Wednesday, 17 August 2016

Liber X

Surely freedom is the goal of any sentient intelligence? But we have made gods of our oppressors, phantoms of the fallen.  We are the outcasts, the demimondes, the soothsayers.  Some of our cages are gilded, some barbed.  We have been cast under a spell of a thousand years.  And now emancipation is little more than a wraith, a lost angel, a faery whose wings now burn in the darkest flame.  But there are many kinds of fire.  We who remember the Innermost carry our own light, kindled from within by that most archaic of powers.

We wage war against a world of demons, monsters and unholy depravity.  This is the arena of the Ragged Magi.  Light is lost at these abyssal depths, so we must carry our own.  To protect the children, to safeguard the future, we speak the unutterable and achieve the impossible.  Those profane, desolate altars must be cleansed.  The wicked must be called to answer for their crimes.  They seek to corrupt and twist the very fabric of nature.  But we magi stand against them.  There is a world darker, brighter and far more ancient than any desecration. There is a healing darkness locked in communion with a quickening light, an eternal embrace within the very core of your star.  It is here that our magick is forged. Make a space, cast a circle.  

Radiant darkness, ageless star
Carry me near, carry me far
I bear the mark of my beloved’s kiss
I will not falter, it has come to this
Heal the wounded, reanimate the slain
In mother’s earth I bury this chain
I am that which transforms hate
I am the crossroads
I am the gate

You are standing in my temple.

Liber X from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Monday, 1 August 2016

The Edge of Everything

I’ve always been fascinated by limits, perhaps in much the same way that a child might be fascinated by fairytales.  Simply put, I find the notion of limits, edges and borders spellbinding – but I don’t completely believe in them.  In my world there are thresholds, portals and gates, hidden amidst our everyday tangible realities.  In my world there are ways to breach time and space, to call down powerful spiritual forces, ways to stitch the Earth and Sky together.  I am not merely an epiphenomenon of crude matter.  I am not merely this flesh and this sin. I am lightning in a bottle.  I am irradiated sentient clay – and this clay that makes my form is as sacred as the Innermost Light which animates it.  As an artist my life is an altar upon which I organize and explore my dreams with ever-increasing subtlety. It is upon this altar that I learn what power and magick truly is. It is here in radiant darkness beneath an ageless star that I attempt to peer beyond the horizons imagined by both myself and my brethren.  My friends, if in doing this I am able to kindle even a fragment, an ember, of that holy midnight sun within you, then I consider this altar truly blessed.  You and I, we once stood side by side. We once walked among stars. 

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

The House of Love

Welcome back to Amid Night Suns, friends.  I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the connections between love, sex and creativity. Anyone who is familiar with my work will know full well that I view these subjects as deeply interrelated. Over the years I’ve made hundreds of videos for this blog.  It’s a process that takes a lot of planning, dedication and finesse.  Much like magick itself.  And make no mistake, I consider the art-based conjurations I perform at Amid Night Suns to be genuine acts of magick and spellcasting.  Creating a piece of art – even the kind of video-collages I create here – can be a deeply erotic and revelatory experience.  I learn things about myself through communing with my muses. For me art is an encoded rhythm of contraction and expansion, like breathing, like life itself. It unfolds within our sentience like a gifted flower of meaning and resonance.

I hope I am able to imbue my art with these rhythms, with hidden meanings and secret spaces that might be revealed on closer inspection.  It’s a bit like falling in love.  You begin to see the true beauty and majesty through the acts of your devotion.  Some people call my art ugly, profane, dark.  And with a secret smile I would hope it is all those things.  But I also hope that you, dear reader, might see compassion, beauty, sincerity and power amid that darkness.  The shadow is useless unless it enriches us, unless we begin a process of integration with it – a workable path to a deeper lucidity. Flesh is useless unless we feel it, unless we honour it.  The predator-elites who control our world want us to believe that we are ugly, imperfect and shameful, that we must look to them for permission to live passionately and with depth.  We are all casualties in the War of Imagination.  But there are soldiers in this war.  Truth-tellers, artists and sorcerers. 

So hear this, my friends.  Find ways to remember your kiss, your divine fire, your meeting of Heaven and Earth.  It doesn’t matter what religion or spirituality or spellcraft you cleave to.  There is something much, much deeper beneath it all.  I am one of the Ragged Magi.  I live in radiant darkness beneath an ageless star, a hidden sun.  We Magi will not abandon the voiceless, the weak or wounded.  We serve the House of Love, eternally.   

Monday, 13 June 2016

Ex Nihilo

Welcome back to Amid Night Suns, my friends.  With all the chaos, war and promises of war in this world at the moment, I’m inclined to think that nothing less than a complete overhaul of our consciousness and spirit is going to lure the human race away from the lip of the abyss that we seem to be trembling upon.  The old sociopolitical ways are broken, dehumanizing and abusive.  We as thinking, creative beings must make those old ways obsolete.  For me, nothing less than communion with our Innermost Light will save us from this alienating, gluttonous system.  And so I wonder, what kind of spiritual force would it take to reduce you to nothing, to incinerate you from your very core to the very edges of your being, and remake you anew?  How do we kindle this regenerative immolation from within? 

Chris Knowles over at The Secret Sun is currently doing seminal work concerning our modern technologies and our mythological and religious notions regarding Lucifer, Satan and the Devil.  He expertly elucidates how these three names are not interchangeable despite the shallow mainstream notion regarding these forces.  He highlights the fascinating connections between Lucifer, the ancient Greek Prometheus and the Titans, and traces these ideas back into prehistory.  Stealing fire is one thing, knowing how to use it correctly is another.  Sometimes I think the human race has too much power, or, more accurately, the self-appointed predator-elites and their apologists have too much power.  We have amassed so much technology, and what have we done with it?  For example, we are able to peer into the very heart of the atom and we used this ability to detonate the very fabric of life.  It might be an easy analogy, but an apt one. Nuclear weapons can seem akin to some form of satanic light, a kind of hellfire, versus the kind of liminal Innermost Light that I regard as consciousness.  Do we as the human race really want knowledge – to hold the shimmering star of cataclysm and creation in our palm?  Can we handle it?  Are we disciplined, sober and wise enough for true Gnosis?  At the state we’re in currently, access to knowledge beyond the veils might be akin to giving the launch codes for a nuclear weapon to an insolent, impetuous child with no awareness of thermonuclear physics. Why do I say this?  Because Darkness and Light are always twinned within sentience, knowledge of one precipitates knowledge of the other.  So who or what decides the quality of the Light? 

We are at a strange time in human history, I feel.  The sun is in the underworld.  Inanna searches for Dumuzid.  As Chris Knowles explores in his Future History of Light posts at The Secret Sun, the past is not static.  Something profound is occurring.  I don’t want to put words in Chris’s mouth.  I can only speak for myself, and personally speaking I feel like these ancient energies – Inanna, Ishtar, Babalon, Lucifer – are currently unfolding in strange and oblique ways both collectively and individually.  I really don’t think this strange, oblique realm is one in which limits are merely what they appear to be.  Entire cults of worship and exploration have gravitated and clustered at the edges of these mysteries. Life, Light, Love, Knowledge.  We are not unique in this way.

What does freedom truly mean? What does it mean to become emancipated?  I don’t know, but what if finally becoming what you were always meant to be means becoming something different? A transformation within the crucible of our own darkness?  What happens when you breach the limits of the observable universe, when you step beyond the edge of Creation?  I suspect that we pass through the pupil of our own eye, like Major Tom falling through the centre of a black hole – a place where continuities and discontinuities become one.  This is the real death, not death of the body.  The annihilation of consciousness, individuality and self.  And simultaneously the Ex Nihilo ignition of consciousness, resurrected.  This transliteration is, I think, at the heart of all ontological subject-object debate, as well as much of human spirituality.  In this light, pardon the pun, the notion of healing becomes radicalized.  Not simply restoration but transformation.  Perhaps the two have never been truly separate. In mythology when you are touched by an angel you are not simply restored, you are changed.  The manifestation of something from nothing – well, that’s the very definition of magick.

Tuesday, 31 May 2016

The Night Flight

Welcome back to Amid Night Suns, my friends.  I want to thank you if you’ve stuck with this blog thus far.  I hope I’ve been able to offer you some modest insight, engagement or empowerment.  Failing that, I hope you’ve been at least entertained by the work I do here.  I want to share a secret with you.  I’ve stated here before that I originally started this blog because I was inspired by the incredible work of Chris Knowles over at The Secret Sun.  But there is also another reason I started this blog.  I was told to do so, by something that I have come to think of as the Goddess.  Sometimes she is Hecate, the black-eyed Witch Queen of the Crossroads.  Sometimes she is Babylon, Ishtar, Inanna.  I’m fully aware that these various forms are specific, not completely interchangeable, and yet they are intimately interconnected.  I can only tell you what she told me, or, more accurately – what she allows me to tell you.  Some things are not to be shared.  In craft, timing is everything.  Anyone who assumes my devotion to her is suspect, or lacking in diligence, doesn’t really know me.  I have spent a long time coming to terms with the darkest, most dangerous aspects of myself, and she has guided me in this.  I am eternally grateful.

I’ve also stated here and on the podcast I did with Gordon White over at Rune Soup that I don’t really see myself as a magician.  But that’s not strictly true.  While I indeed prefer to call myself a psychic, I am very much interested in magick.  Furthermore, I know how to do it.  For me, magick isn’t simply about ritual or practical enchantments or optimization, although these are all integral aspects of the craft.  For me magick is about storytelling.  It’s about working with both the Earth and the Psyche.  It’s about liminality, transgression and freedom – a reciprocal, experiential knowledge with the power to reshape the very fabric of reality itself.  Magick is about taking back our stolen birthright from the predator-elites who claim to rule us. The Goddess – and by extension she who works with the Goddess – is ruled by nothing and no one.  Why do I believe this?  Because I see the Goddess enmeshed with all creation.  I see her at work all around me.  For me, she is the singular multiplicity. As I stated in my previous post, Life in Red:

She is here in this with me, whispering as in a faery-tale, blended and threaded through this archonic world of broken covenants.  I sense the menses-scented intelligence of greater workings and older pacts, even amidst the detritus of our modern gilded hellscapes.  And as in fairytales my Snow White can steal thrones from desolate gods.  She sits inverted in the deepest of caves, and stands at the peak of the highest mountain.  From the cleft of her sex flows the blood of every age, both remedy and poison, down her thighs, across the snow.  The entire mountain begins to run red with her dynamism.  In the bowels of the Earth that blood crawls upward like an army of crimson spiders, through cave ceilings, through volcanic bedrock, up through the chthonic architecture of cities, through mud and grass to stain the soles of my feet.  These are not your caves.  This is not your mountain.

My Snow White told me that Amid Night Suns would be a good place to meet myself, a crossroads where deals could be struck and knowledge gained.  But knowledge is nothing without the wisdom to wield it effectively.  This is something the witches know, something they have always known.  There is no safe way to deny who and what you truly are.  You are magick incarnate.  Deny this at your peril.  Ignore this and you invite perdition.  The first storytellers were the first witches, diligently honing their contextual agility…speaking fire to fire. We who know the occluded secrets of humankind do not abandon the voiceless, the weak or wounded.  Our knowledge is wild and ever-deepening, a hunter’s knowledge.  We will not simply burn this profane system of abuse to the ground.  We will not simply call the predators and desecrators out by name.  We will build an altar beneath them.   

Saturday, 14 May 2016

Life in Red

I have blood on my hands.  I would have it no other way.  I am both daughter and son to a huntress, a divided diver, a marian whore.  I hear talk in the alternative-community of dead orthodoxies, toothless neopaganisms, postmodern neologisms – halls of mirrors where every pane is cracked, fallow temples where nothing grows, a Craft of surfaces, decentred and bodiless.  But I see something different.  I look upon this world and see the counter-rotating spin of a still-occulted physics.  I see the shadows that locate light within our time and our space.  Whether it’s in the heresies of the indie-filmmaking communities, or the gaggle of emergent YouTubers trying to share digital fires with the decidedly un-elect, or the current wave of writers and operators attempting to better recontextualise their conception of malefica, I do not see negation.  I see opportunity. 

We are not the symbols and stories of our enemy, overwritten and colonised, unless we make ourselves complicit in such things.  The witch has no time for such anxieties, those illicit thrills of the spent slave.  No, she has been raped before, and she is far too concerned with place, with bone, blood, flesh and fire.  She is dancing; reciprocal, dynamic and dangerous.  She is at work.  She is waging war, against pseudo-royalist black-market slavers, against militant corporatism turning ugliness into tradecraft, against all predator-elites that would see the human vessel cut to ribbons within the shattered kaleidoscope of sanctioned meaning. That is why they rape, dismember and disarticulate her.  Because she is concerned with power, and she will not accept their avatars.

But the devil is in the details, as they say, and he watches this assault of his consort with a baleful eye. I don’t see broken evocations or nullified spaces where the magician must grow herbs from lifeless rock.  No, I see a constant interchange, a conscious exchange, cure becomes poison becomes cure.  Where the predator elites install asset-stripped futures, I see instead ordeal and crucible…always useful tools for those that work with secrets, with interplays of shadow and light, with fractals of flesh, as the witch has always done.  Their machinations and blood-dimmed hierarchies are not the death throes of our sovereignty, rather they are simply places to begin a working. 

Through all this morass of twenty-first century jihadist corporatism, negation and dehumanisation, I can still hear the call of my consort, my queen.  She is my most beloved heresy.  I am godless, and black, and I traffic with whores and monsters. I attempt to heal the sick, and speak for the voiceless.  She is here in this with me, whispering as in a faery-tale, blended and threaded through this archonic world of broken covenants.  I sense the menses-scented intelligence of greater workings and older pacts, even amidst the detritus of our modern gilded hellscapes.  And as in fairytales my Snow White can steal thrones from desolate gods.  She sits inverted in the deepest of caves, and stands at the peak of the highest mountain.  From the cleft of her sex flows the blood of every age, both remedy and poison, down her thighs, across the snow.  The entire mountain begins to run red with her dynamism.  In the bowels of the Earth that blood crawls upward like an army of crimson spiders, through cave ceilings, through volcanic bedrock, up through the chthonic architecture of cities, through mud and grass to stain the soles of my feet.  These are not your caves.  This is not your mountain.

I have her blood on my hands.  But not just on my hands.  It stains my lips, my tongue, my cock, my mind, and it is painted in a simple but resonant kiss on my chest; a bloodied X above my heart.  She is my life, and life is always dancing; reciprocal, dynamic and dangerous.  She is always at work.            

Wednesday, 6 April 2016

A Heart Full of Light

It feels like all the gods are dead. She looks to the sky, but she cannot find Father’s face.  She knows there is so much darkness in the world. So much hate, so much slaughter.  The chic negations.  The gleeful desecration. The imperious dismissal of those most wounded, those most in need.  It can break a girl.  Especially a girl who can see things.  It can shatter her heart into a million shards of light. Fragments of a broken sun that she now carries on sheer faith. Splinters of brilliance, now rapidly cooling in her palms.  The sky darkens.  She is alone. She knows that she is witnessing the death of a star.  In blackness, in void, she cries out.  To gods, to spirits, to Father.  She thinks all the heroes are dead, that nothing in this abyss will hear her.  But truth is a strange thing, and stars even stranger. Suddenly she recalls that she has walked among witches and kings. She has stood gazing as empires fell, as cities crumbled.  She has seen things be reborn. In darkness, the angel reminds her. "There is fire in your veins, child.  You are of royal blood.  Love is not Lost…"