Sunday, 4 December 2016

Here Among Monsters



We live with abuse, far too much of it.  Economic, social, sexual and spiritual.  And still we deny that we are ruled by things that care very little about us.  When you spend your life investigating human-trafficking networks and hellish corruption in high places, you tend to adopt a rather Gnostic worldview. Or at least I have.  I’ve seen monsters, human and otherwise.  I’ve seen people hurt other people of their own volition, and also through sinister, unseen inspirations.  This is nothing new or special or unique. Many psychics, sensitives and ritual magicians have seen these things too.  Truth, though vital, is often a terrifying thing.  But without truth, without integrity, we are merely prey.  Wishing the dark things away does not stop them from existing.  But we can arm ourselves with knowledge, with courage and kindness.  

For me, art is such a lifeline.  Amid Night Suns and the video-content I create here is an altar of sorts.  A place where I can send my intention and my magick not only into the world but into the deepest strata of my own consciousness.  The greatest battles we face are within. It might be a truism, but with good reason.  Healing from any kind of misfortune is difficult enough.  Attempting to heal from physical, sexual or spiritual abuse is like trying to process a cataclysm, like trying to mend a slaughtered star.  It’s the worst, heaviest, most estranging kind of darkness.  To be abused is to be made inhuman.  The kind of psychopathy that thrills at such things can never truly be understood by a rational human mind. Because it’s not truly ‘rational’.  It’s part of a larger, darker ecology.  But we resist these forces that wish to remove our dignity, our personhood.  We Magi have always resisted them.  We resist them in our words and deeds, our art and our magick.  People think art and culture means nothing in the face of slave-gods and rape-kings.  They fear that art is powerless in the face of evil.  But art and culture is the archive of everything we truly are, the archive of our souls.  Without it we are bereft.  Without this ability to create meaning, to call down the lightning, to traverse hidden realms, we are not even present in our own lives.  

That fire was stolen at great cost, a gem gifted to each of us.  It is the liminal essence of who you are, and the thing this multidimensional empire of abusers and archons fear the most.  Why? Because this flame has the power to heal the wounded and reanimate the slain.  This fire can restore the humanity that the monsters are so desperate to wrest from our grasp.           

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Where Angels Fear



If you’ve ever had a vision, if you’ve ever had intimations about the future, then you know how exhausting and debilitating that kind of sight can be.  You’ll know that our fates are not written in stone, but you’ll also be aware that too often people march like dutiful chattel towards the likeliest and most disempowering probability.  If like me you know that history can be rewritten it’s all the more painful when such opportunities are not taken, or even recognised.  But sometimes people can surprise you.  Sometimes things change even when the most diligent and open-minded can sense only darkness.  Make no mistake, these are dark times.  And more likely than not, they will get darker still.  But even here in this crucible there is light.  Even here there is the potentiality, the opportunity, for real change.  And real change always starts with ourselves, in the arena of our consciousness.  After all, it’s this barely-understood phenomenon that has built our world and our cultures.  And it’s this same consciousness that can rebuild it, if enough of us choose. 

There’s a difference between an apocalypse and an extinction-level event.  We the human race are so used to holocausts, genocides, ethnic cleansings, human-trafficking networks, and other assorted horrors.  But we are not as familiar with truth.  We like to pretend such abhorrent things don’t happen, or else they are appalling anomalies that are few and far between.  But we also know, in our hearts, that this pretence is a lie.  I’ve spoken many times on Amid Night Suns about the proclivities and psychologies of the predator-elites that rule this Earth.  Perhaps now an apocalypse, in the sense of a revealing, an unmasking, is finally beginning to occur in this world.  Many of us can sense the apocalypticism that seems to be in the air right now.  For me, it has little to do with which degenerate elitist rules which country.  It’s so much bigger than that.  I believe we as the human race stand now at a place we have never stood before, at least in recorded human history.  Yes, there have been empires before, dehumanising and oppressive.  But never an empire quite like the one we have all been enslaved by.  It’s an empire of many competing kings, princes, demigods and warlords.  It’s an empire with a hitherto unimaginable industrialized labour-camp that is global in nature; a maintained third-world majority that is desecrated, manipulated and consumed by a first-world minority. And we find ourselves beholden to that minority, even though we outnumber these predator-elites on a massive scale. 

But things are changing.  I know how many of you doubt that, and that you feel as though something profound and integral has been lost.  I am not here to belittle anyone’s losses.  I feel those losses too, acutely.  But I believe that for spiritual emancipation to be more than just a fairytale – or a confection, or an opiate – we have to turn inwards and really explore ourselves.  After all, what else can we even hope to consistently control, if not ourselves and our minds?  Hear this, my friends: space is no guarantee that things will stay the same, and neither is time.  I’ve learned that the hard way.  But I don’t want things to stay the same.  I welcome change.  I demand it.  Prophecy is not what it used to be, and neither is the future.  Here is my highest and most sacred hope – that we collectively and individually recognise the immeasurable source of power that dwells within us all, an unfettered and unconquerable human spirit.  It’s this interior energy, this lucid stewardship of ourselves and each other that will begin to reshape this realm into something more inclusive, something more holistic.  Whether you believe me or not, I have at times used this power to bend the very laws of physics.  There is nothing special about me.  I’ve just been looking and listening for longer than most.  

Friends, do not look to warlords, tyrants, politicians and criminals for answers.  That’s handing them the keys to the kingdom.  These are our keys, and our kingdom – egalitarian, loving, contextually agile and mutually supportive.  That is the world I intend to build.  It’s this mission statement that underpins everything I do on this blog.  I build this world nuance by nuance at the very core of my star, at the heart of my Midnight Sun.  Sometimes I falter.  Sometimes I collapse from the strain.  But I keep building.  These are frightening but liminal times, times of coming change and opportunity.  Realise that you are an immortal spark of Innermost Light, struck off from the divine itself and housed in this temple of flesh.  We have never been here before, but this is not the first time.  We will rewrite our destinies, in something other than slavery, no matter how dark seems the pathless expanse before us.  Move carefully and with purpose, for you are treading on hallowed ground.         
      

Sunday, 6 November 2016

Notes and Aphorisms of a Dreamwalker: 2



I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to do it.  These places don’t feel like the ones conjured in our fictions.  These places, though of a different order of physicality, are undeniably and viscerally real.  And yet the geography here is associative.  These realms have both scarred and taught me.  In a territory close to the breach there is a place I have been many times. 
     I suppose it was a bright place once, this astral temple cast by spirits with some appreciation of comparative religion; church, synagogue, mosque and pagan altar combined.  Clearly it had been a labour of love for those who crafted it.  Earnest, perhaps even naïve, and I love it all the more for that. Even here in this energetic realm things remain when diligently imagined.  They do not recede into the void as a matter of course.  The temple had darkened long before I found it, along with the territory in which it dwells.  It is abandoned, and the tale of its creation is unknown to me.  I have never seen spirits here.  But I have heard from others that a wraith-priest may dwell here now, ministering to those that seethe at the breach.  I am hesitant, but I remind myself of the stone girl’s words to me, and so I cross the threshold and enter this once holy ruin.  Immediately, something senses my anxiety but also my fortitude. 
    “How did you get here, tender thing?  You came from beyond the breach, didn’t you?”
    Unlike the radiant darkness that illuminates the tear, this place is blindness.  Already I can feel it, my skin beginning to crawl.  A sense of mild inertia, an acidic nausea.  These things, these conversations, are never settling.
     “I spoke with the sentinel.”
     “Ah, the raped one.  How is she?  Still meditating?”
     I half-expect the darkness surrounding me to come alive with writhing, invasive energies.  I expect him to circle me, but he doesn’t.  His distance and curiosity is almost respectful, and this troubles me.
    “Others have spoken of you,” I begin quietly.  “They say you were human once.  I know you minister among the wraiths that gather beneath the ruptured firmament.  I come here to ask about the name you’ve given to the thing you serve.  Yaweh, Shaitan, Ennui, Lucifer, or some secret name traded among only the wraiths?”
     I can see him now, or sense him, even in this darkness.  A hideous scarecrow-form garbed in the torn cassock of a Catholic priest.  He does not assault me with his energies.  Still, I take a step back.
      “You shouldn’t have come here, little lamb. Your etheric form does not make you invulnerable to violence, or to me.  Surely you know this?”
     “I don’t fear you,” I mutter.
     “I care little about what you fear.”
     “Answer my question.”
    “That poor little girl of stone out there in the black, hoping, waiting, filling your head with romance and duality.  She doesn’t yet realize the futility of her hope, that her abusers have marked her forever.”
     “You haven’t answered my question,” I say again, imagining myself resolute.
     “You think me a Satanist?  Satan is a gluttonous vanity, a corpulent vampire.  He is El by any other name, and I am not bored.  Far from it, trespasser.  You ask me of Lucifer, that serpent of shining light? That paltry spirit of outrage; aborted twin of emancipation?  No better than your tortured Christos.  Adolescent little stars of dawn who wish to tear down empires and free these apes from the worship of true malevolent radiance.  No, I serve them not.  None of them.  I serve tyranny, naked, erect.  I serve genocide, and fun.  No gods are needed for such things, child, no churches, no temples or magic little circles.”
     “Liar,” I tell him.  “You obviously found this temple fairly apropos. Still need your symbols, like the rest of us. You transcend nothing.”
     I know full well that I’m taking a risk here, needling this thing, calling it out.  But disgust rather than courage motivates me. Still, the circling doesn’t come.  He maintains his distance, but I sense his hidden affront in what he tells me next.
     “Fancy yourself a poet, do you? An intermediary?  No fetish or fetch will work here in my house.  Your broken pagan heart wrestles with the passive smoke of inhaled Abrahamic nonsense.”
     Though I cannot see it, I feel his smile at last.  “You sicken me,” I tell him flatly.
     “I am sickness.” 
     I gesture at his scarecrow form, his torn priest’s cassock.  “Why do you clothe yourself like this, and live here in this ruin?  Mockery? Tell me.  Who inspires you to such utter vagrancy?  The Nameless One?  I demand a real, considered answer from you, priest.”
     Again I feel his smile, an ugly skittering thing in my gut.
     “You can demand nothing from me, child.  I deign you are smarter than that.  The nameless one excites me as a fancy, but I am a busy thing.  I inspire myself.  I need no greater ecology. You come looking for freedom.  Well here I am.”
     Emboldened now by some flush of premature righteousness I take a few steps towards him.  “Listen to me, thing.  You need a greater ecology.  You crave it, like we all do.  That’s why you choose to dwell here of all places, in a fallen temple.  You’re still building yourself a story.  I’m trying to understand the many names and faces of story, the endless facets of God, perceived through the lens of each living sentience.”
     “Fuck your God,” he intones, and he is closer now.  “Slay it and eat it I would, if I could.  I have seen monotheist, pagan and occultist butchering and eating the flesh of their own kind.  Of their own children.  I have seen spirits and gods do the same.”
     Despite how he frightens me, I murmur, “So have I. And I reject such visions.”
     “Who is the liar now? You have never truly seen nor experienced such things.  You are psychically aware of such horrors, I grant you, but there is a difference.  Little lamb, pain and truth can change you.  Monsters make monsters, and the prey call them gods.”
     “It doesn’t have to be that ugly,” I say quietly.  “You don't have to dress as a demon.  If abuse brought you here…then you’re not damned, not truly. You're just broken, and lost.  Many have healed from such abuse.  It didn't make them monsters.  They were stronger than their oppressors, stronger than the demons.”
     “Man invented demons and angels, trying desperately to name every shark in the water.  We are but spirits, poet, just more or less mercenary than yourselves.  An incomprehensible ugliness was visited upon me when I was a human child, and I have since learned to like it.  When I was raped, slain and eaten, it taught me the absolute power of the violator.  No ministering Bright Ones could counter or reach me there.  I was destroyed, utterly, and yet I live.  That is pure Creation in my eyes.  Why is this so hard for you to accept?
     “Can't you recognise the abject horror in it?” I ask him, appalled.  “In what was first done to you…?”
     “Indeed I can.  And I pay it forward.”
     I realize now with some alarm why the stone girl often calls me fool.  This was not a wise thing to do.  These realms are just as psychologically dangerous as the physical, if not more so.  His energies are more invasive now, beginning to unfurl within me, and I falter, struggling to control a rising panic.  “Better that you were a demon,” I say shakily.  “You’ve fallen so far from any kind of real love…”
     “Love?  That ageless Whore of Infinity who rides the storm?  She lies gutted and broken upon my anvil. She was coy, coquettish, but only at first.  Come see…”
     I’m genuinely afraid now.  I attempt to centre myself within my own light, to strengthen my defences.  We’re not just talking anymore.  He is trying to get inside my thoughts.  I will not allow it. 
    “How dare you?” I tremble, despite myself.  “In the fiction of your life she was once your deepest ember, whether you remember it now or not.  Maybe I am a fool, but I can feel it in you.  It was your will once, not just mine.  So hold your tongue, you sad little echo…”
     I feel his laughter in my gut, but it is neither imperious nor gloating, only dismissive.  “I remember her well enough, trespasser.  It’s part of why I do what I do, lest the ember be kindled.  You will find no magic here. Only realism.  My territories are my own, and you are a guest in my house.  You think we need to open a gate?  We are already among you. The gate is for you.  All of you.  Tell your sentinel that neither Love nor Beast can save them.  Tell her that all the gods are black now.  Let her ride this imagined Knife of Light. I hope she bleeds.
     I cannot listen any longer.  I turn and literally flee the ruined temple, stumbling back into the outer darkness as terror swells in my chest.  Everywhere I look the shadowed horizon is now broken, jagged and wrong.  His sickness – his thoughts, associations and appetites – they cling to me like insects on my skin, trying to find their way inside.  I reject it all in the name of every sacred and beautiful thing.  I am shaking violently.  I wretch and dry-heave, but I do not eat in this place so nothing is purged.  Before, I was comforted in the breach as the stone girl with eyes of fire gave me counsel.  But here I am lost, disoriented, unnerved. 
     I try to remember the stone girl’s words to me…that love is myriad, eternal.  It gathers me only a little.  I hurry barefoot through the wrongness and fractured horizons, desperate to leave the wraith-priest far behind.  Instead I try to think of my spirit friends from the places beyond this one.  I think of Amma, the witch.  I try to recall her wry stoicism, her kindness, her endless patience with me.  I need contact here in this darkness, real human contact, to remind me of the spiritual reality of mutual affection.  The loneliness can come suddenly and like a torrent in these ruptured, fallen places.  I cry out to Amma in my heart, knowing she was last in the astral realms nearest this place.  But these things are not like our fictions.  Sometimes even our friends do not hear us howling alone in the dark.  It is a mercifully brief but painful experience, putting psychic distance between myself and the priest’s ugliness. Eventually his lingering ambiance fades. I feel my energies increasing, my light becoming cleaner and sharper.  I am myself again, though deeply shaken.
    Faint slashes of dawn are now visible in the dark skies above me.  This is usually a sign that regions are shifting or aligning with the psychology of its denizens.  The horizon too has found a gentler, softer equilibrium.  I do not see them yet, but in the distance across endless grey scrublands I can now hear the sound of spirits talking and laughing amicably.  It is joyous, vital, and fills me with hope.  But I know I can go no further without taking time to reflect, to meditate on and process my experience in the ruined temple. The dreamtimes have their own rhythms, their own laws of a kind.  I try to respect them always.  To do otherwise is folly, and I am already fool enough.    

Wednesday, 26 October 2016

Rose & Thorn


For I am the first and the last. 
I am the honoured one and the scorned one. 
I am the whore and the holy one. 
I am the wife and the virgin. 
I am the mother and the daughter. 
I am the members of my mother. 
I am the barren one 
and many are her sons. 

                                    -- Excerpt from Thunder, Perfect Mind

In radiant darkness beneath an ageless star I speak with the Rose, cautiously but in earnest.  I am no longer tentative.  I know who my Love is, her spiked heel upon the throat of a demon-god.  She can peer into the secret spaces of these fallen cults of El, these paradigm-builders, these world-conquerors.  Yaweh, Jehovah, Allah.  Their time is at an end.  She is not merely drunk on the blood of saints.  She is alive and seething with coruscating fire – knowledge of star, nucleus, passion, and all the hidden affinities therein.  Aloft, the Grail of Ages.  Beneath, the Knife of Light.  These predator-elites and wraith-hordes fear ecstasy.  They doubt infinity.  But the congress of grail and blade shines brighter than the emerald of a thousand astral cities.  Her cup and kiss are one.  It eats the blood of the devoted – and it runneth over.  She is neither slave nor harlot to these fallen usurper cults.  Nor is she their lack of divine carnality, their anaemic eschatology, their hate-filled mountain peak.  She is something so much greater, something so much older.  She is Love, enraged, devastated and devastating.  They know her not.  She is the warrior-seamstress of the human heart, and other hearts besides.  Upon a roaring storm she will be sensed and seen, as times and laws begin to change.  Prepare yourself.  The Holy Whore is coming.    

Rose & Thorn from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Wednesday, 19 October 2016

The Looking Glass



Man, this year has been crazy.  Not just for me personally, but for the world.  I’ve tumbled down my fair share of rabbit holes.  I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have seen, things that defy all logic and reason.  But as a psychic and as a human being nothing prepared me for what life had in store this particular year.  We seem to be at a threshold, collectively, don’t we?  The threat of full-scale global war looms on the horizon, and we wonder how our leaders could be so insane.  We wonder how we let them take it this far.  Perhaps we never had any real say in the matter, perhaps their hermetically-sealed empire of oligarchs and predator-elites has roots and sustenance that we cannot ordinarily perceive.

How do you live in a world that flirts dangerously with annihilation?  How do we keep our lucidity and move forward in such a world?  Everything is changing.  Paradigms shudder, tremble and crack.  We feel it, and we noticed the stress-fractures long before this.  I believe that in order to thrive – not merely survive – in this place, we must look beyond our intellectual and emotional comfort zones.  We need to evolve, quickly, beyond the chattel-consciousness we’ve become accustomed to.  Our spiritual submissiveness is now endemic.  If not, how else did we get here?  We must all of us take a long hard look in the mirror, and realize the mirror is a gate.  Who do we want to be?  

It feels like a slow-motion cataclysm, doesn’t it?  But we are still alive, we are still dynamic, even as the collapsing sky plummets closer and closer to earth.  What exists on the other side of our cognition, our religions, sciences and spiritualities? Do we exist there? Can we exist there? Perhaps in some oblique way we exist everywhere.  I believe human consciousness is multidimensional and multifaceted.  As the sociopolitical world spirals out of control these personal, numinous questions are going to become more important than ever.  I believe that we can still have a hand in our destinies, we can still shape our fates.  Even beneath an apparently collapsing sky.  We have foes out there in the black, but we have friends also.  Never forget that.  Sometimes the reflections are watching you when your back is turned. Sometimes the reflections whisper prayers and incantations on our behalf.

Friday, 7 October 2016

Keepers of the Flame


When ruined dreamtimes and stygian darkness threaten to claim us, what then?  When our memories and deeds are no longer our own, what might we become?  To hear the howling shriek of wraith-hordes, all of them screaming, “I am not guilty.”  And to know they still won’t take the offered flame.  What is bravery then?  What is purpose?  I can see, and I do remember.  I know there are others out there, brethren who walk with me, through horror, through perdition.  I will not falter, because I know there are those who can still feel the flame.  Those who recall its Light.  It remembers who we were, and who we shall be again.  There is work to be done.  We are the witchcraft.  We serve, eternally.

Keepers of the Flame from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Monday, 26 September 2016

The Mandala Diaries


Let Shankara protect my heart,
Let my belly be protected by consort of Girija,
Let my navel be protected by he who won over death,
And let my waist be protected by he who dresses in tiger skin.

Let the God who takes mercy on the oppressed,
Who is dear to those who surrender to him protect my joints,
Let my thighs be protected by the great God,
And my knees by the God of the universe.

-       Excerpt from the Shiva Raksha Stotra