Saturday, 29 July 2017


I think it's clear to most discerning individuals that we are living through an apocalypse of sorts, a revealing.  But also - and primarily - we are living within our heads.  Our thoughts, our imaginations.  I believe that it is here, at the place of the skull, that the real war rages.  However, our imaginations are not limited to that place behind our eyes.  Our imaginations are an infinite depth travelling through infinite depths.  But the skull is in some sense the symbol of our identities as sentient beings attempting to engage and negotiate with a living, haunted cosmos.  To be headless is to be liberated or annihilated, depending on circumstance and context.  We tell stories about the skulls of men and gods, and all the darkness and wonders therein.

None of us are mere mortals.  We are myriad; serpentine, angelic, older than the earth that sustains us. Some say there was a rupture, a breach, a fall.  Some say entities dark and monstrous came from beyond the veil, to remove the eyes and tongues of men.  I know this much; at least parts of these stories are true.  I have never and will never deny my own experiences.  I cannot speak authoritatively about the greater contexts in which these pieces fit, but I know the truths of the desolate places.  I've walked there myself, in vision and dream.  The wraiths know me now.  They call me Listen, and Midnight.  They say I'm a holy fool, and perhaps they're right.  But many of them stand now with the Ragged Magi.  Many of them know full well what is coming and have chosen to oppose the darkness that claimed and shaped them for so long.  Even in Hell we have choices.

I am just one among the many Magi.  We stand at the periphery.  We guard the gates.  Mind and Heart as one, skull and soul entwined.  We bear the ancient mark of the crossing; true love's kiss.  It is to this deepest radiance that we pledge our fealty.  We are your brothers and sisters, your children, your living and your dead.  We can speak the secret tongues of the Innermost, we can read the glyphs found etched in ruined dreamtimes.  And we will not let this realm fall to horror and blindness.  Not while Love is still living.  As lightning fell, so too shall it rise.  Here, at the place the war is waged. This place called Golgotha.

Golgotha from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Tuesday, 11 July 2017


          Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.
                                                                     - Romans 12: 21

I have walked through Hell.  I've passed through its ruined dreamtimes and felt the radiant darkness, the desolation, the barren stone beneath my feet.  It is a place devoid of all emotional warmth, all hope.  But there are no children there.  Only lost and callous ones who occasionally take the twisted forms of children, in mockery and lust.  Hell is simply a place the spiritually fallen go to endure themselves, to face themselves.  There are no children in Hell.  This realm is darker than that place. There are so many children here.  And the darkest wraiths of the abyss desire them most of all.  They ache to defile innocence.  I say to you now this place called Earth is darker than Hell.  Even now the wraiths and demons shriek in the frequencies, pounding desperately on the other sides of mirrors, demanding to be let in.

Let no man deceive himself.  The battle of good and evil is very real.  For those who doubt this, I ask you to look within yourselves.  We all know how to invoke the nameless one, the dark twin of creation.  I believe that one can invoke anything from the well of frequencies, with varying degrees of success.  Devil, Demiurge, Angel of the Abyss.  I don't really care what name it is given.  It is discussed or alluded to in all cultures, in a multiplicity of forms.  It isn't really about duality.  It's about stories, and storytellers.  It's about the subjective nature of an objective experience.  It's about knowing who and what you can become, depending on what you feed.  Do we feed that spirit of defilement, desecration and abuse, or do we commune with the better angels of our nature?  There are many ways to manifest a fiction, many ways to call forth certain stories from the well.  I am but a humble scribe in this war of imagination.  A simple messenger.  And though others would claim that I am lost and damned because I do not believe exactly as they believe, I have sworn myself to a higher calling.  I humble myself before what Man calls God.  The radiant fire, divine.  Mother and Father to all things.  I live to serve this sentient spirit of Love.  

And though I am scarred from my travels through realms hidden to most, my eye hath not darkened.  I hear the voice of my maker.  I know why I speak and seek as I do.  For the liberation of my brethren, and myself.  In this calling I claim not to speak for God, only to listen with as much diligence as my love for him can rouse.  Through pain and confusion I was once lost as the fallen are lost.  But I cried out, kindling the spark that dwells within.  And Grace came unto me, lifting me up from the desolate places.  I remembered the image and promise that I am, that we all are.  So I write, I create.  All flaws are my own, but I am earnest in my pursuits.  To those who call God by a different name, I say to you now is not the flame that animates me the very same that gives you life?  Our symbols, stories and tongues are varied, but our souls and spirits are forever connected.  In this connection it is evident to me that we are one family, scattered upon various shores.  It is magic and eternity that dwells in us.  I know of this.  My name is Listen, and Midnight, and I speak now with my Father.

Hear this, my children. The inbreath of spirit is imagination. The outbreath of spirit is the world, all worlds, eternally. We are slain and risen in each instant, made seamless in the continuity of God. And this meeting of imagination and world is the very image of God. Wheresoever God sinneth he sinneth against himself, in this fashion knowing and seeing all. God resides not only in the sky, or the earth, or the stars, but in the very heart of you. The slain and risen Christos; true love's kiss. When love did triumph over evil and rent the veil at the place of the skull. Never forsaken, child. For I dwelleth in you. No sin or virtue is hidden from me. I cry as you cry, weep as you weep. And so when you seek for something better, when you cry out sincerely in guilt and newborn desire to serve rather than harm, I am there. For the blood of your tears and lamentations is my blood. For I am in you. And I judge myself harshly since no ordinance or mystery is beyond me. I judge as a Creator must judge, from within. But I serve among you as must a man serve, diligently, with the promise and grace of I in you and you in I. This is your holy vessel, child of true love's kiss. This is your likeness fashioned in the image of me. The slain and ever risen spirit, of the heart, at the place of the skull. Know this, my children. None are forsaken by me, in me, or through me.   I am not bound by divine law, for I am the author of spirit. I dwelleth in you, lest you turn away from me. But not I from you. Knowing all tongues, all customs and secrets, I have fashioned you in the image of promise, sustained by grace. It is sufficient for thee, beloved one. Nothing is hidden from an immortal soul. All will be revealed, when again I gather up my children and smite that which has reigned wickedness and inequity over them. For I am your Father in Heaven, unknown to all but one. He that dwelleth in you. Upon this cornerstone is built the very foundations of paradise.

Amanuensis from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

Book of Esechar

In the valley of the spear there is talk of madness.  Fables burst from books, poems take shape before open eyes.  The Court of the Myriad say that Esechar is crawling from the well.  The devourer comes, they say.  To murder the king and his kiss.  Both king and kiss reside at the heart and eye of the valley, suspended, animated by all who dwell in the valley and consider themselves betrothed.  They pay homage to the slain queen and the kiss that enshrines her memory.  They say Esechar comes to murder his brother the king, that he will rise from the well and reach into the hearts of all who dwell there.  He will claw the very heart and eye of the valley until he finds his twin.  They say Esechar and his brother were born of promise and grace, great lights of a subtler realm.  They say Esechar defiled and killed his mother-sister the queen, in the moment before moments when his names were signs meaning brother, twin, dark one, left hand, guardian, keeper and spear of the valley.  He fell from both eye and heart and turned the spear of light on his own mother, who was also his sister and his brother's wife.  But the good king did not slay in shrieking vengeance the spear of the valley, his twin. Despairing the horror of his wife's violation and asking only, why? "For something other than perfection. For something other than what I am."

This was the first corruption.  Banished beyond the valley they say, into the well of uncreation.  Yet he comes again, as moon occludes sun.  Esechar, the ruined spear.  The poets and prophets speak of it.  His acolytes spill blood and rape into the well, invoking him.  But those who remember the moment before moments hold steadfast to the true tenets of the Myriad Court - that of the once slain and ever risen spirit.  To keep a brother and sister as you yourself would be kept, forever linked as the one and many of the Myriad in bonds of promise and grace.  The truest flame.  The spear be only a vassal for the light, crowned as it is by the good tidings of its indivisibility.  Esechar turned from this most holy fire, forfeiting the valley and its court of love, saying "I am unto all and there is nothing beyond me.  I shall slay as the spirit was slain before its rising, but I shall not rise.  I shall build a world unto myself in this image - the broken line."  And so the spear came to know blood rather than balance.  This was the ruination of the one they now call Esechar, the burnt one.  This was the birth of all enslaving gods.  But those who have kept the promise, through slain grace who anoints and is enshrined as a kiss, know that even as Esechar crawls from the well the kiss also comes among the hearts and eyes of all the faithful of the valley.  The slain and risen spirit dwelleth in them, and they speak every tongue, and grasp every story.  They fear not Esechar's coming, for they know of the indwelling light and fire that consecrated them, in the moment before moments when spirit knew itself as animate, eternal and ever-loving.  Slain and ever-risen.  I am but grace's fealty, a humble servant of the court and the valley, and I speak from the Book of Esechar.