Friday, 26 August 2011
Autumn's cold chill starts to bite, when solar rays deign to bless our skin with warmth we are quick to dismiss the coming of colder times, yet come they must. Even in the clearer Sky's of dawn, the ground wet with morning dew, the ones who would sleep under canvas covers find moisture rich and soaking through to the skin, sticking to the walls of their homes and bringing damp and discomfort to poorly prepared feet as the grass is trodden underfoot, hope springs eternal that the last vestiges of the summer sun will heat body and soul.
Soon the Geese will come and the swallows depart, wild hunts have made the first of their forays into the night sky, Thor's own hammer sounds the changing of the guard, bright flashes scar the sky as winter's grip makes its preparation to take back its own, dark days and chilly evenings around a blazing hearth, solice for the witch's soul as we too reclaim the night.
What is it that makes us who we are, what forms our earthly lives, brings shape to what we are to become, the lessons we learn, the influences we take, we are but clay figures to be shaped and formed by Fate and circumstance. From raw earth we become unique beings, reflections of the gods, we are products of our surroundings, sponges that soak up that which our own souls require, we seek out good company, hold friends as family and we are touched by thoughts and ideas that are already familiar to our inner selves.
We are the vessel, the journey and the destination, if we listen to our spirit then we will never fail, if we are to blindly follow we find our selves on the path to ruin and disappointment.
In all aspects of life there are those who fail to listen to the inner voices, those who would follow the crowd. To accept the world as it is with rose tinted glasses and blinkers, never to question the whys and wherefore's of this or any other existence, Ignorance is indeed bliss for the masses yet still they search, often unrealised, for some small part of the divine truth, to belong to that which the heart would yearn for if the ears could shut out the clamouring voices of a failing civilisation.
The Dream catcher, the rose quartz crystal and the lucky charm, all devices the ignorant may seek out in an attempt to grab something of the spiritual, this is not anger at these affairs, only sadness at the way so many wont let themselves become whole, to be satisfied with small trinkets in an illconcieved nod to the heavens, an insurance against the fact that True Faith has become something that mocked and derided within an increasingly secular land, they know there is truth beyond the walls but would not really want to find or declare a belief.
I have been reminded of this fact, (which is not exclusive to those who would walk an esoteric path) by a pleasant visit to a festival in the heart of Devon. Four glorious days among my own tribe, music and merriment shared with family and like minded people. The Festival originally set up by the Punk/Folk Anarchists- The Levellers, the spirit of the nineties, born out of Thatchers Britain. In those days we were shaped and formed by the things around us, we became as stone, immovable objects that would not be swayed by the establishment and the promise of wealth if we were to behave, always to wave two fingers at the man and not afraid to take direct action against those who threaten our freedoms, or the boys in blue that would beat down the doors of our homes to silence that voice, and there we were, twenty years later, as solid as we were then and stronger in numbers as our own offspring bought into the world now stand beside us.
Yet among the shaved heads, the Mohican haircuts and a sea of tattooed bodies, there are those who did tow the line, those who became as slaves to society, desperate to touch what they know in their hearts is something pure and incorruptible, to stand along side the true defenders of freedom and liberty, to believe in an integrity that they once sold to the Man, they did not listen to their souls and now they pay the price, it has been said that"it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the gates of heaven", and now the penny drops as the masses once more grab and grasp at that which is lost to them, Monday will be back to the mill and social ideology can go back into the cupboard for another year.
Sad statements to be sure, but this poor man refuses to give up that one thing that they cannot take, cunning man or deluded fool, you decide but my integrity stands tall, can you all say the same.
So as in the mundane world we see the way in which those who have sold integrity try to lay claim to that which is lost to them, sadly the same is true in the occult world, the work should stand for itself and clearly within some circles it does not, the answer would be to try and detract from the truths in favour of the mans own lies, power corrupts, it is time that certain people should take off the blinkers and glasses and try to find some thing that works, although it is commonly believed that certain activities of which certain groups enjoy, will indeed necessitate the use of spectacles due to poor sight, an unfortunate side effect.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
An Owl's warning cry breaks the silence, cutting through the ether, echoing the metallic ring of the scythe as it fells the tall golden stalks of the harvest, toward the east a single Buzzard answers this call, as it too rises from it's slumber to face the dawn and all that it has to offer.
Along the dark forest track I make my way to the appointed place, tall trees stare down as this lone traveller goes about his own business, shadows against the night sky, companions who have stood where they are since before I was even a thought and will be standing still in that time where upon my earthly body is consumed and turned to dust, the fate that awaits every creature of flesh and bone who would dare to walk upon this glorious Eden.
The Air is still, perfect silence as my words and gestures soar upwards through the woodland canopy, accompanied by the gentle coils of smoke and sweet air that also rise to greet the dawn. Calls spoken aloud to those who I would beg to hear, to her a devotion and continuation of the week's observance, my pining stomach a reminder that I am closer now, and it is now that I offer my self to her, absolutely and in all lives to come.
A gentle acknowledgement as the sentiment is duly returned, softly in it's nature, that of which I seek creeps slowly into my being, the knowledge and guidance we all require to continue upon the path of gnosis soaking into my soul, within that time that appears to be between times, away from the mundane in a world that is ruled by both Moon and Sun, or perhaps neither, it is hers at this moment and graciously she allows be to share it.
That which has been denied, in times that now seem like distant echoes within the past, is now my own to behold, that which once hid within the dark shadow of the spirit now plays a merry tune for me to dance to, embraced at last by the serpent who would recoil at my touch, we can journey together, the snake who would help this one to ascend the ladder and not send him spinning down to the mud and grime that lies at the bottom, I have given all, I have taken only what has been necessary and I have not acted upon desire, all is found and I am prepared, the reward has been of such high value that to place a price upon it would be an heresy.
On this day I have ascended, further into the tree I have climbed and far from the noise and petty imaginings of those deluded minds, devious ones, who would claim thrones for themselves built on crumbling dust and imagined, as none would offer them a throne built upon good solid stone this option becomes all that is left.
So to fly, high above mortal men, is this not what we dream of, to obey the law and listen to the winds, only then will we be able to soar high upon the currents we so desire.
This world and its every day trappings, can become a place of great pleasure, as long as the likes of Shani Oates continue to write of the wisdom they have gathered and such an event can be seen upon the horizon.
The Arcane Veil: Past and Present.
I have been privileged indeed to be able to read this book prior to publication, it is set to become an occult classic, and should grace the bookshelves of any occultist regardless of tradition or background. Tackling meaty subjects and grasping at serpents that others would be afraid to hold.
Among the collected essays we find one upon the history of magic, within this the influence of Christianity upon it and how through it's adaptability it has survived, in fact it would have been consumed entirely if those who practiced it refused to evolve with the times. Shani wonderfully reclaims Lucifer in another chapter from the vile clutches of the likes of Lavey and places him firmly within the reach of any serious Crafter, not without its controversial topics "Witch Blood" (there will be heads turning and a small degree of spitting from some quarters) a classic and must read for any seeker of truth.
Available soon with any luck.
Bright blessings all, as we head toward the darker months.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.
And check out this young pretender, my own dear brother has placed digit to keyboard at long last. The Cunning apostle
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Warm rain and sleepless nights, golden wheat sways in the warm summer winds as those who would feed the people of this land take to their steel reapers to cut John off at the knee, the sky fills with hungry birds, laying on fuel for the coming journey, a feast upon the flying Ants as they themselves attempt to form new societies away from the bustle of the overflowing hills, all at this turbulent time when our own society seems to fall apart.
Far from the green and gold, the cities of England burn with fire, anger and theft, a misplaced youth in a world that has little to offer them, even time, the distance between the have and have nots now so great, that jealousy engenders greed, the lack of faith and hope creates a kind of hopeless fury, there is no consequence in a land that has no future to be seen.
The tip of the iceberg, a festering sore, that is but a symptom of the beginning of the end, yet it is not too late.
For every unthinking moron with brick in hand, dazzled by the plasma screen or pretty trinket in the shop window, prepared to be the reason and the means that our own civil liberties will be taken away, there are hundreds of valuable members of society, children of talent and imagination, vision and love, not to be tarred with the same brush, the future of our Island, the future of the world.
Staring into the flames of despair, the shattered lives of those who would choose to make an honest living, there is still great hope and we must not lose sight of that, for to do so would be a betrayal of our own dreams, and those children of hope.
Far from those fires of hate and vitriol, my dear brother and his beautiful family join with my own beloved around a gentler fire, in our peaceful garden, John Barleycorn felled here too, yet much enjoyed and in the form of a fermented grain, welcome talk and a heavy head the next morning, a feast before the fast that precedes the rite of the harvest moon, shared with one who accompanies me upon the same journey, together with those who would share his hopes and concerns, a happy gathering with love, light and futures bright.
My Sibling's departure was sadly marked with warnings and sadness, aside from our own separation there was news of another who has departed this earthly realm, a cousin of mine, found cold within the walls of his own dwelling, his own passion lay with the golden brown mistress, she who would turn a good soul into an hedonistic creature, one who would live for her company and no other, deceiver she is, an honest man turns liar and thief when within her grasp. A sad end to a sorry tale of not yet thirty summers long, a trail of destruction lies in the wake of his life, a grieving mother and a fatherless child, a lone brother and a wife without an husband, where to he departs I do not know, I hear "I am sorry" upon the wind that blows from his direction, to late a dire warning of what comes from a life of hedonism and excess, though my own relatives thought that at one time they would find me in such a manner, my life and indulgence are well tempered, need and not desire is my own mistress.
The harvest moon grows fat within the sky, bright blessed Luna reflects a great virtue upon the land, I meet her at the crossroads every night this week, as lover, as warrior, as wise man and fool, each dusk we greet and her bright torches do become as guides upon my return, hopes and dreams are granted, through love and devotion. My body craves that which I would deny it yet my soul begins to soar skyward as those connections, those earthly bonds which are unneeded are severed in favour of those which bring me closer to her.
Blessed Hekate, Enodia of the three ways.
Torch bearer, mother and guide.
How this one has come to love,
how this one has come to live.
Covered within the cloak of night,
There holds no fear, beneath your light.
Show unto me the path,
guide me well through the thorn covered land.
Sweet protector and cunning council,
teach me the ways of the wise.
Underworld Queen and mistress of fate,
pray, bring me strength in difficult times,
Show unto me the jewel that lies within the shadow,
Bestow unto me the key that will open the door.
I who would demand nothing,
I who would ask in hope and love,
I who would give all unto you.
Blessed Hekate, Enodia of the crossroads.
I am yours.
Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
By the dictates of the modern calendar the rites of the Loaf mass are now upon us, if we were to consider this a truth then we would be saddened and starving, as Old Puss still has haven within the ripening grain, for a week or two to come as well, coal black the watchers anticipate the coming feast, as do those of us who patiently await the true time of plenty dictated not by time, but by She alone.
Still the cloak and dagger are bought out to play, firelight and celebrations across the land, the cutting of the corn, the baking of the bread, in ritual if not in life, this mirror that allows us to gaze at the coming bounty, to once more take joy, not in the timing, but in the fact that they celebrate at all. Acknowledgement of the gods and the ancestors, wild voices that cry with great intent toward waiting skies, the multitude of skin clad drums that announce to the world " we are here, hear our devotion, reckon with us".
The serpent stirs at this cacophony of sound and soon will once more waken with quiet intent and great wisdom, out into the light where we shall stand with her in awe and inspiration and feed from the harvest he will grant to us. a feast fit for the Queen of hell herself.
This Cunning man and his dear beloved, met with good souls on clifftop hill not far from our own simple home, a festival of Lammas celebration, and the joining of two of good spirits who would be betrothed to one and other within the company of like mind and Divine presence.
This loving couple, let down in a small way by the weather and those who failed to make good on promise, almost to feel that the fates were conspiring against them, still the oath to be taken needs no human witness, wet or dry the bond will be made, love will always win through and the rite of hand fasting took place as it should.
A ceremony beautiful in its simplicity, few words yet those that were spoken were uttered with true meaning and fine intent, the love of friends, family and fiends to bring virtue to the rite and a hearty welcome of the late arrivals as shadows distant within the mist become solid and familiar to the entwined couple.
A pleasure it was for this one and his better half to be witness to this joining, to allow ones own barriers to burn to the ground brings great reward, there are good folk out there among the morons and to hide behind a self imposed wall is no way to find them, I no longer need to hide and will face the world head on in the future, I am protected and at long last capable of rising above the detritus, to soar upon the thermal currents gazing with unconcern at that of which I would wish not to be offended by.
So, much gratitude goes to Dave and Karen for asking us to be a part of your celebration, and to Mike for facilitating a ritual executed with great feeling and consummate ability. although many people failed to show, all organisers put in so much effort that disappointment should be as dust on the breeze, as human nature is at fault here and not any ability to host an event, so well done Ben, Mel and team.
So to close with thoughts of good company, as my dear brother and his family join us here in the days to come, and plans for our own travel are underway once again as there is another place that calls to this one, what glorious family I have found or perhaps have found me and what company I keep, blessed beyond my wildest expectation.
No longer the lonely fool, just one thorn of many among the roses.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.