Old Chaos Notes

I’ve been going through my old notes folder from when I first started learning chaos magic, and it was horrifyingly embarrassing. Really cringe-worthy things like: for practice at sigils, I did one to make me walk past someone famous. In the results I wrote, “a lady outside the shop said, “I’m famous now because my brother was on the front page of the local paper.” Also, the queen was visiting the town and I could have walked past her, except I didn’t know that she was visiting.”

In other words, that sigil made me notice it when someone said the word ‘famous’, but did nothing else. I spent the day ripping up all the material like that, and rewriting some of the rest.

In fact, I don’t do sigils very often, and the last two that I did worked very well. Interestingly enough they were both to benefit other people, which seemed to make me more relaxed.

Chaos magicians now seem to me to be getting back to using spirits: gods, angels and demons, like magicians did before them. They have realized that these spirits are much more powerful than human beings. However, I still think that so -called ‘direct manipulation magic’ is a great thing, when a human being does it completely by themselves. It’s cheating to ask someone else to do it all the time. It might even be better to start with those horrible cringe-worthy experiments, and gradually improve, because then you have developed a small amount of angel-like ability.

Going on further into the note folder, I found that I really put my heart into evoking the chaos egregores. I’d forgotten that I did it with so much detail and dedication, and it’s no wonder I needed a break from it and stopped doing it to concentrate on hypersigils instead. That part of chaos magic where you evoke egregores is really just like ceremonial magic, and the egregores are nutty, eccentric creatures, and as I’m always saying I think a lot of them are new forms of old demons.

I remember I didn’t like having to think up a request to make to the egregores: I just wanted to find out more about them. They say wonderful things: Ino once said she was going to write something on the back of a meme. Most of them do want human beings to be self-reliant, to learn about sigils and related techniques and to experiment with different ways of doing them. You can make an offering to an egregore and ask for something, and I often did that just because the instructions said to do it, without thinking about how that’s the same as ceremonial magic. But there are a lot of teaching servitors and egregores that like human beings to learn to do everything themselves.

 

This is also on my blog at the Occult Corpus forum

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Cardboard Box

This one was channelled from Ino:

My cat likes to sleep in a cardboard box. I too sometimes step into the box, although not to sleep; for me it is an escape from the world, and I can sit in it with my hands covering my eyes and see an inner world under the sea, full of waving sea-fronds and fat, bloated fish.

Sometimes I imagine that a fisherman has found the box and boxed me up in it, wrapping sticky tape around it many times. Then he heaves it over his shoulder and walks down to the sea, where he casts it in to use as bait for the fish. Most bait is only small, like a worm on the end of a line, but this box is large enough to hold me, so it can’t be a bait for the same kind of fish and must be intended for something else: a shark, perhaps, or a piranha. What will the fisherman do when he catches the shark or piranha, will he eat it? They must taste bad, and it’s unhygienic to eat meat-consuming fish anyway, for at second -hand you eat whatsoever it is the fish has eaten.

My cat climbs into the box holding a sardine in her mouth, and she licks her paws languidly and then falls asleep. There is no room now for me to get into the box tonight. I’ll have to dream instead, in my innocent bed with rose petals on the pillow.

 

 

Octarine

Here is the piece I wrote to go with Ino’s ‘Mauve.’

 

Peter Carroll invented a new colour: octarine, a colour of enlightenment. But to me it looks purple.

I meditated on the octarine and saw it before me, a shining sheet of purple. Plunging into it, I went to a strange world where raindrops moved horizontally and did not fall, where cows with three long legs and one short leg grazed on a stitched cotton sampler made of blue gauze, with no grass in sight.

You might expect to see such objects if you were looking into a distorted fairground mirror. You wouldn’t want to see a reflection of yourself looking too fat or too thin, because that would be boring. It’s too much like this predictable everyday realm, where someone built the funfair with the fat and thin mirror in it, and wrote out ledgers of dull funfair accounts. It would be better to be as I was then, one foot on the trapeze and my whole body hanging in the air. Yet there was no danger of falling; only alien stars.

As I moved deeper into the purple it became even more bizarre, with footsteps wandering across the ceiling and down the walls. “If this is octarine,” I thought, “it’s craziness, not enlightenment.” Suddenly it was no longer any more exciting than the familiar world, and then I came out.

 

 

 

 

New Book Release

All my occult fiction books are now available on the Smashwords site for only 99 cents each. (Except The Wizard From Vahan, which is priced by Night Horse Publishing House, and available from Amazon and Lulu.)

My new novella ‘The Rescue Circle’ was released today. See this page on Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CandyRay

Description of ‘The Rescue Circle’:

Ryan, a young magician from an English magical lodge, undertakes a dangerous quest to become a psychopomp, and afterwards to find his true love who has gone hitchhiking without him. During his trance he encounters angels, gods, djinn and troubled souls, and joins a rescue circle of dedicated Spiritualists who are more skilled than himself.

Mauve

(channelled from Ino).

There are a host of colours near the violet end of the spectrum which are all similar shades, and one of these is mauve. It’s a strange name for a colour- and it’s my name. That’s right, my mother named me Mauve.

It wasn’t because I looked purple in the face when I was born. It was because my mother was a painter, and just before I was born she had embarked upon a new painting in which the dominant colour was to be mauve. In fact it had very few other colours, and was mainly monotone.

My mother shaded and shaded during those last few days when she was feeling so heavy, and like some lumbering beast. As she shaded, the brush turned to one side, she was sure she could feel the colour and spirit of the painting seeping into her skin, seeping right through to her womb and into the baby. The painting WAS the baby, and the baby was…. hers.

Therefore, she was free to name the baby after the painting if she so desired, and she did. This was to be her grand bohemian gesture, one she had been wanting to make for a long time, but had not known exactly how until this phenomenon occurred and showed her the way.

Her young husband, my father, was surprised when she announced on the way to the hospital that she was going to call the baby ‘Mauve’. His preferred name had been Annabel. He had known an Annabel at school, and in poetry.

This however was moving poetry, thrusting out its hand in the doctor’s face, or was it moving art? Was giving birth performance art, of a kind never to be repeated except with the next masterpiece, and even then with variations?

So there I was – performance art, and here I am now, disposed at times to wear mauve all over and spray it on my hair, because in my thoughts I resemble my mother.

 

 

Mainstream Writing And Writing For A Minority

I love some pieces of writing which have universal emotions in them, that appeal to a wide audience. Like the lyrics to ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, and the plot of ‘Love On The Dole’, and a very good short film called ‘Return To Waterloo’ which summed up life in England during the 1980’s. *

So if I love these, why is it that since becoming a writer I’ve always written for a minority, for people who are magicians or strongly interested in the occult?

I would say it’s because of who I am writing with, the entity Ino who inspired me to start, and writes some of the material herself. I know I’ve mentioned quite a few times that I found her in ‘the Grimoire of Azazel’ by E A Koetting, with a slightly different name and a different seal. (Someone showed me this book, although I don’t have a copy.) She, or he, as she also has a male form, is supposed to fill you with new creative ideas and make you spend a lot of time on creative work. This carries on for the rest of your life unless you evoke her again and ask her to stop.

The works of art are supposed to become more and more dark and morbid. Mine have not; I am able to resist that, because we write together as equal partners, as sisters. In fact my writing is the opposite of morbid; it’s upbeat with mainly happy endings. But I think writing for a small audience with esoteric interests is another result of writing with her. I don’t try to resist this one- I’m quite happy to do it, and because of that it manifests.

I wouldn’t want to be elitist when some magicians are very much like that already, calling everyone else ‘muggles.’ However, what excites and inspires me the most are occult stories, and I have to write about what inspires me. There have been some esoteric writings that have become big hits, and universally popular, at least for a while. Again, using the example of song lyrics, Leonard Cohen’s song ‘Hallelujah’, and Jon and Vangelis’ song ‘I’ll find My Way Home’ are both full of deeply occult ideas. Even the theme song from the film ‘Titanic’ is about contact with a soul who is living on in the afterlife. A lot of critics would say that it is high quality that makes something popular, even if the subject is esoteric, although as we all know it also needs to be hyped and pushed so that people get to hear about it. That’s something for occult writers to think about – are we writing the next ‘Halleujah’ or the next ‘Titanic’ theme?

There’s also the dumbing down of occult themes, as in some of the trashy stories about vampires and werewolves. I don’t believe in doing that; I think stories should be about what magicians do in real life. So I write about that, including some techniques that I don’t practice myself but I know that other magicians do. Real life is more dramatic than anything you could imagine, and finding out about it educates people so that they know more about magic than they did before. They might even decide to try it out.

 

* ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ is by Simon and Garfunkel. ‘Love On The Dole’ was written by Walter Greenwood. ‘Return To Waterloo’ is by The Kinks.

This entry is also on my blog at the Occult Corpus forum.

 

 

On The Novel ‘Diary Of A Drug Fiend’

I’ve always been ambivalent about Aleister Crowley. Was he evil, or was he a great adept in the history of western occultism?

One thing I know is that he was a great fiction writer. I’ve read both his novels, ‘Moonchild’ and ‘Diary Of A Drug Fiend’, and I shall never forget the effect the early chapters of ‘Diary Of A Drug Fiend’ had on me.

Three features struck me: first the incredible effectiveness of the juxtaposition. Aleister Crowley wrote in the first person as Peter Pendragon who had been a pilot in World War 1, and he alternated descriptions of experiences while flying a plane with Peter’s experiences of a night out in London, during which he falls in love with a girl he meets called Louise. The relationship between the flying examples and the main narrative is like a dance.

Secondly, I was impressed by the vivid descriptions of characters in the story, which mostly make them sound disagreeable, and yet it’s as if you can see them standing in front of you.  He describes one lady character as ‘like a white maggot.’ In my writing class they’re always talking about economy of description, but that’s a more modern idea, and there’s nothing wrong with a lot of luxurious, vivacious description. Throughout the novel he described mental states in a riveting way as well. He said someone had thoughts going round and round in his head like pieces of meat boiling in a stew, and I kept repeating that to myself so I wouldn’t forget such a great metaphor.

The third thing that struck me was the beautiful liturgy that Aleister Crowley put in, with each verse ending “I adore you evoe, I adore you IAO.” He has Louise saying a verse of it every so often for a whole chapter, interspersed with the rest. I felt like running straight into a temple and saying it as the liturgy, because the poetry was so good. Jason Miller and other magicians often use ‘IAO’  in their modern rituals.

The rest of the book didn’t quite live up to the early part, and the drug addiction theme was quite sordid, but I ploughed through the rest of it and then wrote a short story of my own called ‘Juxtaposition’ as a tribute. It had political activism instead of flying a plane, depression instead of drug addiction and following a pixie instead of falling in love.  In the early versions there was a poem interspersed too- and I’ve put it back! See the earlier entry on this blog:  https://candyrayblog…/juxtaposition/

After that, like Peter and Louise in the story, I became interested in True Will for a while, and I decided it was my True Will to be an artist (which in my case meant a writer.) But I did have some misgivings in case True  Will was a thing for spoilt brats, because not everyone is in a position to pursue it, and you are lucky if you can, today just as much  as in Aleister Crowley’s day.

So, that’s the kind of effect his writing can have.

 

This article is also on the Occult Corpus forum blog, where I have a lot of readers

Spider

For Halloween we both wrote a story titled: Spider

 

Ino’s Story:

She spun me into her web. I was in the middle, with the strands spanning out from the ends of my fingertips, like knives for stabbing a fly. Yet, if I was in the middle I should have been the spider- and I wasn’t. I was still the spider’s assistant.

I don’t want to catch flies for her. She can open her mouth and they will fly in, possibly to get away from the web. Humans get flies in their mouths too: and spiders, which they swallow in the night without knowing.

I flex my fingers and call the flies, and the web dances, but I can’t dance when I am trussed up here in the middle like a mummy in a tomb. I will ask her to take her place back in the middle of the web, where she should be, and let me sit out:- sit out this dance, as the web ducks and dives with each insect foot that probes it. She is bound to hear me, for the strands act as a radio.

But what will she say? She might have meant me to deputize for her forever. The web will dull, and become clogged with dust, and I won’t be able to spin another one, like she could. We will all turn to dust together: myself, the web and the flies.

 

My story:

He liked all the girls to call him ‘Spider’. He must have heard one of those lines from a film, like “everyone calls him Tiger”, and he didn’t want to be a wild cat so he settled for something that merely rhymed with ‘tiger’.

He so loved rhymes that he thought about taking it even further and becoming ‘Spider the Easy Rider’, but he was afraid that would provoke as much ridicule as admiration.

He soon noticed that the girls who simply wanted to be popular were always saying “Spider, Spider…. Spider this and Spider that…” but any girl who really liked him would ask his friends, “what’s his real name?”

That irked him to a degree. He wanted to be loved as the fantasy personality:  Spider with all the connecting strands, who will eat you for breakfast. But they always wanted to know who he was really, and his real identity caused him some shame, which he had repressed.

He needed to take a close look, and examine what he was ashamed of. Yet still he shied away from doing that, as he climbed the walls with his flexible spider legs and spun a great, complicated web. A web of deceit, or a web of the street?

 

 

 

 

 

Classical Greek Literature

We both write  story titled: Classical Greek Literature

Ino’s Story:

Their plays have lasted through the centuries and have not been lost, and  many of their poems have lasted too. This poem, however, has gone. My poem, my confession, has gone.

I wrote it in a prison cell, by the light of a tiny torch. Did you think the ancient Greeks didn’t have torches? I had one. It was made from fire, not a battery of course, and don’t ask me how I made it under the watchful eye of the jailer, but I did. The fire burned along that hollow stick, and illuminated the curled letters as I inscribed them, and the meaning they carried was enough to inflame horror in the breast of any casual reader.

My confession was detailed, yet matter of fact. I showed no remorse or emotion about what I had done. In fact I made it clear that I would do it again, if similar circumstances were to present themselves. It is at this point that most of those whom I address become impatient to know the details. But alas, you cannot know them for as I said before, my confession is gone.

 

My Story:

 

It always bothered me to read ‘Agamemnon’ or ‘Antigone’, because I seemed to be in them. After the first few scenes, I would inevitably find myself. It was never simply one of the characters that was me, although it started like that. Very soon it would become all-pervasive, an essence that was felt throughout the play. That was when I would shut the book with a snap and let it fall to the floor, and only after an interval of several hours had passed would I creep back and slide it furtively into the bookshelf.

Would it have purged me to watch a performance of these plays? I wondered about that, for my tutor used to say that their purpose was to purge the audience. He had picked up that academic theory from somewhere, but I bet he wouldn’t want to be vomited up into a toilet, and despatched by pulling the chain. That’s what would have happened to me, because the plays were me.

Not surprisingly, I never completed the course. The tutor thought I was lazy.

Daisies

Every year at this time the purple michaelmas daisies are in flower, and we have St Michael’s day dedicated to Archangel Michael. I am re-posting my poem ‘Daisies’ which used to be at the front of the blog:

Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over the street
Let it grow over my house
Let it grow over my head
Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over my life
Let it grow over the world
Let it grow over the real