It is the first one back in my hometown in seven years, arriving by way of the former Soviet bloc. It is the last one in my childhood home before my mother the psychonaut moves to her new, one-storey, downsized home. It is the first one without my second mother.
Most of the readers of this blog will have just celebrated Midwinter in some form. But, of course, here it is Midsummer, so my Wheel of The Year is missing some spokes and doubled-up on others… a factory reject.
I briefly thought about whether I should mark two Midsummers in the one year and then on the morning in question, found myself eating mangoes, looking out over the Pacific while kookaburras greeted the rising sun. Guess that decision was made for me.
But I think it is a strange Christmas because you are never more aware of just how out of context it is when you see attractive, Australian surfer boys wander into a pub in thirty five degree heat dressed as a Lapland folk being.
The universality of the birth of The Light doesn’t even reach the other hemisphere. It is a perilous map of Creation. So it is with all maps in the post-apocalypse. So I want to throw some loosely-related pieces of map at you as a holiday
curse gift, as a bit of seasonal reading… whatever season that happens to be.
From Frankie Boyle’s Scotland’s Jesus:
I feel it’s a bit pointless to list the ways in which our culture is dead. A bit like a coroner at an autopsy documenting into the microphone, ‘He’s not blinking . . . he’s not talking . . . he’s not wriggling his toes . . . he’s not clicking his fingers . . .’
But here’s one you might not have noticed. There’s a general magazine dynamic that has got a hold of everything like gangrene. What I mean by that is that much of what we see and read now is produced to order rather than as an attempt to communicate felt experience. Nowadays, rather than someone writing a book about China because they were obsessed with the East and travelled there, we are confronted with celebrities who go to China because they were asked to by a TV channel. And rather than giving us their impressions of what they happen to find, they’re led through a variety of situations set up by their production company.
We’ve moved from a culture of people attempting to communicate something to a culture of people who are happy to communicate anything. It really is everywhere, this notion of working to a predetermined brief. Panel-show comedians are told which topics to cover, and journalists travel with politicians in their buses during election time, still not seeing themselves as embedded even when the seat of a chemical toilet is still warm from the prime minister’s visit. You’ll have noticed that you sometimes get left-field people allowed into news studios to comment on tomorrow’s papers, mainly because the agenda is so rigidly set by what the papers cover.
The effect is to make it look like a lot of clever people are interested in this shit. They’re not. The celeb doesn’t give a deep-fried fuck about China, because by the very nature of being famous enough to front the show he’s being torn away from his golden house, beautiful wife and the sentient robot from Rocky III. The comedians don’t want to make jokes about the fact it was raining at the golf; they have their own interests, although to be fair nobody would want to watch a panel show where everybody talked about how much they hate other comedians.
So we all desperately chatter about ever more irrelevant topics even as the world ends, having been told to write a symphony about the wallpaper in a burning building. We think of ourselves as a society of freedom of expression but the more mainstream you go, the narrower the parameters. In live broadcasting, any time they venture beyond platitudes you can actually hear the caution. When a newsflash comes in, the average local radio DJ starts choosing her words as if she’s talking a suicide off a windowsill. Of course, people will claim that nobody tells them what to say but that’s because they colour in between the lines. You say what you like if they like what you say.
In The Two Towers, as Theoden is dressing for war, he sings Where Is The Horse and The Rider and ends by asking “how did it come to this?” I wonder about that myself. I wonder how we got to Frankie’s magazine gangrene. Because we are complicit… magicians especially. It’s the dark side of Josephine McCarthy’s observation from the excellent Magic Of The North Gate:
[I]f a magician or a group of magicians/priests are planning to do a major working, the energy will start to form itself from the moment the time, date and intention is set. The initial action of focussed intent is always the starting point, rather than the beginning of the ritual/visionary work.
This unconscious working of long term patterns is interesting. The first aspect of this goes back, for me, to the heady days in my 30s where I undertook some massive magical projects. I assumed when I had finished my part of the work that my energetic involvement with the project was over. Twenty years later I realise that I only walked away from the outer manifestation of that work and that the power is still flowing, still unfolding. I am inexorably linked to that process at a deep level: the work is ongoing and at some level my energy is still working on it. (Hence be careful what you agree to magically.)
Be careful, indeed. Or, if you’re agents of the archons, lean into that caution and turn everyone into morons. Everything is entangled, eh? Frankie again:
Education is a key battleground because in order to function, society doesn’t need you to be just a bit stupid. No, for you to subsidise a welfare state for billionaires you’re going to need to be a real slack-faced fuckpuzzle. You’ll have to be the sort of person who, while having both their basic liberties and their assets taken from them, would choose to focus on a thing a footballer did at a thing. Society needs you to be able to sit through a talent show that will be won by an animal. It needs you to be stupid enough to wave a little plastic flag at some cunts on a golden barge while your kid gets his legs blown off to secure an oil executive’s bonus.
Consider the wonderful Matt Taibbi’s latest piece, Outrageous HSBC Settlement Proves Drug War Is A Joke. This is the world a modern education manifests. Then consider we have had a couple of centuries of forewarning, from Extreme Money: Masters Of The Universe and The Cult of Risk:
In 1802, Thomas Jefferson in a letter to Albert Gallatin, secretary of the Treasury, warned: If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their money, first by inflation and then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around them will deprive the people of their property until their children will wake up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Grady said. “There’s war in Heaven. The Higher Intelligences, whoever they are, aren’t all playing on the same team. Some of them are trying to encourage our evolution to higher levels, and some of them want to keep us stuck just where we are.”
According to Grady, some occult lodges are working with those nonhuman intelligences who want to accelerate human evolution, but some of the others are working with the intelligences who wish to keep us near an animal level of awareness.
This is a standard idea in occult circles and it can safely be stated, without exaggeration, that every “school” or “lodge” of adepts that exists is regarded, by some of the others, as belonging to the Black Brotherhood of the evil path.
In a sense, this is a very traditional idea. Since the time of Adam, angels and demons have been in perpetual warfare over the possession of the souls of humanity. There have always been at least two great and conflicting conspiracies. One wants us to soar to the realm of the Spirit and one wants us to become ever more enmired in base and debasing Matter.
“It is simply no longer possible to believe much of the clinical research that is published, or to rely on the judgment of trusted physicians or authoritative medical guidelines. I take no pleasure in this conclusion, which I reached slowly and reluctantly over my two decades as an editor of The New England Journal of Medicine.”
Despite all outward appearances, I feel as though there is more power in our hands this Christmas as opposed to last. I feel like the mask has slipped enough, that enough people know that everything is garbage.
Perhaps it is because this is the year that I became a card-carrying mythicist, but I feel like whatever disinhibitory celestial power we’ve been told once walked the earth as a radical pacifist Jew, all-too-conveniently rendering stolen land and money to the occupying Roman forces, can be pulled down more effectively this year.
We achieve this by excising the magazine gangrene. We achieve this by shining the light where the controlling forces don’t want it shone… in forbidden science and in stolen histories:
In 1838, the same year that Joseph Smith “returned” the golden plates of the Book of Mormon to an angel, a large Adena mound was excavated at Grave Creek, West Virginia. In a burial chamber in that mound which contained a single skeleton and some copper bracelets (and at a depth of 60 feet) an engraved tablet was discovered, carved with Phoenician characters in a style of writing that was common in Spain two thousand years ago.
This type of writing, sometimes called “Punic,” was Semitic in origin, Spain then being controlled by Carthage, which in turn had originated in the previous millennium as an outpost of the Semitic Phoenicians. At the time the tablet was discovered, this type of script had not yet been deciphered, and would not be deciphered until the mid-twentieth century, thus ruling out the possibility of a hoax even if the discovery of the tablet under sixty feet of ancient burial mound was not enough to assure its provenance. Thus, there is at least circumstantial evidence that West Virginia had been visited by Europeans at the time of Christ. There is no other way to explain the presence of that stone tablet in that grave, carved in a writing that would not be deciphered for another hundred years.
The famous Peterborough Stone, in Ontario. A huge rock measuring “hundreds of square feet.” Professor Barry Fell identified the maze of writings as a form of Scandinavian runes or, actually, pre-runic characters that he dated to 1700 B.C. Later archaeologists have corrected Fell’s dating and translation, but were left with the result that Fell was essentially correct: the characters are written in a script called Tifinagh, which was used by the Tuaregs—a people of northern Africa. The stone was dated to 800 B.C. rather than 1700 B.C., but represents the record of a trade route in gold running from the Niger River in Africa to Scandinavia and then, eventually, to Ontario.
In 800 B.C. At the time of the origin of the Adena people, eight hundred years before Christ and roughly contemporary with the life of the Buddha. A trade route from Africa, to Europe, to America. An established path for other traders, other peoples, other races, civilizations, religions. The Tuaregs and Scandinavians in 800 B.C. were, of course, pagans. How much of their culture did they bring with them to America? Did they intermarry with local races? Did they teach their systems of astronomy, divination, metallurgy, etc. to the Americans? Did the Americans teach the Tuaregs and Scandinavians anything in return? There is no reason to believe that the transmission of knowledge was all one-sided.
How did the African and European traders find the gold mines in Canada? How long were they in America? How often did they return? Are their descendants still among us? Any one of these pieces of evidence—the Grave Creek tablet, the Bat Creek stone, the Peterborough Stone, the existence of American flora in ancient Egypt, India and East Asia, and the hundreds of other examples, including Celtic Ogam script all over the American northeast—should be enough in itself to force historians to come to terms with pre-Columbian civilizations visiting and interacting with tribes, peoples and cultures from the Eastern Hemisphere. The preponderance of such evidence, however, and the multiplication of possible overseas connections from ancient cultures means that we have to go back carefully over the legends, myths, and histories of all the ancient peoples and see if we can find textual traces of this cross-fertilization. [Sinister Forces: Book 1]
How has Christmas become what it is? How is it an out-of-context object? Just like everything else, the answer is tumbling.
The most credible alternative theory of Christian origins is that Jesus began life as a celestial being, known only through private revelations, who was believed to have been crucified and resurrected in the lower heavens. The Gospels were the first attempts to place him in history as an earthly man, in parables and fables meant to illustrate Christian theology and ideals. [More.]
Them stars, eh? I’m still astounded I never bothered to look into it before. Because magic always seems to end up in the stars, doesn’t it? More tumbling.
Ovid also provided a graphic description of the invocation of Hekate, emphasising the triple motif used in the process:
“Three times she raised her arms to stars and sky, And three times wheeled about and three times splashed Her hair with moonlit water from a brook. Three times she screamed, then fell upon her knees To pray: ‘O night, night, night! Whose darkness holds All mysteries in shade, O flame-lit stars, Whose golden rays with Luna floating near Are like the fires of day – and you, O Hecate, Who know untold desires that work our will And art the mistress of our secret spells.’”
Ovid also described the result of a successful invocation in flowery language:
“When you have entered me, As if a miracle had drained their banks and courses, I’ve driven back rivers to springs and fountains. I shake the seas or calm them at my will; I whip the clouds or make them rise again; At my command winds vanish or return, My very spells have torn the throats of serpents, Live rocks and oaks are overturned and felled, The forests tremble and the mountains split, And deep Earth roars while ghosts walk from their tombs. Though crashing brass and bronze relieve your labours, Even you, O moon, I charm from angry skies.”
To the theurgists of the Chaldean Oracles, Hekate’s arrival was something to look forward to, a point she also made in her own words: “After daybreak, airy, boundless, full of stars, I left the great undefiled House of God and descended to life-nourishing earth at your request, and by the persuasion of ineffable words with which mortal man delights in gladdening the hearts of immortals.” [From Hekate: Liminal Rites]
Sometime in the second to the fourth century, I really do feel that the agents of the archons took to our satellite dishes with baseball bats, denting them all out of shape and knocking them sideways so that they almost lost the signal. I mean… what the frikk kind of Christianity is this?!
These fish-eaters from Edessa believed that Satan contaminated every part of a person’s body, soul and mind. The only solution to cure Lucifer’s spiritual herpes was to continually dance and drink wine all day while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. They partied like it was 999! Needless to say, the Euchites had trouble holding down jobs and were forced into begging (they were also dubbed ‘The Lazy Men’, for some reason). At night they slept in parks and unwound through group shagging, swapping as many partners as they could before the sun rose and turned them back to River Dancers. These neoplatonic dynamites disdained any authority, migrated a lot and leeched off society as much as they could. Today, they are the kind of people Californians love to make the government support, but don’t want seen in their Caucasian neighbourhoods. [From The Heretic Magazine vol 1.]
An awesome kind, obviously. But there is some initiatory/Eleusinian/Dionysian/Gnostic goo current somewhere here that our satellites once picked up. Now we have paedos in dresses telling us, despite the fact that every single story from Jesus’s life shows up in prior mythology, he was totes real and Mary shot physically into space like a rocket ship. Gays are bad and women are too vagina-ish to be clergy. PS your kids are hot. Money please!
IAO was a Gnostic contraction of IHVH, which was also connected to Hekate through the defixiones, as when it was combined with the name Brimo to form a composite name, Brimiao. The same text also included long strings of voces magicae, including the name Adonai: “I invoke you by the unconquerable god, Iao Barbathiao Brimiao Chermari.”
John Lydus in his sixth century CE work Liber De Mensibus, described attributions for these divine names, which whilst they may not be entirely accurate, we may note as being far closer to the time of the original texts and thus worth studying as appropriate contextual meanings: “The Chaldeans call the God (Dionysus or Bacchus) Iao in the Phœnician tongue (instead of the intelligible light), and he is often called Sabaoth, signifying that he is above the seven poles, that is the Demiurgus.” [Hekate: Liminal Rites.]
We have so many things tumble down to us askew. We have the Devil, for one. (Jesus’s brother/esoteric self.)
The image of the horned figure on the Gundestrup Cauldron is the best known image attributed to Cernunnos, and also shows him with antlers. This silver cauldron dates to between fourth to first century BCE and was found in Denmark.
It has been shown how this figure depicted on the cauldron is probably derived from the deity Pashupati (‘Lord of the Beasts’) or proto-Shiva. Pashupati was the main god of the Harappan culture of around 3000 BCE from the Indus Valley, and by this point he already had a huge amount in common with Cernunnos.
This point is reinforced by Alain Daniélou in his work Gods of Love and Ecstasy, where he points out that “All the symbols associated with the cult of Shiva – the erect phallus, the horned god, the bull, the snake, the ram, the Lady of the Mountain – are found in this cultural and agricultural complex which, starting from 6000 BC, spread westward to Europe and Africa and eastward to southern Asia.” [Horns Of Power: Manifestations Of The Horned God.]
By the time this current reaches us in the closing days of 2013, it is Baphomet as accessory, from Julian and Nikki‘s The Book of Baphomet:
Down the years Baphomet is transformed from an improbable idol, a bearded head, into the insignia of the inverted pentagram. This is emblazoned in gold on the black t-shirt of a young man who walks through the streets of London. He doesn’t know why he wears it. It’s not Satan (he’s savvy to the pagan idea of the horned god) and yet he secretly knows that it is Satan. It is something that stares out of the triangle, out of the pentagonal lattice and howls. Howls to emerge, to run amok in culture, to unleash a powerful force into our species. Beyond good and evil it simply is, it does.
And so it seems to me that Christmas has got so out-of-context that its original context may have come round again, like spokes on a broken Wheel of The Year.
The whole western world spends it drunk and (mostly) happy, with people we (mostly) like, usually under the stars, dressed as hallucinogenic mushrooms. Given our collective responsibility to push on the probabilistic weak-points of the dominant materialistic narrative that seeks to imprison us, your gift to me can be to take a few moments, preferably while intoxicated, out under the stars, to pull down whatever celestial force currently answers to the name of Jesus, that 2014 is more free and less restrictive.
It is in this spirit that I earnestly wish and pray for a wonderful and joyous few days for you all.
And despite all the warmth and mangoes and sharks and family and attractive bar denizens and smiling strangers who aren’t trying to stab you, I got you this video of London, because it is still my most favourite thing, and favourite things should be shared.