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The Opium of Comfort – (why you should do more of what you hate)

If you genuinely enjoy planking, there’s probably something wrong with you.

Perhaps you enjoy the result of planking: the abdominal muscle definition, the increase in core strength, the sense of satisfaction that comes from outlasting the ticking of the clock and the feeling of somatic discomfort… but if you genuinely enjoy the process of laying face down while you squeeze yourself red like a tube of toothpaste, you’re an absolute fucking weirdo. And maybe a masochist. I’m not sure what else to tell you. The important thing here is separating the process from the result: regardless of whether you enjoy planking, you probably should be doing something like it anyway. You should have the ability to force yourself into situations that are physically and mentally uncomfortable for the sake of their intrinsic utility, for the sake of the result. If you don’t have that ability, and are unable to make peace with the process, there will never be a better time than today to learn how.

Plants have a way of encouraging other organisms into carrying out behaviour that assists them by making those activities pleasurable – berries, laden with seeds, are temptingly sweet, and full of easy, quick energy: consequently animals are attracted to them and, in passing them through their digestive system, beget more berry bushes. The animals’ appetites are satiated, the plants propagate, everybody is happy. Paradoxically, when the human mind engages with itself, what initially seems attractive is often a choice that leads ultimately to comfort rather than growth. The most attractive things to the human mind, the things that release the most endorphins, tend by and large to be low risk and, by consequence low reward – the things that bring man the rarest spoils tend to be far higher risk, whatever they might be. The things worth having tend to cost more, sometimes in the sense of potentiality than of actual price paid. Picture, for example, a party of hunter gatherers stalking an aurochs: there is the very real possibility that one or more individuals will be gored to death, or stalked by some scavenger after the deed due to the attractive quality of thousands of pounds of meat. Rabbits are certainly easier prey. But rabbits don’t feed tribes, and rabbit hunters don’t win honour, glory, or respect; rabbit hunting doesn’t beget camaraderie or sharpen skills for war.

19th century inport fisherman in Newfoundland, pulling cod traps – they definitely would have done their planks.

I’m not a puritan: I am not advocating for abstinence or self-denial. The “berries” of life can, and should, be tasted. I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, any sort of ascetic. I have fully explored the grimiest depths of my own Dionysian potential, and continue to do so in regular indulgences in order to live what I believe to be a full, well-rounded life informed by multiple perspectives and experiences both orderly and chaotic. What I will advocate for, however, is that we learn to take our lumps: we throw ourselves, wholeheartedly and with stiff upper lips, into our planks, that we set off in the wet morning with spears slung over our shoulders to hunt aurochs with our boys. This behaviour, this championing of result over the necessary-but-enervating process is the key to living a fulfilling, healthy life – one that begets not only the material prize of the aurochs’ meat, but also the more mysterious properties that come with self-actualisation through discipline, and the honour and respect of self-overcoming, both within and from those around oneself. 

Have you ever partied every single day? I have. It’s unbelievably uninteresting and, without sufficient meaning, even in a self-referential sense (revelry-for-the-sake-of-revelry), it quickly becomes boring, tedious, and part of the same meaningless ennuie of flickering fluorescent lights and AM radio that probably lead you to read my article on this website. People speak of the Kali Yuga but forget that, as in most arenas of life, there is a great challenge and a little challenge, a microcosm within the macrocosm. Without the drudgery and the grueling self-denial of hard work, of sacrifice, the Apollonian plank state, there can truly be no restful, respiteful, Dionysian nonplank state

Without the aurochs hunt, there can be no feast – without the grueling process there can be no result – there is no shame in chasing the spoils of war, there is no need to martyr oneself by pretending that you are immune to sex or weed or good food or collapsing on the floor after a sweaty HIIT session, there is no reason to pretend that you’ve not gone back to school because you’re enamoured with the idea of making more money, but most importantly, even more important than understanding process and result in a vacuum, is understanding their intrinsic relationship with one another, understanding that they are at parity, understanding that they need one another to exist, and finally learning to love the process regardless of its inherent drudgery. 

When the process is respected for its own sake, when the max effort squat is respected just for the opportunity to reap the beneficial qualities of self-discipline, when the aurochs hunt is appreciated for the opportunity to be daring, anything earned beyond this paradigm, any future PR or celebratory feast, comes as gratuity, is really no more than a bonus.

Do your planks. Eat right. Get that six pack that we all know you want and you don’t have to pretend not to. But learn to love plankhood intrinsically. The respite of collapse after the fact and the eventual physical changes will be, in the end, as berries off a bush.

Now go plank.

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Arrows and Thunder

Arrows of love and light pierce the obsidian Black. The Arrow of Eros soars into the hearts of men. The cracking of thunder gives them life.

The year continues to chug along. Now we find ourselves in hot, humid Canadian July. The solstice now past, we find ourselves in the embrace of sun and green. 

Are you ready for it? 

That may sound like a stupid question. Winters are long and frigid in these parts. Many of us have been pining for the golden rays the solstice gifts to us. 

Yeah sure, you may be ready for the soft glow of the long nights. Cool summer breeze at midnight around the fire. Imbibing and celebrating with your clan. But are you ready for what it can teach you? By the time the Equinox rolls around, what will have changed in your microcosm?

We still have a duty to ourselves. We are men of the hero’s path. Sharp minds, able bodies, spirits ever ascending towards the greater. We soak up the warmth which the coming months bring. We bloom as saplings from the seeds the spring planted. 

But what of Dionysian revelry? What of the seed fertilized by the inebriated soul. The Flail of Chaos is fun to swing. Swing it once and a while. Controlled indulgence is a magical spark which can lead us to a door we may otherwise be too afraid to open. 

Germinating seeds, fed by the warmth of liquid fire to blossom into a flower of the self.

Eros is alive at this time. The archer whose arrow inflicts the warmth of love, the fire of lust within us of mortal blood. He takes aim whether in the haze of indulgence or in the struggle of duty. You may meet him down either alley, but his strike is true and potent nonetheless. 

As a man, the feeling of love and infatuation is a storm of the self. A force of nature, within our heart and soul. Cracks of thunder erupt within our hearts, lightning illuminates our minds. 

As Eros is the herald of love and passion, Perkwunos is the primeval thunder. 

Perkwunos, known also as “Striker”: the god associated with thunder, rain, and lightning from Proto-Indo European mythos; the very root from which gods such as Thor, Perun, and Indra all likely stemmed from. For this very reason I choose striker to represent the ancient force of thunder that intertwines with Eros’ influence. 

With the heat of summer, storms follow. The great hammer of stone the Striker himself wields cracks open the sky with every sonorous thunderclap. Lightning splits the sky and the flooding rains begin to pour. We stand amidst these natural forces gifted to us. We cry out, we roar. We swing our self made Gadas around our heads with ferocity in ritual training to the might of the skies. 

Thunder in our hearts awakens the passion within our spirit. 

:SO STRIKES THE HAMMER:

Eros sharpens his projectiles and readies his bow, as storm clouds spend all they have brought. The great stone hammer sends tremors throughout our world. A sonic wave to rattle the senses, to bolster our aura. 

:SO THE MARKSMAN TAKES AIM:

That passion we feel within ourselves. Whether walking through dusk lit woods with the one you love. Whether holding them in your embrace into the long nights. The flames of passion sparking within you both as your magick intertwines. 

The passion we feel among brethren and kin. Reveling in celebration with those close to you, singing into the hours of the night. The moment where time in your world stands still. 

Or something different entirely. Love and passion takes on many forms. Whatever the form, if you feel it, Eros hit his mark.  

Now what can any of this teach you? 

The thunder of the season exists within the hearts of men and women alike. As does the warmth of love and the comfort of comradery. I implore you, noble readers, to listen to them when they strike you. 

It may be the simple desire to reach your arms to the sky. Throwing your head back to the pouring rain, and roaring in celebration of life. 

You may meet someone who lights a spark within you. This spark may become a flame, and morph into a blaze. Someone who makes your heart pound like the drums in the sky.  

I know I have. The flames lit long ago, the storm clouds are building. The torch is lit, and I intend to stoke those flames further before this summer ends. 

You see that girl giving you that look over there, man? Go talk to her. She may be by your side by the time of the Winter solstice, and even the years beyond. 

Remind your closest of mates that you love them to death. Partake in celebration with them. Whether lakeside, fireside or somewhere in between. Enjoy inebriated meditations upon life and love within the solar embrace the solstice gave you. 

The hammer will fall, the blow string will flutter. Embrace the thunder within your hearts, my friends. Revel in love and passion that follows. Dance in the rain, love in the sun. Your love and passion are your arrow; the might of your heart’s thunder draws the bow. 

We’ve a beautiful season ahead of us folks. I stand alongside you, beer in hand, Bolts of power and passion within my chest. The season is short; there is much to do before the equinox arrives… 

…And I look forward to your tales. 

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It’s Not a Privilege, It’s An Honor.

-Privilege-

Privus – Private
Lex/Leg – Law 

Noun – a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group.

I view that word like I view my own backyard shed.

Useful, a sensible choice for many situations, full of historical meaning and still regularly visited.

Though like my backyard shed, it’s overused, full of shit that shouldn’t be contained within its framework. It’s rickety, rotting and dangerous to even try and unpack. 

Especially while under the gaze of anyone within your community who might have seen you doing some work around it. 

Everyone is gonna have an opinion on that old and loaded shed that you were stupid enough to go into.  

Privilege is a word that in many ways -and without sounding too dramatic- has been hijacked against its potential power. 

PRIVILEGE

A mighty thing. It even sounds like it.

Say it aloud to yourself. Meditate on how it so effortlessly exempts an individual or group from some of the many shit-streams this world pumps out. These streams constantly cum forth like the geysers that erupted long before man had lungs.

These streams and eruptions ascend, and descend from all angles, deep within the metaphysical space we all inhabit; just as much as the physical. 

I picture there -in that realm- a man-made God of complications, agony, jealousy, and all the other horrible qualities we have all convinced one another do not truly represent us as a people, race, or organism.

Observe Kentaro Miura’s ‘idea of evil’ and see your understanding of man’s power deepen with each meditation.

Contemporarily, privilege is a word with a theory about how a collective operates under this metaphysical ‘shield of resistance’. 

This isn’t a resistance felt by the wielder of the magic, it’s not like a sturdy circle of oak where one still must brace against the attack. It’s quite literally a spell wherein the soul/self or group imbued with its magic are quite literally unaffected by streams that hit, and affect all others. 

Before we have even got through a simple explanation of this term we can see why perspective matters so crucially within the meaning of this incantation. 

The physical world is relatively safe for us privileged in the lands of the West. The sons of Troy have made a safe haven against the dangers of many physical harms. We live in a land where even the lowest Walmart servant might put food on their table and drive a cost-effective car to and from their living space (also secure and protected).

We have made it possible to distinguish ourselves from more eastern provinces that refuse to believe that women are anything more than objects, and we have grown through the agonizing pains of several hard-won, but truly won battles of justice and liberation.

All of this did each of our forefathers gift to us, and wished for us. Because life is more than just eating and shitting, life is the blood, and the immortal power of our human ability to choose happiness over misery. To choose selflessness over the self.

Love is a blood-caked, mud-caked Anglo-Saxon clutching a black and white photograph of the woman he loved, and screaming into the mists of no man’s land knowing he would never see her again.

Love is an African woman being viciously beaten for simply trying to ride public transit and have somewhere for her sons and daughters to sit comfortable after her.

Love is the Irish mother who sheltered her starving children as they sailed the coffin ships towards the new world in hopes of a better life.

Love is the power and the glory of all races, and the triumph over death-immortal. The elixir we must drink to let the blood flow as it may, as it transcends through all ages and all struggles. We the vessels, we alone hold this duty to our kin. 

Yet we have truly forgotten the first law of evil.

Evil lives in the shadows, and is unseen by many until it is too late.

Somewhere, some stream spits forth a riddle so evil that we have all fallen for, and it has slipped past the Privilege we all here share in the West.

It has torn from us the most beautiful jewel of the physical realm.

It has whispered lies in our ears and its black forked tongue has whispered 

‘Your people’s struggles were worse, and are still worse now, because of them’.

In a world so obsessed with equality I find the biggest jest of all in this fact.

I am a white man. Born and raised proud of his country, and of those who brought me to where I now sit on the frontline of my household. 

Yet day-in day-out I am bombarded by metaphysical messages and tricks of language that hint that we have no right to be proud -or even- that we have the only right to be proud.

That we have no right to be angry when we are told that all our ancestors did was for malice and wrong. 

Only to aid my scarred psyche by seeing colleagues belligerently post how none should live in these lands if they think it so.

Spells slung at me from an air-conditioned room by another individual who has seen the ambrosia dripping from that black-tongue of evil that tells them their struggles are more relevant.

Worse than this, we are all told that the other is to blame.

And what answer does this Anglo-Saxon give on this subject?

I tell you now,

Of whatever race(s) you are, from wherever your family hailed from there were good choices and bad choices. Times when the highest of heroes fell for the darkest spells. But we who see past these lies must return now to the strongholds of reason within the metaphysical realm.

There is a vile enemy and his name is unknown. He lurks in the shadows and whispers to us all of how different we are, and how superior one is to another. He tells us to fashion new meanings for words, and brings us gifts in the form of technical terms which make us feel more comfortable imposing our opinions on the lives of others, and therefore upon all of those who brought that individual to where they now sit and listen to your drivel.

Privilege is slung at us with pride now like a cow pat at the accused village idiot. It reeks of ignorance and distaste for someone who you have deemed has more chances than you or your people.

I stand proud of all the battles lost and won. I stand proud of my people and my ancestry, and I stand proud not because we have ever been perfect.

I stand proud knowing that -like me- the long line of Indo-Europeans who came before me suffered atrocities, ignorances, wrong-doings and scorn that blinded them at times also.

I stand proud knowing that despite all of the wrongs that they did, and all of the blood that they shed for better or for worse has given me the chance to send this message millions of miles all across the world before going for a walk with my loved one in the beautiful forests of Canada.

It isn’t a privilege the way you spit it so.

Its a fucking honor.

And I’m bloody glad to be here mate.

Eofor out. 

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:THE LAKE:

The one-eyed old man told me that the face that I will see

Has paralysed a thousand brave men sure of victory

I cannot fight blindfolded, and I’d freeze if I should see

So I need to sacrifice my eyes to see all from within

Lyrics from “The Lake” by Bathory

In the Autumn of last year, I was driving back from Montréal to my then-home in central Ontario, Canada. It’s a route along the highway I’d taken hundreds of times; the weather was ideal, the sun was high in the sky, and there was a rotten, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I could not shake the urgency and dread such that, completely distracted, I caved and took a random exit shortly after crossing the border and made an excuse to stop for gas. I went inside to pay and use the washroom, topping up my already-full tank barely an hour out of the city.

I got back in my car, relieved to feel the weight lifted from my shoulders, looking forward to the next five hours of smooth sailing, and within a half hour was annoyed to see the lanes in front of me filled with cars slowing down to a crawl, their hazards flashing as the whole highway ground to a halt. Assuming we had hit construction, or a bottleneck caused by one truck slowly passing another on the narrow two lane stretch of the 401, I was shocked to find myself one of the first on the scene of a brutal accident that saw twisted parts of two tractor trailers and several cars strewn across the road in shining pools of oil and fuel. As the whine of the emergency vehicles rose in the distance and we all shuffled off onto the shoulder to let them pass, I began to reflect. If I hadn’t stopped for gas at that unknown rural service station, if I hadn’t trusted the totally irrational impulse of my gut, I would have been just a few minutes earlier than I was, been just a few meters further west, probably underneath a truck, my car totaled around me, badly hurt. Maybe dead.

Did I pick up on some subtle signal early on in my trip, perhaps a car driving erratically up ahead or a trucker moving slower than most, tired and likely to make a bad decision after many days on the road? Perhaps some piece of important data, lost in the background noise of a tedious and familiar drive, was absorbed by my subconscious, which managed to fill in the blanks and project into the future, giving me the sense of dread appropriate for the likely outcome. Maybe it was some sort of magical premonition. I’m not concerned with what exactly happened, nor am I even convinced these two scenarios represent different phenomena. All I can say is that I’m glad for my gut, and even more glad that I chose to follow it. In fact, intuition is a faculty that should be explored and embraced by literally everybody. 

Many are familiar with the motif from Norse mythology wherein the god Odin sacrifices his eye. Casting the organ into the depths of the well of knowledge owned by the being Mímir (roughly “the rememberer”), the gruesome sacrifice represents his willingness to give up the ability to collect data from the material world, and instead rely on a current of knowledge that, quite literally, now resides in his gut – the powerful and occult contents of the well. Odin later decapitates Mímir during a period of conflict among the gods, and takes up the habit of carrying the severed head around with him, consulting it for advice regularly. This is clearly a series of events absolutely loaded with symbolism. But what does this mean? How can we actually apply this, as an actionable metaphor, to our lives?

While very few of us have access to physical magic wells, and probably wouldn’t have much success using a disembodied head as a magic 8-ball, we do all possess the ability to rely on the intuition that guided our ancestors along the dark path of survival. This capacity only needs to be let out in order for it to make a meaningful impact on one’s life. In the removal of his eye, Odin entered into a state of “half-wakefulness”: with his remaining eye he continues to monitor the external world, continues to make inferences about his surroundings, and symbolically, with the empty socket he consciously refutes the material, his stomach roiling with the liquid from the cistern. This is a state that, if given half a chance, the human mind will revert to – free from the burdensome obligation to think reasonably or sentimentally, this spark of raw intuition is the catalyst for the hair that stands up on the back of the necks of our earliest forebears, huddling in caves, wary of predators.

Clearly, the aim ought to be to straddle the middle way and, like Odin, leave one eye open to the ways of the world and the other directed inward toward the realm of the unconscious. But how can we quantify this? What does this look like?

Consider the following diagram, and imagine that it represents the proverbial lake referred to by Quorthon in Bathory’s eponymous track from the album Blood on Ice:

Beginning from the centre:

  • The bindrune of algiz and naudiz represents the human necessity to transcend the exoteric, the material, and ordinary reality. This bindrune can also be understood graphically as representing a man with hands held skyward, pleading with the heavens as his body is pierced by some earthly implement, recalling Odin in Yggdrasil, or Christ on the cross.
  • Surrounding this is a pair of rings, representing the twin prisons of conscious intellectual and emotional thought without room for intuition, preventing the human mind from fully embracing its own subconscious and walling itself off from a more complete and complex picture of reality (represented by the fog that swirls around the rings’ exterior).
  • At the bottom left, the rune othala, representative of home, inheritance, and in this case earth, sits chthonically in opposition to sowilo, the rune most associated with victory and the sun, in the upper right hand corner. This outlines the duality of the material and the spiritual, and man’s transfixment between the two extremes.
  • At the top left, the rune raidho represents the journey toward a state of greater intuition, while the bottom right is underpinned by the rune ehwaz, the steed, or more metaphorically the journey’s catalyst – perhaps the most important part of the entire image.

What will your catalyst be? How will you exercise your intuition? Into what lake will you cast your eyes?

For many people, myself included, scenarios like the one I experienced on the highway near the Québec border last year are truly few and far between. Many of us may never have the opportunity to see the necessity of intuition spelled out so starkly in what otherwise could not be a more mundane scenario. That being said, it isn’t difficult to find a well of your own out of which the elixir of knowledge might be sampled. Any activity that forces the human mind to function under the haze of free association – rune readings, tarot cards, countless others – offers an opportunity for your own brain to show you what it knows. When we allow ourselves to flit effortlessly between the realm of archetype and the realm of concrete application, when we allow our brain to tell us what it knows without having to ask for it, we unlock this middle way, and we direct one eye firmly outward, while the other “empty socket” becomes a vessel for things-which-we-didn’t-know-we-knew: a particular card in the deck, a particular pair of runes or their relationship to one another – the human mind can divine its own meanings, sometimes alien to our understanding, at a moment’s notice.

When this faculty is exercised, when care is taken to sharpen the associative and the archetypal functions of the brain, one finds them bleeding effortlessly into the realm of the waking day, casting its shadow over the material, and in some way, along that middle path – the “empty socket” is never truly closed.

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S.C.M.M :V: The Crypt of the Self

And so the court swells with power. 

Brimming with energy; ignited by the fires of ancient archetypes. Like a forge of the Gods you will see your kingdom grow ever outward if you heed the words of your council, and understand that it takes more than one man to rule a truly great, and just kingdom. 

The Wolfhead King moves ever closer towards his goals, and sees the horizon expand in front of his holdfast. 

Yet for the time being his duty does not reside on the horizon. His future is his destiny, yet his future relies on the present, and the present must sometimes look to the past for the strength needed to unlock destiny. 

Fate is not a linear beast, and requires much more than a simple PAST>PRESENT>FUTURE equation. These properties double back, contradict, twist and writhe, and continue to hide from the hero until he is scorched and contorted beyond any discernible guess of the imagination. 

“Hooded, and veiled with their night-like tresses, The Fates shall bring what no prophet guesses.”

So often does the hero, or his predecessor become plagued by the past. “Why do you fear the past? You are Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate.” says Arwen to Aragorn. “That same blood flows through my veins” he retorts back in a concerned and defeated tone. 

Even Gods fear what the future might hold, and so Odin All-father frantically searches for the answers, and understands that fate is not a fixed entity, but a river that flows dependent on the contour of its surroundings. 

Do not fear the past nor the ghosts that lurk in the dark corners of your realm.

It is within the swarth of the Wolfhead’s keep that he will find these crypts. Step by step he must move towards the unlight of the silent realm of yesteryears. 

The crypt of the self houses many effigies still dimly lit. They stand guard over memory, and those that brought you to where you now stand.

Who were you once? Within one great man is the spirit and memories of many men he once was or wished to become. 

Those that once were -gone now they might be- deserve the King’s respect. They built what he now has.

:I am the Spear that guides the way:

:The Edge of GAR that does not sway:

Not only are you the sharpened point of all your ancestors, but you are the spearhead of the staff that has been honed by every version of yourself since birth. 

Who amongst us can say they are the same man they once were. Who amongst us is so bold to persuade other men that they have never learned from the death of some part of themselves?

Still, this is not enough. We must embrace the spirits that once were. We must look to the stone effigies within the crypt of the self. We must look into their cold lifeless eyes as the candles shudder and the halls exhale a cold wind from the outer realm. It is here we must bow our heads and remember what was.

For it is because of what was that all now is. For better or for worse, we owe those ghosts our time, and company. This is the truest council. This is the shadow court, where no archetypes but you might find the purest of refuge. 

No laws are made down there. No new ties to powerful allies can be found in the crypt of the self. Its truest bounty is the lesson of death and the promise of progression. The flowering cycle that all things are bound to. 

In order for a Hero King to exist there must be the fallen. The road to the throne is cobbled by corpses and failures that span out for miles across the desolation. We must honor them for what they achieved before we rose from their ashes tenfold. We are who they meant to become. And become they did.

Crypts have always been a temple to memory. But there is no need for us to differentiate the stone effigies of those sullen temples to the dead from those of the bountiful altars we erect in honor of the Gods.

So often the temples that man has made to house Gods become synonymous with hope for a future outcome, as crypts assume the mantle of memory. But this is the problem of lesser men.

Here in the grove of the S.C.M.M we assume all our peers to have a more refined understanding of these holy places. We do not delve into the crypts in search of anything. We do not prostrate ourselves at the knees of the Thunderer in hope he takes pity.

We go to those hallowed areas to be away from all others, and we do so to honor those parts of us that deserve honor. And those things that are still perhaps beyond us. 

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I, Thaumaturge – Pt. II – :TRINE:

The Thaumaturge’s threads amalgamate. A paradigm is born. 

Magicks of the world permeate all. They exist within our psyche, and outside its bounds. The raw energy refined by the spinning wheel of ourselves. Arcane golden threads, weaving with luminous ferocity. Threads laying down the patch work of…

The Divine Tapestry

The Banner of :I:

Spiritus Ad Monumentum

The Thaumaturge Archetype has roots within a concept which many of us understand well. Mind, Body, Spirit. The weaving of the roots of the sacred trees which encompass the all. Within all Archetypes, composed by various great minds, we see places where the roots twist and gather. 

But the Archetype is composed of pieces which make the whole. A Sub-Archetype. Small, but no less significant fragments to the greater whole. The magicks and mythos of this world are vast and many. One could fathom them over a thousandfold. Today I shall discuss the :TRINE: of the Thaumaturge. A trio of Sub-Archetypes. Embodiments of the physical, the intellectual and the mystic. The cosmic alchemy which births the Miracle-worker. 

:SORCERER:

:HAG:

:ONEIRONAUT: 

SORCERER IN THE TOWER

Clairvoyance, practice, transfiguration.

We may imagine the Wizard within the Old Tower. An image most of us have no trouble imagining. He sits atop a grand pillar of stone. The spire of his monolithic structure cleaves the clouds and touches the stars. What a majestic site it is, paralleling the untamed potential of the human mind. 

His magicks are calculated. The crystal ball’s image means little without the means to understand. His esoteric workings can get “messy”.  We see this parallel within our own minds. We make mistakes. We lick our wounds, we improve our methods in the future. 

Precious metals litter his study. Precious minerals, once coal and soot, now enough to satisfy the greediest of harlots. Perhaps even to please a queen. His magic won him Rapunzel, his passionate spell now burns within her heart, her endless locks twirling around her wedding ring. 

The wizard is focus and mental fortitude. Directed intellectual energy for the purpose of something divine. His tower is the psyche and his being the spark which illuminates it. 

Magicks of the mind serve us in this corporeal world. They teach us to filter the jargon and sharpen an adamantine focus. Carve and shape your mind as the wizard carves the philosopher’s stone.

HAG IN THE WOODS

Alchemy, Physicality, Improvement

Take a walk through the dark wood, where most fear to tread. If you make it far enough you’ll come across a house of stone and moss. A Hag lives within. Hansel and Gretel would fear to tread here but you press onward. 

In her abode you will not find death and evil, but of simple devotion to the alchemical. Her cauldron bubbles, salted meat and garlic hang from the ceiling. Here she devotes her work to magicks of the body. A plethora of potions litter her shelves each promising various effects. The effects of some are known, others not. 

She invites you to feast and imbibe, and you curiously agree. You may undergo a transformation of your own. This may not be quick, this may not be painless but by the time you leave this cabin, you won’t be the same. 

She has a husband, did you know that?

Alas, he is no demon, nor wilted homunculus of which many fairy tales may speak. In fact he is a glowing monument to her work. A colossus of a man, fists of hardened iron, limbs of the strongest and tallest of trees.

Hansel and Gretel would have been wise to take her up on her invitation. By the time they left, Gretel would have been the fittest of young women. Legions of fawning men lining up to court her. Hansel would have become a hero the most gallant of knights would respect, and the finest of women lust after. He could definitely deadlift at least 3 times his bodyweight, I’m sure. 

The Hag is the physical creator. Her methods may not be comfortable, or quick, but they will forge you into something worth singing about. Tap into her essence next time to feel like skipping the gym. Tap into her practice when that weight is “too heavy”. Embody her ideal on your quest for physical glory, her wares are potent.

You are too.

MAD ONEIRONAUT 

Exploration, Chaos, Enlightenment

Alas, the most colourful among the lot. The pioneer within the psyche. He who traverses the realms of the unwoken world. He is the dream scout, the nomad of the spirit. We don the boots and equip the eldritch compass of the Oneironaut.

Madman, I would say. What is to be found in the order of natural laws where there are none? When control is relinquished to the subconscious mind within our heads. He roams in restful sleep, where lucid dreams take hold. He traverses the kaleidoscope of ideals and fragments, his head full of psychedelics. 

The Sorcerer has learned control over the magicks of the corporeal. The Oneironaut romps in a mad euphoria amidst the incorporeal. He sails through chaos and divinity within the dreaming realm. He drinks the finest of wine with the voice of the cosmos. He passionately fucks Aphrodite herself. He howls through his drunken haze. He spits lightning into the howling abyss of creation. 

His romp through this unwaking realm seems foolhardy, chaotic. Let us not forget the importance of chaos, however. Chaos within the self. Where we let go within a place that inherently makes little sense to begin with. Here is where we start to uncover that which we cannot find in our day to day state. Here is where we read scriptures we were otherwise not meant to find. Here we uncover relics meant to lay buried. Here, in the dreamworld, in the higher spirit we discover ourselves. Here, we uncover our secrets which slip in front of our very eyes. 

This is the path laid by the Oneironaut. He is the unhinged explorer, bottle in hand weaving the rainbow cable around the magicks laid by Sorcerer and Hag. 

We are him. He is we. 

The Trine of the Thaumaturge archetype. The corners of the triangle which make up the whole. Learn to know each one. You could certainly learn something from your own personal sorcerer. Marvel in awe of your own self the Hag helped you to create. Revel in the discovery of the Oneironaut, and the wisdom he can point you towards. These three lead you inwards toward the heart of this Trine. 

Towards the Thaumaturge. To the stronghold of the heroic Spell-weaver.

I hope you find him, my friends. He’s in you, and he’s waiting.

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The Jealousy of Gods

The Human Power no God can wield.


Navajo Man dressed as Nayenezgani (Naayéé’neizghání in the Navajo language) translates to “Slayer of Alien Gods”, or “Slayer of Strange Gods,” or simply “Monster Slayer.”


What a curse to be a God. It is no wonder that so many tales speak of their jealousy towards mortals. Clear to see why so many of them disguise themselves as mere aspects of their highest form and walk among us for the purpose of entertainment // envy. 

Like the boy who tires of his homework and escapes off into Hyrule to mimic the quest of the hero, as the Shaman dances in the likeness and skin of a wolf to become feral once more. We share with the Gods this need to abandon greater control over our surroundings. We stand with them in envy of those we -as a tribe- have deemed more free, and lesser. For with power comes duty, and with duty comes the heavy chains of command. 

These chains bind even the highest forces to what they have gifted, created, realized, or imposed. 

And yet -unlike the Gods that have revealed themselves to the ages and empires of man- the mind, body and soul have granted each and every mortal a great deal of changeability. This change is not always capricious in its nature, but rather I speak of the gradual process of self alchemy that each of us must undergo throughout the path of mortality. 

Often when a God is faced with a problem, it is almost akin to that of animal instinct in the way that they resolve the issue. Occidental Gods -although known to share human traits- often dealt with their problems with unique powers that were possessed by them alone. Some examples even prove this idea of feral instinct. For example, Thor confronts the Thursian threats with his hammer (this is the essence to the rune of thurisaz – reactionary force), Hephæstus forges powerful magic weapons for any and all who need them. 

In other words, he stands as an entity that fabricates answers to any problems that might have arisen in any time or space.  

So you see, when a God looks down upon us and sees us overcome our problems with no powers at all, this must be a curious thing indeed. To the Greeks, it was known that the Gods did not even create us, but it was through the power of :FATE: that Prometheus took that fire, and disobeyed in an almost Luciferian nature the word of the Sky Father. This was how Tolkien’s dwarves came to be also, and it is the darkest truth for any lesser spawn to know how small they might truly be in the eyes of their higher.  

I speak now to those who have been cast aside by their Fathers. This is a terrible fate indeed, and something that no other soul (no matter how close they might be to you) may aid you with. This is often the most intense of realizations. The two twin brothers of the Navajo creation myth tell the tale of how two sons of a God must undergo several trials upon the path towards their father, and then more trials still in his presence inorder to prove their origin to him. It was said that they went through ‘the rocks that crush and the reeds that cut’ and eventually arrived in the sky where their father doubted them until they proved their origin and personal powers. 

Mask representing the younger twin, known both as Naʼídígishí, He Who Cuts Life Out of the Enemy, and Tóbájíshchíní, Born of Water. Mask used in Night Chant Ceremony, recorded by Matthews in 1902
*Note this mask of Sun God’s child is decorated with the Germanic rune of Dagaz. Realize that there is no possible connection between the cultures and then understand the deep seeded connection we all share through symbols and gods. 

Like the agoge of the Spartans that so few survived, humans are interesting to Gods due to their varying degrees of rigor and vigor; many fail but the noble few emerge from trials with new heights of personal prowess and skill. Rigorous and intense to the point of death for many, but for those who survive? Oh how your fathers will watch how high you might soar with or without their gaze.

This is the human condition. This is Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’ in its unsullied gleaming light.

To the base slew of the human Western populace, this means a simple sadness or excuse for excess decadence, a sure path towards the devil that Christians warn us about. But, even the lowest among us understand how easily they can change their morals, duties, interests, and cares. This is a true freedom, and it is not at all as gratifying as the contemporary west would like you to think it is.

To be free of morals and duty is to be aimless and addicted to decadence. The line between the two was not always as thin as it is now, to the point where even the smartest among us can’t quite wrap their head around how this eroded so quickly under the shadow of Europe’s last civil war. 

  The highest among us strive for Godliness, not for power, but for growth

(:ING: -> :GER:) . The weight of responsibility forever makes us stronger, and the act of understanding that we each play a role and wear the mask of a higher force moves us ever upwards through a mimetic relationship to a power that is indifferent about our love or hate for its essence and self.  But, as Hermes is messenger to one group, he is the fury and highest to another. Perception is at the whim of fate. The fate demands what one man sees and another does not. The fluctuating, spell-slinging, chaos driven well of the fates is in its essence a very feminine portal not unlike the vagina; all things sling forth from it. The Gods are phallic in their wishes to rape fate and instill within it something more to their own image. It is without question that every event and cataclysmic chapter of human history has been spoken of with a playful mention of some strange hair-sized butterfly effect which we all love to jest as the straw which broke the camel’s back. And then there are those that say it is ‘the will of the Gods’ for better or for worse.

But as the Gods cannot simply control the way fate expunges events, we find likeness in them in that we cannot hope to believe every other human we interact with thinks the exact same way of us.

We are all unique in the individual eye of the millions that walk this earth. To some, you are another face, to others you are a son, and to others still you are a piece of shit. It is not up to any higher power to remedy or even out this disparity, for it is the way, and we are bound to it so long as we exist as mortals.

To pretend this relieves you of your highest duty, however, the duty to evolve and understand until you die, is to die before you ever take your last breath, and to prove to the gods by proxy that you are not their son. This is a plain display: that there is nothing on you of which to be jealous, nothing to entice the immortals to go green with envy, and proves to them the greatest aspects of the human condition are little more than a collection of flukes.

Are you a plaything for jealous Gods or are you a Man?

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I, Thaumaturge

Θαυματουργία – Ancient Greek – “Miracle-Worker”

    It’s easy to say the time of magic, myth and monsters has long passed us by. I don’t blame the average man for having that opinion. Things have gotten stale.

Stagnation, uncertainty, and oppressive fear-mongering from corrupt lords within the ivory towers above; the serpents which feed us the stimuli to herd us to slaughter.

Merchants, charlatans, and those that crack their whip. Those that peddle their cures with the promise of peace of mind and soundness of body.

The street magician, whose magicks are as potent as the flaccid cock his wares promise to fix. His :VIRILITY: a mix of piss and nightshade for the cuckold husband who can no longer satisfy his wife.  

The False Wizard. The corrupted Thaumaturge.  

Many among us happily go along with this. They flock to the flashy signs and charismatic showmanship of the con-man in flamboyant clothing. They believe, they are comforted by so-called “Magic”

As cattle charmed by a woman’s kulning, many of us act the same; put into oblivious bliss in exchange for obedient submission. 

But what of those of us that don’t buy the snake oil? What of those that refuse to drink from the well of tainted wisdom? When the curtain falls on the carnival show and we’re left to wonder: 

What the fuck was that?

We who fall into this camp know magic exists. We live it, we work it, it’s a part of our worldview. It’s not regurgitated jargon from paid-off news networks and medical “professionals”. Thaumaturgy, the working of miracles, exists within the hearts, minds and greater consciousness of those that understand my words. 

The Thaumaturge, the worker of miracles, is not a man in a top hat or a face on your TV set. It’s one who sees through it all. The one who sees illumination everywhere in his waking world, through the smoke and mirrors, 

Magicks exist in abundance for those who seek them. We find them in art, in passion, in sex. The eroticism and beauty within body, mind, and spirit.

In romance, in violence, in exploration. In the path and the struggle. We live it all, then rejoice upon the summit. 

All are components in this alchemical process; in the flames and blinding lights of passion, whether entwined in the warm comfort of a woman, or in the blood fury of combat with your fellow man. 

A rite, if you will; rite of the erotic and the destructive, arcane ritual sealed in vaginal fluid and blood. 

Deep meditations within yourself, on the concepts of life and love, of death and rebirth, of your psyche as a spinning wheel, and life’s energy the thread. Luminous fibres from all directions, twirling and twining together as embers fly.

A paradigm is born. 

Limitless potential, weaving together of everything, and nothing. 

This is magic. It’s exhilarating, it’s mundane, it’s divine.  

Fan the flames during a drought and you may burn down half the village. Do nothing, and you may sit alone in the cold. 

Rays of negativity penetrate our minds from all sides. The stagnant period the world is in right now only worsens this. The power to ward off these spells of destruction exists within us, however. We are the vessel for the magicks around us. They are our shield and our sword; our staff and crystal ball; our :STORM-CLEAVER: to cut through the madness. 

Save your gold pieces, my friends. Turn your attention from the demon in a false halo and instead, direct it inward. Open your mind and body, allow the ebb and flow of the mystic to flow within you. Shape it, experience it, embody it.

Smile, rejoice, celebrate. 

Experience, love, and be loved. 

We are the wizards. We have curses to lift. 

I, Thaumaturge

I, The Alchemist

I, The Vessel

I, The Cosmos. 

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:The Grail Flower:

The trials of :JUPITER PRIMUS: move into full swing, and the golden summer is upon us. 

We jog through the nightshade forests below the cold moon

//

 Stretch mighty and wide upon our awakening, and greet the skyfather in the clear blue sky above 

Like the seeds of spring we stretch and reach for more and more. Towards that golden glory do we strike forever; like those that came before us who fertilized the very earth that willed us to grow.

It is the soil that is home, the earth that cradled us and nurtured us towards higher horizons. 

For is it not true that any good home will eventually hurl you towards the highest heavens? 

Any home that does not do so is not a home for you young warrior. 

Any place you deem to belong the most should never keep you as a sprout. 

If you feel no growth where you are, there is something amis amidst that sacred runic formula (the cracking of :ING:) 

Observe here that very spell.

Observe also this GRAIL FLOWER. A Bindrune containing and representing the growth from home towards the purest of realizations. 

The flow that is able to commence through the sacred structure of the home (OTHALA) is the pathway of the inner hero. 

The flowerhead, and prize being the rune WUNJO (joy) but there also the inversion of this rune; its shadow and shade. True treasures are the ones that give us joy and also strife. The grail is the western NIRVANA, and this rune is its sigil.

Enlightenment upon finding this prize of prizes is unknown to most men that live today, but we can all imagine its form in at least some rough essence.

Unstoppable and fervent is the will of all material growth that strives for the heavens. Trees, mountains, man, fire, etc. This is the magic of :GER: and it will take us ever upwards through heavens and hells unknown.

Ascend higher and higher

So that in your fall you may burn brighter 

Brighter than any who came before 

Lighter so that in your dreams wake you will be reborn again once more

For the thousand trials to strip you bare as Campbell wrote you must first make that step out as the fool. He who searches for the mountain king, and the boons of a million gods. 

Adventure is beyond the imagination, for within our wildest dreams we are always successful. In the physical realm this is never so. You will bleed, you will cry, you will run, you will hide.

You will strive for the mountain top only to reach its roots, and find there amidst the endless echoes of boundless aeons the hollow laugh that rings of the rocks, and you will know it to be your darkest inner shadows.

There is no way for you to survive adventure. You will be sacrificed from yourself to yourself, and you will see the boy you were cast into the furnace, only to return as a man.

The slumbering king (once and future) only emerges when he is needed most, and you will not find him buried in your couch, and amidst the hobbit politics of your current home town.

Struggles unknown, and fears beyond reason await you traveler.

Are you prepared to become a man?

Or will you wither as a sprout.

You need only look to your neighbours to see gelded souls, as you need only look to your gutter to see acorns that will never be oaks.

Do not find yourself amongst them, as comfortable as they might seem in the present.

As you find yourself unable to sleep in the pouring rain of some foregin land, you will think of home, and find yourself laughing at the things you once worried about.

There is a storm in every man, woman and child. 

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:JUPITER PRIMUS:

I recently had the pleasure of breaking words with an old mentor, and chieftain in his own right.

This is a man of the lycurgan creed. Of the wolf-moon and horned-god. 

He shares his spoils with those who he knows to be true. 

Those who dance around their own fires and howl at the world that has deemed them villains… and all those who dare speak to their ilk. 

This man asked me of Halithaz, and how we grow.

He asked me what this :new way: intends to lead to…

And I gave him the only answer. 

Having known me for many years, he has bore witness to my growth, and aided me whenever needed along that path.

He sees now the torch must pass on, and I intend to do so with the utmost glory.

And he then, with understanding of my cause revealed to me a sacred blade. It came in the form of words.

Not to wound, and not to threaten, but to further arm an old pupil on the same path he took years before. 

They formed as such:

I know you and yours. And I know you know much beyond what you write of. Do not cull your writings to fit inside the heads of lesser men. They will know, or they will not.”

And there we have it.

Advice to crack the heavens.

Advice to melt away the frost of winter, and bring forth the seeds of spring.

ᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝ

SPROUT MANY BY THE
:ᚩ: :ᚨ: :ᚦ:

ᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝ

In the damp, frost-plagued earth did my mind and spirit coax new, old, and very powerful seeds towards the surface and forefront of my mind. 

So that one day they might sprout towards the great skyfather that we all shall meet someday. 

If my words become like fleeting snowflakes towards your mind; and they melt too quickly to see patterns of note implanted upon the brain, then I apologize and you are not yet of a similar mind to the rest of us.

But I do so press forward now; for those capable of understanding the ramblings of this soldier of the SUBLIME ARCHON (αρχ-). 

Spring is dead.
Long live the spring!

The time for :I: is dying. 

The feast to come is just beginning to take form. 

I pity those who have not taken the proper Apollonian precautions needed.

The duties required inorder to move forward and earn their Lon Laith within this most glorious summer.

THIS IS YEAR ZERO OF THE TRUE NBA (THE NEON BRONZE AGE)

…But do you make the roster?

If you have not prepared, then you will simply not attain the true warmth and might of this glory. 

And no one will be to blame but yourself.

Look to the signs.

Is it not true that the world now splits between those who understand and those who do not?

Is it not true that with every passing day this reality becomes more and more uncanny?

Theseus has entered the labyrinth, and there is no turning back. 


Evil is here my friend. And Yet so is the light. 


Science of the modern era has even heralded this. Only one week ago was there seen a massive solar flare from the great ⊕. 

This inevitably gifts unto all humans of this era the boons, and power of hearty

                                                                 :SOLAR WINDS:


I wish to leave none in the dark and cold. 

Though now me and the others press upwards and onwards towards the :highest peak:

We move to greet the Archon and bask in the boons of what is about to be unleashed upon this great green earth of ours.

THE :JUPITER PRIMUS: IS UPON US 

If you seek to join us then I urge you to take bedside by this dying spring.

Follow these tasks, and see yourself further prepared for what is to come: