world. For the power  to forge a star was not supposed to be granted us, that which lies with the creator, and we wish to share  that power with our fellow man. Zeus knows all too well that the Titans can be dethroned, perhaps he  has gleaned it from the woven work of the Fates. The wheels turns, Kings are cast asunder, new  empires built, new emperors and Gods crowned. 

I wrote in my earlier article “Incarnating Gods” that our goal here is to forge a vessel into which we may “lure” or “entice” archetypal Gods into, imbuing us with miraculous insight, temperament, and abilities. I still hold this to be true, but as I also said that while Christians will never be Christ, they can only aspire to be as Christ-like as possible in this life, we will never as individuals attain that flawless  archetype we strive to entice. It is the congregation of men and women coming together, collectively  striving for a similar archetype – in service to the same God or Gods – that enkindles the Holy Spark of that Deity which is carried glowing within us all into a mighty conflagration that can consume the high  ramparts, castles, and fortresses of the existing empires of the world. None of us can truly know the  critical mass that is reached in the void of space whereupon the hydrogen ignites under the pressure of  their own gravitas, but once that threshold is passed, once we cross the event horizon, there is no  slowing or stopping that irresistible and insatiable force. Only once the newly birthed star or God has  reached the ferocity ordained by it’s own fate is it then constrained under it’s own gravity once more  and stabilized that it casts it’s own Light out into the cosmos as a beacon to all ships navigating beneath the icy waters of the void with all lights blazing, calling them home to join the blinding brilliance of the new cause. 

How will we tie these symbols and metaphors into our daily lives, and will we be martyrs for a  new cause, a new path, and the new light of a newly born God? 

Consider first, as I will paraphrase here the work of Massimo Scaligero, that we do not see the  Light. What we see is the dying of the Light. The Light of the cosmos extinguishes itself upon contact  with our retinas; dying so that we may see. The Light is the original martyr, the Light cast forth from  the hearts of stars is chained to the rock of our consciousness through the heavy shackles of our  perception so that we may see and bear witness to the beauty of existence. Only death can pay for life. 

The Greek word that we translate by witness is martus. There are three words of the same  derivation: to witness – marturein; the act of witnessing – marturia; the testimony (in an objective  sense) – marturion. The original meaning is that of a witness in a law court; namely, someone who has  direct and personal experience of events in which he took part, or of persons he met, and who certifies  in court as to what he has seen or heard.  

But in ancient Greek usage and already in the time of Plato the words martus, marturein, and  marturia were also used in a wider sense, as an expression of personal conviction without this  conviction’s being necessarily based on “factual evidence.” 

To bear witness to creation is to make a martyr of the Light, to behold the Passion of the Light.  Without this first sacrifice we are left in the void with naught to illumine the cosmos. The word  Passion is from the Latin pati, which simply means “to endure” or “to suffer.” The Ouroborous must  feed and be extinguished, forever undulating in realms above and below or day-to-day perceptions.

Every day we have undertakings and work towards goals in which we extinguish elements of  ourselves forevermore; we open some doors on the path of our lives and others close. Common  perception we have all experienced as we trade one potential path of life for another and may  sometimes reminisce of times in hindsight where we can recognize that was a indeed a hard fork in our  path. The ways behind us can never be revisited and the forks ahead of us are beyond comprehension;  the plethora of infinite quantum possibility jittering and jostling in that Schrödinger-esque eternal state  of potentiality. For eternity is unused time – time in reserve of paths untrodden through each round,  stored and set aside for the Gods who are not bound here or now. 

When we choose to pick up weights, to run, to read challenging material, to eat better, to gather  and laugh with friends and family, to turn ourselves into more instead of withering and shrinking away,  we close doors that lead down dark paths to dark ends. They are things that bolster our lives and enrich  the world as our own internal Satya Yuga slowly kindles, ignites, and casts that radiance outward. It  

does not necessarily usher our friends and family through the same doors that we walk, but it does open that door for them and offer them to make their own choice to enter or not. Some will join us, some  will depart from us, some may rejoin us later on the path higher up the mountain having found a  different route to similar vantage points. But these concepts here are reliant upon our living, what of  our dying? 

Just as the extinguishing – the passion – of the Light is the only principal by which we see –  bear witness – it is only the extinguishing of a Life lived with vigour, absolute Love and conviction that is the ignition and detonation in the heart of what will shortly be a new star, a new God, or an atomic  blast that reduces irreconcilable differences to ash in the wake of the new path – all of the above. Only  with endings are there new beginnings. When we begin to glean that the end of our golden thread of  Fate is within sight, what will our impact be and how will it echo past the end of our perception? In this short article, I do not have an answer, because I am not you. We may share aesthetic ideals, we may be  friends, we may never meet. I am just a man at the end of 2021 who feels the weight of the end of an  era bearing down like the unfathomable gravity and heat of a dying star going red giant and engulfing  planets as it’s internal atomic stores burn out. This end will only be a new beginning – the beginning of  a better age. 

As these witnesses – these martyrs – of the Light which is collectively emanating from more  and more of us, a tidal wave is coming down. It has long since crested the horizon and is towering over  us. Not just a tidal wave of water – for that is not our baptism. It is the tidal wave and the baptism of  Spirit and Fire as the Son of Man returns as Kalki atop the white horse with bronze feet and the double  edged sword for a tongue. We are born perfect and continue to strive for perfection; the re-attainment  of Eden, Paradise, Heaven, Hyperborea. Thus, we are not required to undergo the watery Baptism  symbolic of the drowning of the imperfect human with original sin, washing away his or her flaws for  we recognize that as Muhammad Ali once said with the conviction of Grace: “God didn’t make NO  mistakes when he made me the way that I am.” 

As this tidal wave of Spirit and Fire comes to cleanse this time and place, the Black Gate opens  and the hordes of Mordor pour out, we take a deep breath and dive beneath the turmoil and find that  there is an odd calm – “for Frodo.” We do not know if we will hold our breath long enough to resurface but we see others who have taken the same plunge and gain encouragement that should our breath  elapse, should our constitution not be enough to endure this passing of eras, that our friends and  families will be our witnesses that we did all that we could. That we lived beautiful, unrelenting lives of desire and drive in honour of things far above and beyond our individual lives. Some of us will drown  under the weight of this wave of Spirit and Fire. There is no way around this. What is important is that  we are here – and will be there – together beneath the flames and when those of us who resurface on  the other side are blessed with the manna of ancients with an iron rod in our hands and crowned with the Sun, that we rebuild in honour of those who chose willingly to dive in with us. They were  extinguished so that we might see. Those who are martyred are the Light, we who survive are not the  Light, but sent by God to bear witness to the Light, and thus will be John of the New Way.

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Archetype Creation

It’s not often that with content I’ve contributed to Halithaz, the imagery comes before the written word. Most times the natural process of writing plants an idea in my head which I later embody visually. However, after the first snowfall a couple weeks back, I took the opportunity to shoot some photos. 

I set up my tripod outside, took my shirt off in the frigid wind, and got to business. I was satisfied with the results. In addition to a damn fine shoot with my recently purchased replica of Geralt of Rivia’s sword, it planted an idea in my head. 

I had created major Witcher energy. I certainly looked the part I must say. But alas, while I adore the Witcher universe, it exists in its own world. Geralt of Rivia is a fantastic character. The way he’s developed across books and other media alike is masterful. 

But I am not him, he is not me. 

I had just achieved something within my own world.

I just achieved a form of creation within myself.

Forging ourselves into something worthy of legend and song has been a core principle of Halithaz since day one; development of our bodies and minds for the sake of upwards momentum. 

Such is similar in the world of Role Playing Games, whether that’s of the tabletop, digital or even live action variety. Upon starting, you create your character that you will be using throughout the game. You assign attributes such as strength or intellect. You can pick and choose proficiency in certain abilities. You can decide your character’s backstory and origins.

Throughout the course of the game, these attributes and skills applied to your character can be molded: increased, developed into new sub-abilities within that specific skill. Your strength may increase, or your magical ability can grow more adept. 

You can learn new attack patterns, new spells, or new skills entirely to bolster the abilities of this fantasy avatar you have aided in creating. 

This is not so dissimilar from our own personal journey, and the main reason I find these types of games to be so engaging. Sure, being born under the sign of the warrior to automatically guarantee you a three plate bench press would be nice — but it isn’t realistic in our world. 

However through work, determination, and patience, through practicing and developing the attributes we do have, that three plate bench press is very much attainable. 

The moment we are born, we become the protagonist of our own universe, the writers of our own story, and the ones who direct our own fate. We are the clay ready to be molded into the statue. 

We can absolutely take inspiration from other characters. Aragorn son of Arathorn, through trial and tribulation, becoming the king of Gondor. How about a trigger-happy space marine tearing through hordes of demons on Mars? A man that embodies such raw power that hell itself fears him. 

Great characters. But, we are not them. And that is a good thing. 

Many view the world through an extremely mundane lens. Many idolize these characters and like to imagine themselves to be like them, however what are they doing to make that happen?

You may not be a super powered demon slayer, or a white-haired, sword-wielding mutant, but that doesn’t make your story any less exciting. Think of the roads you’ve travelled, of the adventures you have undertaken with fellow men, of the successes you’ve had, of the love you have both felt and lost. You grow and develop with each step along the way. 

But words must be written for a story to take place. Actions must be initiated and effort put in. Archetypes must be forged, carefully molded. You become the archetype of your own doings. 

Your archetype becomes your crown. It’s your responsibility to make sure you deserve to wear that crown. 

I enjoy reading about heroes of old, or of tragic figures in history. I also enjoy well crafted characters in our modern forms of media. There’s something about it that sets off an immediate spark in our heads. 

Why not be the one to initiate the spark? You can, through dedication and through willingness to stoke the flames. If there’s a skill you’ve always wanted to learn, or a new hobby you’ve wanted to undertake…

Why would you not try it?

Our time here is not infinite, but the mark we leave can be. 

Develop yourself. 

Grow your character.

Write your own story, make your own legends, and become the archetype of the grandest version of you. Do that, and you’ve earned the right to sit in the same echelon as the great characters that inspired your action to begin with.

No time like the present, lads. You better get started.

Red Wolf, Out.

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When to Gang Up

How to start powerful allegiances that last and permeate.

It is often the case that man gets high off his own ideas. 

When we are enchanted by break-through thoughts and life-changing ideas it is only human to seek immediate gratification, or share your excitement with those you deem worthy of its knowledge. 

But of course if you were interested in being simply human, you wouldn’t be reading articles seeded to you through an exclusive cyber channel. 

It is your utmost duty as a man seeking a higher quality of life to restrain yourself from such base pleasures.

We all think we know this, but it is better I cover it now, rather than move straight past it hoping we’re all on the same page.

The pregenitive moments of your creation need only your thoughts, and your meditation.

The lowest version of you relishes in fooling you in these moments more than any other.

“I better get so-and-so’s input on this. I can’t do this without first asking ____ to-” you get it. 

All of the things you hear in those first few moments of inspiration will attempt to seduce and tantalize. And why shouldn’t they? Oftentimes these sorts of ideas are a fantastic means to flex and show-off your newest and brightest thoughts; a perfect vehicle for your ego to drive off into the sunset as you think ‘yep, my friends think im the shit for sure’.

But not only is it more-often-than-not going to seem quite dim to all of those you share it with, it’s only half baked, yes even when you think it’s done. 

So i’ll tell you now the one friend you can tell this idea too, and his name is silence. 

For all of those under the spell, I recommend you find a nice quiet spot after your daily tasks and light a candle there. Now sit, plan, think, and then think some more.

Only then might you choose properly to act further. 

Doing is the next step. That STILL doesn’t mean you spill the beans. 

Buckle down and make a plan.

This means a better picture, it means a strategy, it means making it digestible for everyone who may become involved at a future date (as a client or as a partner). 

But this is a crucial step to take before letting others know about your idea.

This is for numerous reasons. My top three are as followed:

1. Your idea might still not have enough traction in the real world. 

2. Through the process of applying meat, muscles, etc this idea looked better as a skeleton. 

3. The balance of proper application for its actualization requires a different time, place, strength, intelligence or skill level. 

It is in that gauntlet of meditation where you will find the weaknesses that would have made you look weak.  

If you pass through those three unscathed then that’s a great start.

If you didn’t, don’t sweat it.

That doesn’t always mean trash the idea, but if you have the proper mettle and that fire of passion still burns then you may rejoice yet. You have truly found something good there; something worth fighting for. It simply needs more meditation.

…Aren’t you glad you didnt take that idea to someone you admire before realizing it wasn’t built properly? 

You should be, because as someone who hears lots of ideas from lots of people. It’s pretty clear who’s done this and who hasn’t. And it’s embarrassing to put up with 100% of the time for anyone on the receiving end.

Yet I am not exempt. For I’m sure many have been on the receiving end of many of my half baked plans before.

Yet the first step in addiction is acknowledging it, no? 

Great ideas form lasting allegiances. 

I like to think of good, well thought out ideas as a commodity just as powerful as gold, or silver. It’s never not an asset in any avenue of society. 

You wanna change the world? You need people.

You want people? They need paying.

It is folly to believe people don’t believe in individuals or ideas the same way we all “believe” in money and its inherent value. 

It’s all just as real and not real as you want it to be. And it’s backed up by others invested in it. 

So if your ideas have been honed well enough, that shit will grow inside others the same way it did in you. And if it doesn’t? Well you know damn well yourself that its gold, and anyone who doesnt must be blind.

See again we understand now the importance of the meditation phase of these things. Without confidence in our new faith/currency/idea then those negative ears that digest it would be right to see it worth nothing. 

It needs to be real through your own conjurings and skill in the realm of voces magicae.  Be a wizard or a peasant when you bring this new chapter of human history to those trusted ears you deem worthy of its power.

Great ideas don’t even need the promise of anything else. The right listener will understand the same way they understand snorting a line of coke. Its fuckin right there in their head right away. 

And guess what? They fucking love it. 

We construct these allegiances to pledge our fealty and oath to the idea we all collectively believe in. 

This idea should become your God. At the very least it should be clear to you that it is a divine will manifest, and you are PLAYER-1 in its level completion. 

These concepts and ideas form more concepts and ideas. This is the formation of lasting works, empires, realms, worlds, etc. 

From a word to a word I was led to a word,

From a work to a work I was led to a work.