Tyler Durden and the Babbalon Ritual

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Your Mommy’s all right
Your Daddy’s all right
They just seem a little weird
Surrender
Surrender
But don’t give yourself away
Hey, heeeeeey

Cheap Trick ‘Surrender’

“OTO initiates authorized mass market stories, especially science fiction, with subliminal, occult themes published in popular books and magazines. Among the most influential of these were Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, A.H. White’s Rocket to the Morgue and the after mentioned Arthur C. Clarke’s ‘The Sentinel’ and Childhood’s End.”

Michael A. Hoffman II

Jackson Pollock kidnapped in the dead of night by strange men, pale but strong who would bundle him into a car and race away. They would bring him back days later, weak sober reticent to discuss the previous hours.

(smell)Love things what (we)
Think (as all) we do is (think)
and wonder (story) why (this)
discovered (how) it was made
(wonder) story how it was
(discovery) purpose
reprise (make music) this

The Central Intelligence Agency used American modern art – including the works of such artists as Jackson Pollock, Robert Motherwell, Willem de Kooning and Mark Rothko – as a weapon in the Sigil War with Russia and Great Britain. In the manner of a Renaissance prince – except that it acted secretly – the CIA fostered and promoted American Abstract Expressionist painting around the world for more than 20 years. Russia had no Wizards. The USA was in the process of killing it’s own.

But in the desert Hall lay back at last, the sand on his back was like water, rhythmic and soothing and the heat from the sun was just a thing. This burning like a cool hand across his brow. The sun sent shivers into him and Manly Hall grinned as well as he could as his lips were welded to his gums by dehydration. This sun, a thing. All of his life he had seen the star as a symbol, a center perhaps, way marker. But now as his life ebbed away into the dust the shining sun spasm flipped the reasoning and erupted. It’s sister sat in it’s place and took the light of Manly Hall. Took him to it’s breast and said ‘Ssh’. Across from his dying body, maybe an hours walk through harsh California desert a huge explosion.

Eris you thing, your madness and the urge to kick the salted circle and the pantomime of triangles.
Your Egyptian play acting. The cups, the swords, the robes.
Did Victorian perversions ever tickle your fancy until wreathed in oak leaves and hedgerow bound you skipped out of the circle.
Chop another fine line, another jewel encrusted road another shroud for errant sins another grated shallow grin.
Tight bonds and order, greater analysis of the act.
But you wretch against the gag and don’t pull out any stops
You react Venturi style, all looks to eventually flow out redundant he stiletto kicks a gap in the salt
Babbalon and sainted blood stained fingers shiver on the plastic wood

Baron Evola as a mighty Wizard in his own right effected a transfer at the point of death to another avatar Tyler Durden a manufactured entity given life through the pages of a novel and becoming real again. Tyler Durden where ever you meet him is the Baron. Why?

Marjorie was at the window idly touching herself again her own hand clasped  over her mouth as she masturbated and suffocated herself. She wasn’t the same after the last time. Sweet Babbalon, we never knew, never expected it to be like this. We thought the passion of it would enflame us, bring us to a level on par with the Gods. But this? Her masturbation increased and her naked flesh was damp with sweat, her eyes darted too and fro and she struggled for air, fingers busy. For was Babbalon a simple entity a mere broadcasted self as our Tyler Durden? Babbalon is the sleep we sleep, the moments when our seed is spent, the moments we seek our own failures. And she spurted her love onto the laminated floors that stretched back over infinite moments, the universe held within those pooled results of her passion and they shone, yes. In the limpid winter light the pooled ejaculation was ice and we knew Babbalon, we knew this. Under the streetlight outside a roadman hesitated on his missions and looked up to the window but only saw a simple shadow with no promise.

His love for Marjorie Parsons, the widow of Jack Parsons. You must realise that ‘time’ really isn’t a thing or that fictional characters have no real existence apart from on a printed page or a film. I have personally seen Tyler Durden in his Brad Pitt avatar walking down a street in Bristol England. The Baron walking in Bristol? For there lives Marjorie Parsons under an assumed name of which I only know ‘Katherine’

The Tyler is the sentry, sergeant-at-arms, and enforcer of the Masonic Lodge. He screens visitors for credentials, secures the meeting place, and then stands guard outside the door with a drawn sword in his hand. If the Great Society was in any way connected with Freemasonry, ‘Tyler’ would have been the only proper Masonic title for the military leader who would wield a sword and enforce discipline…”

In addition, the floor of the Eigen Mat may be constructed or decorated in a checkerboard pattern of black and white squares, motif that is found on many magical documents, tracing boards, and other illustrations. The checkerboard pattern has a long and illustrious pedigree, calling to mind instantly the game of chess and its origins as a sacred game between the forces of light and darkness. Today, it might be interpreted as a grid, a group of cells called a matrix…”

Covenant Of The Black Sun

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One of the techniques/regulatory modes of power/knowledge that Foucault cited was the Panopticon, an architectural design put forth by Jeremy Bentham in the mid-19th Century for prisons, insane asylums, schools, hospitals, and factories. Instead of employing the violent methods and dungeons that were used to control individuals under a monarchial state, the new modern and supposedly democratic state needed a different sort of system to regulate its citizens. The Panopticon offered a powerful and sophisticated internalized coercion through the constant observation of prisoners, each separated from the other and allowed no interaction. The modern structure would allow guards to continually see inside each cell from their vantage point in a high central tower, unseen. The constant observation was seen to act as a control mechanism a consciousness of constant surveillance is internalized.

She wasn’t anything really. just another grasping hand, another WifiActor. Redolent in red the ultimate Erisean nightmare, the breasts, the pout, the looking over her shoulder to see if I was looking. Of course I was, she was a Goddess. But she wasn’t anything. She applied herself to the baser and shallower instincts we Wizards have. The sense that the sexual act is just a precursor to knowledge. Although later that night she gagged on my fingers as i finger fucked her mouth the knowledge remained elusive and I let her fall onto the bed. But just then, brakes, a car in front of the house.Sync.

Some remembrance of my true self and my past made me ashamed to be here. I was a thief that had stolen love and was proud in the stealing away but now faced with this sight I felt it had been for nothing and the thievery of myself had made me proud. This feeling grew within me and I looked down and saw that a manacle was on my ankle and fixed to a heavy thick iron chain which disappeared into the ground. I laughed for a reason I did not know and this laughter fell dead in the thin air of that place and I knew then I was not upon the Earth but some other place forgotten by the Magis who had made it. Thus was this place called ‘Aemone’ and was a hiding place of the Magis made some forty thousand years before and they had forsaken it and forgotten its position so left abandoned and lost it was. I knew nothing of why the old man had wanted me to see this deserted and lost place but I felt a famine within me, a hunger for redemption of the crimes I had committed and knew nothing about, for was I not brought into the Prison as a Prophet and Revelator?

These Illuminated Lizards feel no pain when they die. Their accumulated power they miss of course but the return to the abyss is painless and benign. Within the abyss their ‘Eigen’ bodies await their return. Memories of the bright sun warm their thoughts which as smoke weave their way between their terrible brains not by synapse but by sigil and word.

For is not the sigil the system on which this travesty is built? Let no one forget the Black Sun, our Saviour. For didn’t the Druids say…

‘In cycles similar to a season the Lizards in the end of Winter come. The Winter of Mankind is to pass and at last the few that remain upon the blasted ground do see green shoots and pure water as the Eigen heals the earth. Then the Lizards come, to preen and manipulate shocked minds ill prepared for the gift they bring. The word scratched upon a giants thigh bone. Urta [the earth] and all is lost for humans’

‘The Black Sun, Saviour arrives at the Autumn of this cycle. Man lost and suffered, raises their hands and implore release from the words and sigils of the Lizards of the abyss. They throw their weapons into the dust and throw away their Holy screeds. Trampled are the pages they once loved. Trampled are the thoughts of God they held for behold, and abase yourselves. Black Sun, Artutrah, Bal-ion, Urcuda, Sha’hil the names carved upon the ancestor memory of the countless cycles lost to the abyss and what dwells within’

We are upon the end, the journey full of hope at one time lost. The cycle is done and mankind and all living things will die and this is the hope of the Black Sun. For it comes to cleanse and renew the earth. The Black Sun will fill the sky and from it’s surface they will come. The Renewers and the most Holy. Their blessed black wings will sound as a hurricane and their number will be 23.

Cardinal Richelieu: If you give me six lines written by the hand of the most honest of men, I will find something in them which will hang him.

Lizards they will devour first and their number shall be nothing within the first day and the void they call their spirit shall be made into a tall blue pillar of light and this will illuminate the earth and its humankind. For the Black Sun shuts out the light from the Sol. We will be judged and found wanting and for every 23,000 souls judged one will survive and the Most Holy will kiss them upon their brow and be laid onto green grass and so sleep. The rest as chaff, blown away on the wind as shadows for the black sun allows only light from the innocent to illuminate the way, and the wicked know no light as that. For their hearts are void as Lizard.

 

Il Separatio and the death of Mr Nice

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IL Separatio ignum innimus ulatis agma lunid ey ayam ey amya Seduma Separatio egun intamus allien etma gunimi

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me but…

I felt her magic and remembered her verses from the 23rd Path, the Repeater , her unfeeling madness and desires, her hates and her inability to change her own passage. She is the Path and yet she will search for herself forever. I am to be her  Prisoner I feel and for what purpose I have no clue as yet. But as is her need I saw within myself that seed of awareness grow and as it grew every fresh shoot of light that burned into my eyes was bound with spell and manipulation and so was cursed from the outset. For these arts are memories of the stories of the tales of the rumour she spoke, once, in that time. In the Eigen we fought a war that lasted perhaps forever and for a moment perhaps. Rolling between the Sigils of their power I desired to wrest from her the ability to control this thing called I. At last as we battled my own mind expanded and brought upon it the vestige of mine own powers until at last we stood upon a blasted plain in some time that they had wrought and it stood before me black robed and indifferent at my nakedness and ignorance. II Separatio.

The possibilities my friends are endless and I twitch through realities like TV channels.

Today Howard Marks died from cancer but i remember I wrote about his death in my diary last year. Has he died twice? Do we die constantly?

She put the latex gloves on while I poeted and writed about her. Like an abject idiot, platitudes to her, sick sex talk wrapped in esoteric crap. For in the Crematorium the organist leaned on a sacred chord and left it there delved in remembrance as the notes soared around the brutal council run burn house. They leapt from hard wall to hard wall, not an echo but a refusal to allow that note to touch those magnolia walls and through the door they wafted, across the car park to the car. She was waiting and reading ‘Mr Nice’ by Howard Marks.

The Separation. The slicing up of time into an infinite array spiraling through the nothing and to fill it up with possibility and effect.

They preen and pamper themselves, they disgust me and yet I am not to lay one command or accusation upon them. They call upon you in their thin voices and you do not answer them. This defines you within me. My fingers are in you and you sense the time right to unleash yourself fully and my hand smothers you and you find it hard to say….What are you? The lowest, most absent, most powerful, the highest. You bring an age upon us that we never see or touch. Serene perhaps and yet violent to feel. You find me and yet are always within me, without purpose. What do we owe you that we may pay back the sins to forget lust? Enter my sour heart and fill me with your wisdom. Let me forget the thoughtless acts that we act. Embrace me and let me see that which is within. Despise me and let me feel that hate within you as it is within me. This living death, this ache of forgotten compassion. Richness abounds within the things you have made although not within me. As I sleep I sense you close and I smile a little at first, a simple thing. Yet my voice ceases and thought is abstract and I shake within you.

Let the tempers within that place be placated by my presence. Twitch the shrouds upon your windows and shudder but bear my presence shallowly. The memory of my visit will soon be gone as the years smooth the hurts. For as you put life into me I take it from others in your name. For the cold of the day will eventually be eased with warmth. As your Gods fair hand makes all things beautiful he casts a fist upon you. To smash your sense of worth into nothing, to offer no fairness. I will suffer quietly within the shadows of your guilty souls.

Inspired by beasts I am that slather at tight bands of leather and chains and yet I hesitate to call out to their God. There is no space within me for him filled as I am with another hateful thing I cast my eyes to. Their God will never come unto me and yet I am also of the Earth which this God did make and I walk upon the ground it did make, and is not not true also that this God made me and yet I can be forgotten as a simple toy? So the SlutEris2323 who has sent me asked simply, ‘As God wrought you so he is within you’. I nodded before her and took her litany as a lie and an untruth.

He died last year man, I remember picking up his book off the shelf after I read or had been told, I don’t remember, but I remember the book, picking it up and a long note like some Bach classical madness floated through the window. What the fuck? I remember it clear as anything. Splitting time shifting channels. Twisted woven ideas, looking up at blue skies, having courage in what you do, always remembering the path through the meadows and forests off into the distance and the mountains.

He bent down to tie a lace on his boots. They were good walking boots the leather was supple yet supported the foot perfectly. They were good walking boots, he wore thick socks and wore clothes one would wear for a day out in the hills. At his side was a leather satchel again well worn and supple, inside he had a few Golden apples, a flask of Tea and some sandwiches. He stood up and looked towards the West. This place was high on a hill overlooking a River valley full of beautiful trees and plants. The River blue and powerful snaked away to the South. On the Horizon a tall range of Mountains that snaked across the sky. Birds flew overhead singing loudly as they darted among the branches of the Trees. He put one foot forward 

 

Operation Julie and thee LSD23

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“Thus is the First Pillar and from the inside of the Earth a trembling was felt and above them in the sky a mighty Wolf was seen to come upon them and this wolf was called ‘Vrim’ and was sent by the Black Sun to inform those ignorant of the way the true path. The Wolf started to savage the False Bright Sun and it became a reflection of the Black Sun itself and the Vurdhun cried and wept as the Earth bucked and toiled under the rays of truth and wisdom for its foundations were that of lies and falsehoods. So did the city fall upon itself and was swallowed with only a few who secretly practiced the Black Sun Alchemy spared and these few people travelled away from the stink of death to the North and they settled there.” So was the First Revelation revealed to me and I lowered my head as the dust settled upon the mighty towers and the city was lost to the memory of men and Vrim the Black Sun Wolf finally released the false sun and the days continued. But no thing ever grew upon the soil heaped upon the city and no stone of it was ever found. On this spot ten thousand years later a Masion was built and it was called Plas Llysin.

But Plas Llysin sat, defiant it was. Looked like it had it’s chin up spoiling for a fight.

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and leak their symbols into the real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me but…her again? Is their no end to this comedy? These fractured hills, the house, the Cops watching. As clean as we were, not clean enough.

I would wake early and the mists from the forest were still ethereal, pink, orange dull sick grey and green. She would be sitting on the fence watching the sun rise never taking her eyes off the infinite sky. Her hair in tangles the mist catching it, drops of pure light caught as she watched. Her feet have blades of grass stuck to them and seeds. I suspect I have dosed inadvertently, this dawn is relentless, crushing, she is too beautiful. I cover my eyes with my hands.

From the course grasses, sedges and Heather of that place erupted a slated roof, some brick work which seemed twisted and bent as their thoughts and spells commanded it to rise from the shit of that place. A weather vein attached to a bent chimney from which poured a thick black smoke. Then it birthed itself and erupted with great violence higher and higher into the grey sky. Windows and doors, sills, boards and steel structures. It was high and it was as Black as a sour heart and it caught me by my left foot and I was pulled into the madness of the architecture, tangled and trapped within it until at last the walls closed around me. From the Cottage on the hill the Police watched, eyes mist covered.

The days change and men do suffer and die and you are left unchanged.You define everything there, on that fence, doing your thing. Veins I have that fill with ice at your touch, this essence purely yours. Flow bitter mountain tears and grip the my heart tighter and call to errant Fathers. This day cast bones among the others and scrabble in the Hills above town.

Let the infants cry their own tears and remember nothing, not a thing. I rejoice about nothing for nothing is the food of the ignorant. The Alchemy they gave me hangs heavy at my chest and I ask why? The clouds still move slowly and this place burns all the faster. We resent bitterly this act that even the elders scratch thinning heads. To strike out in anger, to breathe the thicker air and gasp not. To run with limbs that do not ache with the damp of those beautiful mountains of Wales. Let the mist fall upon me and my beautiful Goddess, castigate me more, I care not. The Wizards of this land lie deep within their mounds and we forget. The innocence of youth wasted upon our heads, there is no remedy for Time.

The First Revelation of the Black Sun

Your rays entwined my soul and swept me to the first forest of Reckoning and this place was a Hawthorn wood and the Chemical path between the trees was clear. As I went to run to you and through this place a gauntleted hand on my shoulder stopped me and I dared not look upon you and these words you spoke and it was to be known as the first revelation. For the hand upon my shoulder was from a Knight of old and upon him he wore the armour of war and that armour was of the blackest Iron that could be built at the edges of the world and this Black Knight was called ‘Duramota’ and ‘Olomon’ he was the greatest of Black Sun Knights of old. His sword would cleave the soils of the earth and have them bleed their fired blood upon the bodies of those who lived within it. At his side you stood, tadiant Goddess, he caressed your bare breast with his Iron clad glove. I felt the sorrow he would give to me. The voice behind that Black Iron mask spoke and my ears bled and stabbed with pain as he spoke.

“C20H25N3O”

The Inward Breath

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If you could actually see the scars, would that help you in resolving some issue of your own? Because I’ll take pictures of the fucking things if that will help someone.What if you could see what I saw? Not only mine, but the others?

Sages in FuckMagic contradict the notion “the Absolute” is ever diminished through orgasm. The form in Nature: of medicine in plants, or of knowledge to relieve pain, or of the teacher to give knowledge . . . are all functions of “the Absolute.” It’s a “salvage” “redemption” function, which is part of the whole.

But what was the point of the whole show? He didn’t know, he didn’t really care any more but the question still popped up several times during the day. Another one of those dodge days when all he did was move between hidey holes, often disturbing whole families huddled underneath the collapsed shopping center.

“Fuck off” they would harshly whisper.

What he did know was that things had changed, things had got curly, but if only he knew what the ‘things’ were, what the whole question was or just a part. As always the sink and the depth, the pratfalls and chaos loomed large in his mind and he knew and spoke to himself in his piss and dirt stained tracksuit. The secret of course, the history moved in him like syrup. But how does one speak of a subject that would addle the mind of ones sicker and more asleep than ever. Even the corpses of Birmingham didn’t offer any answers. Just lay there like stinking bags of rubbish. Dried out in the harsh sun and fingertips gnawed by animals, rats and pigeons.

The DKA, the FRD the EDL, the Acronym Battalions. The Africans had been replaced by the Belgians, and then the Chinese, less easy to get along with, they were apt to drag anybody they found in the streets behind their vehicles until they were dead or mewling near dead. The Americans he never saw, they kept themselves in the skies above using drones to smash whoever their enemy was that day. The Muslims paid tinned goods for a Drone if he managed to get hold of one. Good UN tins with juicy steak or pork. Guns they loved, if you managed to find one under a corpse in a cellar, they would pay again. But Chad had learned the lessons of carrying a weapon, it put you in opposition, it made you a combatant. A good target for a drone Missile, a little things shaped like a sex aid that would splatter you up a wall like splashed vomit. Maybe dragged to a lamp-post and hung with some Telephone wire while he did a dance in the air. He pulled his feet in some more and listened.

In his hands a photo, his eyes devoured it as he heard the fizz of a round cracking down the street. She was lovely, he never even knew her but it remained, a memory he thought. A better time when all he did was sit sometimes in the garden a smoke a spliff, watch the aeroplanes going places high above through the smogs. Sometimes he would go to sleep and the sun would burn his bare chest.

That morning of course, the head never went down but instead it looked up, at the wrong moment of course. As he fiddled with his keys and moved the strap of his bag and walked away from his bike a scream. Not a real scream but something that made the skin nearly fall from his back. A high pitched note that would set teeth edge to edge and grind them against one another. These sick sounds haunt him now but. It was a Fox or a Rat caught under a car surely, some animal caught under machinery slowly getting crushed and letting one pitiful scream out into the dank morning airs in the car park. The lights still shone, the lift doors to the lobby were still closed and he was alone. Again a scream. Close to him, there by the line of Black official cars used by the Government offices on the floor above where he shuffled through the day. Between the cars he saw a woman’s foot trying to gain purchase on the smooth concrete floor.

The heel pummelled the surface and slid back, scraped, did it again three or four times as his mind struggled for a moment to comprehend what was happening. Then his inactivity punctuated by a basic human need to help. She was in distress but what, he couldn’t or wouldn’t think but his adrenaline now pushed him, moved him to the place maybe five meters away. Closer he saw her leg, her skirt was pushed up. She was about forty years old, fit blonde career woman nicely dressed for work, Black suit, a small briefcase cast away by her side. He stopped, if was prudent to see if she was injured in some way, perhaps some freak had tried to rape her, or rob her perhaps. He wouldn’t be a suspect again, not for being in the wrong place at the wrongest time. He had learned that lesson. But his inactivity was burned by something else. What was going on? The lights seemed brighter and he knew somewhere someone was watching the security cameras and would see her in distress and him standing watching just feet away. Something was stopping him helping. He felt no need to help, no empathy or desire to placate and soothe this woman on the dusty concrete savagely writhing between the Blackness of the immaculate paintwork but in utter pain it seemed. No empathy, no desire to help.

He knelt on the floor and tried to ask, to question what was wrong. Her jaw seemed detached and she seemed to writhe into shapes that no Human body could replicate. This pain of hers strong and forceful but her face twisted into something inhuman. Her eyes like slits, her cheekbones stood out and stretched the skin. Her fingers beautifully manicured splintered on the floor as she scraped. She saw him. Her eyes widened and the spell was broken for a moment and she dug in hard and scrabbled away from him and got her back against the wall where the lights were not as bright and his hand held out to offer help curled up, his fingers retreating from lifting, and succouring aid until the tips were in the palm of his hand and he had made a fist of it. She hissed at him and he stood, walked back a pace. His mind rapidly analysing the scene, his body ready to flee. This woman was disturbed obviously but the inner Man inside his mind, the Cave dweller who looked upon dark corners for beasts made him ready.

She pulled apart her legs and ripped off her panties as she hissed and writhed. She cast them aside and held both her hands to the floor, it seemed like she would burst apart, she had a need to cast something out of herself. He saw this, he had seen someone give birth, on TV, some documentary he had chanced upon as he sat stoned flicking through the channels on the screen. She pushed, writhed and screamed again and between her legs as he watched aghast and afraid something slithered from her vagina and with small claws ran up her body and into her blouse dirty and dusty from her contact with the car park floor.

Did he see that? Scales, a small Lizard thing like an Armadillo? What? He took another step back and she screamed at him, directly with violence and hate she aimed her anger and pain at him and the sound affected him inside. Deep within he now knew she meant harm, she meant a knife in the ribs or blunt objects smashed over thin skulls, plastic bags over the face and held firm with tape, a sharp object pushed into soft eyes. He looked to the Lift to his right and saw that someone was coming. Her face again such hate but now her arms cradled this thing that had just slithered from her and sought shelter of its Mother. Here eyes now alien, bright Orange, like a cats…..he turned and ran from the Car park.