Thursday, November 27, 2014

Leo de Lux the Antihero of the Sorcerers and Magi Series

Besides the strikingly pale eyes, de Lux had severe but attractive features. His closely cropped hair was dark auburn. He had a smooth, fair, unblemished complexion; strong, intense brow; a perfect nose; and thin expressive lips that moved along with his fierce eyes to pout, wince, sneer, and tediously sigh.
The man looked bored or exasperated most of the time. He saved his smile for either indulgently bawdy or awe-inspiring moments. He was not easily impressed, but he was easily annoyed.
He was finely focused on the power of appearances. He had a knack for materializations. This was not a particularly profound feat, but a noteworthy and entertaining one. Not only could he materialize all sorts of precious objects, he could, for the entertainment of friends, materialize whole holographic theatrical performances, concerts, and sports events.
For his enemies, he made annoying and sometimes forbidding thought-forms that tended to be nearly impossible to get rid of. 

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Sofia La Maga Nothing But a Bedraggled Kitchen Witch

It was just as Leonard’s father had insisted. Professor La Maga was nothing but a bedraggled kitchen witch.
She didn’t seem at all like the stories told about her. In fact, she roamed through the secondary school’s second-floor corridor as if she were roller-skating with three left feet and had the mental disposition of a hedgehog. 
She was a tall, slender but robust woman with the rough-and-tumble appearance of someone who had weathered hard climbs in exotic lands. Her clothes were rustic, quaintly worn, and embellished with savage jewelry: jangling bells and sashes of bone and fur, claws, shells, and spike-studded pods. Her Medusa-like mane was haphazardly plaited here and there and cluttered her face, blinding her as she toddled along. 

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Book illustration of La Maga --Harry Potter for Grown ups

Leonard’s father repeated that Sofia La Maga was a fake. He said that the heroic tales about her were hoaxes. He stressed that she was the bastard spawn of a wayward woman who had died under suspicious circumstances. He reminded Leonard and his friends that this one Sofia La Maga also had been kicked out of the H. Trismegistus Mystical Arts Academy School of Graduate Studies in her junior year of college. She was a trouble-maker who almost took the school down because of her political extremism. A terrorist, Leonard’s father insisted. Furthermore, rather than applying herself to unusual scholarship in the Terra Mysticus as was claimed about her, she had been running some sort of silly “New Age” cult among the Commons in the Outer Plane for the past 15 years . . .  

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Ignorance and Bliss

William Blake
I became a “Jesus freak” when I was a teenager. On the one hand, this was a good thing because it kept me out of trouble and provided a community of wholesome friends. On the other hand, it imposed a kind of mind control on me—and that control happened outside of my parents’ knowledge or involvement. The group I was involved with was run by a couple, who was the Catholic version of fundamentalist Pentecostals, and a nun who was probably specially trained in a BDSM workshop about how to wield a ruler.  But being an independently intellectual and philosophical sort, I broke out of the trap. Specifically, an interest in the writings of the friar Father Thomas Merton and contemplativism (the Christian equivalent to “meditation”) led me to an interest in ecumenism, universalism, and ultimately, Advaita Vedanta (Hinduism of a kind, that is).  Well, the Holy Rollers didn’t like any of this.

The couple who ran the Christian youth group I belonged to decided I needed an intervention. I was invited to the couple’s house to have a talk. During this encounter, the man was oddly handy-dandy, leering and making comments that seemed suggestive in between his good Christian solider advice, especially when the wife stepped out of the room now and then. His tone toward the wife was also rather abrupt. Among other things, this, sort of behavior made the light bulb go off about why the wife and daughter always looked so quiet and brittle.

I was dealing with something that was really encroaching on my innocence. An illusion about my reality was shattering. So, upon departing from this couple’s abode, any reservations I had had about following a new, improved path and having a mind of my own were effectively resolved.
Is hypocrisy and narcissism unique to zealot Christian folks? Hardly. Thankfully, I never got roped into a guru cult or became an acolyte of some New Age voice of “enlightenment” in my travels, but I did have my brushes and close calls with a character or two—and I’ve known lots of people who were embroiled and manipulated and pick-pocketed in these kind of scenes. 

In pre-Judeo-Christian creation mythology, the ever self-renewing serpent-god is the bringer of wisdom and culture. Also, the Roman god Saturn is the king of a Golden Age of prosperity when cultural arts and cultivation technology emerged and flourished. In Judeo-Christian mythology, all this is turned on its head. The serpent is an evil influence because it tempts humankind with knowledge. Beings responsible for bringing culture and technology to mankind are the fallen angels. And Saturn, in medieval Hermetic Christian spirituality, is equated with snake in the Garden of Eden whose job now is to impede passage from the mundane to the transcendent. Naiveté is, thus, a virtue and ignorance is bliss because…how else are you going to be controlled and manipulated?

Meditation from Cassiel: You are the primeval maya, the source of the universe…. By you, Oh Goddess, this whole world has been thrown into an illusion. If you become gracious, you become the cause of freedom from this world. From the Devi Mahatmyam 11:5

Excerpt from The Savior at the End of Time  From Chapter 20 A Snake in the Grass

Zosi began to be spotted in flamboyantly full ceremonial regalia within the Mercury Gardens. He would wear a tunic of thick raw silk and tightly fitted, black leggings that were made of tanned leather and full of straps and whips of lacings. Over this, he would wear high boots that matched a mottled, purple-black tanned leather cope embossed with images of ourobori, moondragons, and griffins. His hair was meticulously plaited and decorated with pins and ribbons. His head was topped with a black double-cone hat that was rakishly crimped and folded over so that the tips of the horn-like cones, embellished with opalescent jingle bells, menacingly flounced and jangled in front of his face. He wielded a rather large and tall staff, the core of which was made of slender poles of cedar and fennel stalks. It was wrapped in embossed leather that matched his ensemble. Like a sinister maypole, the staff’s leather sheath was itself wrapped in a filigreed design of cords and leather straps on which gadgets and flotsam were affixed and that dangled, flail- and cat-o-nine-tails-like, from the staff’s finial, which was a gold spearhead in the shape of a fish with an acorn protruding from its mouth.

Like that, he would stroll about the Gardens and then stop here or there to deliver a sermon that attracted larger and larger crowds as word of the spectacle grew. He would begin the rant in a gentle voice with the words, “See the illumination at the center of being,” and materialize some small sparkly object that would fascinate and mesmerize onlookers.

“The body and all phenomena arise causally and provisionally within absolute being,” he would continue, yet still in a very meek and quiet voice. It would be trembling and barely audible despite his ferocious appearance. “There is no time and no dimension to space, both being mere adaptive projections of mind. The personality is an interdependently arising construction of circumstances and experiences, driven by reactivity bred by conditioning devoid of awareness or true will. What is it to wake up from the idea of yourself? Heaven, hell, God, the Adversary, pleasure, pain, and all the pairs of opposites are projections of your own consciousness. You project ideas out of yourself. Treating them as independent entities, you go into them, fear them, and allow them to have power over you although they are your own creations. No one is there to deliver you; you must deliver yourself. Glimpse self-effacement and the root of your existence. Reality is silent, blissful, self-composed Being. This is the Redemptive Principle, the Christos, the Ground, and the Life beneath the mechanism.”

Then he would walk off to another part of the Gardens and say it again even though people weren’t really listening and hardly understood him; they were just grooving on being part of the show and the very groovy euphoric feeling Zosimo’s magical words incited in them.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Sachiel-- Know Thyself

Apsara, Original digital art by Soror ZSD23
I got certified in hypnosis last November. I thought that most people thought of hypnosis as a quirky way to stop smoking or lose weight or break a phobia. But whenever I mentioned that was studying hypnosis to anyone, the only thing they wanted to know is whether I knew anything about past life regression. Well, as part of my training, my classmates and I did briefly dabble with it. When it was my turn to be regressed, I had at least one experience that not only moved me but was rather jaw dropping to the 2 other classmates I had been working with during that particularly session. I’ll keep the details to myself for now. But the experience and also the awareness that this is where peoples’ interest about hypnosis lies has made me interested in pursuing specialized certification in past life regression.

I do not want to study past life regression because I am particularly curious about whether I have lived before. I don’t want to study or practice it as an antidote to fear of death. I certainly do not want to study or practice it to assure someone that they were Julius Caesar or Marilyn Monroe in a past life. I do want to practice it to assist folks in drawing on messages from visionary consciousness to help then better understand and navigate their present reality—feel more comfortable in their own skin and okay and with choices made based on what their soul says rather than what they think they are expected to do.

Message from Sachiel

The face of Truth is covered by a golden disk. Remove it, oh Lord of Life, that I may behold its beauty. Oh Lord Who Allows Us to Thrive, the only seer, the Judge, the Sun, son of the Lord of Being, spread out thy rays and gather thy light so that I may behold they radiant form!

That Being in that light there, that, too, am I.

May this life return to air and the immortal! Then may this body end in ashes. Oh, my mind, remember! Remember what has been done. .Mind, remember. Remember what has been done. .Remember. --From the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 5:15:1-3.

Excerpt from The Sex Lives of Sorcerers
Bellaluna Drago was a fallen fairy because having had the ill-fortune of becoming some sinister Renaissance necromancer’s pet (and Michael knew who that fiendish bastard now was), she had haplessly done something despicable that led to the necromancer’s and her own ruin. She was now clawing through lives and worlds in atonement. Her redemption had come. Michael felt privileged to play a role in it.
“There is a saying in the alchemical texts that goes like this,” Michael murmured. “The dragon only dies when he is killed by his brother and sister at once; not by one alone, but by both at once. That is, by the sun and moon.’ You and me,” he said.

“We’re compelled to create stories for the whys and wherefores of things in an attempt to trump a wild card, which is existence itself. Existence happens despite us and also is a product of our own making. It’s a bit of a paradox,” Michael continued.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014


  Moving right along...

Raphael's message for today:  See, I make all things new.

Excerpt from The Savior at the End of Time

“Where is he then?” Leo finally said. “Are you mad because he’s small?”
“He’s here,” she gasped and placed Leo’s hand against her belly.
In you?” he exclaimed as if angered by the stupid joke the guy was playing on them now. Then, alarmed and shamed by his stupidity, he uttered, “A child. Of course.”.

“It was plan B,” she said, and pouted, with her nose and eyes wrinkling into a bitterly angry sulk. “He just went on with the ‘game,’” she yelped, “and he told me we would do this—because I had been trying to do it with Michael Solaris—bring him back, reincarnated, but it wasn’t working.” She disgustedly flecked her hand at the glossy photo of Solaris that was now faded and burnt from having been exposed to the raging elements at the end of Time. “It was supposed to be a surprise . . . if it worked,” she griped......"... now we’re going to get further apart in Time,” she cried.

“You’re meant to be with me now, Sofia. My friend and partner,” Leo whispered. “And if he can find his way back through you, he is not lost or far at all. We have all been played, all three of us, like chessboard pieces—and me, blinded by pomposity like a clueless demiurge, was baited to accomplish this.” He wagged a hand at the shambles the world had become. “Things have ended so they can begin again,” he concluded. “He who was yourself before all other memories of permutation of kith and kin across aeons of time, he who was your brother in the past will be our son in the future. May you and I together also wander in this way through Time and Timelessness.”

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Camael: Howling at the Moon

I have no rant or bright ideas for today, but since I have already begun providing quaint little messages from the angels I am meditating on each day, I thought I ought not interrupt the momentum.

No, but wait, I do have something to say...

The great thing about realizing that what I have to say, in my creative and spiritual endeavors, is irrelevant or obscure is the liberation of it. It takes the pressure off trying to be heard. I can, instead, sit back and wonder why I want to be heard. I can drop the bad habit of expecting or needing approval or recognition like I did when I was a child working for that gold star or the pride of having Mommy tack some ouvre onto the refrigerator door…  It’s okay to fade into the woodwork, be contemplative, focus on the bigger picture and the grand scheme of things…

Camael means “sight of God.” This angel is said to not do much but lurk and watch. For me, he is a boy and his obediently long-suffering hound dog standing in the desert, patiently biding their time through thick and thin.

Today's message from Camael (also known as Chamuel and Samael)  is the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Excerpt from La Maga from Chapter 7 The Daughter

They parked. Lady Vinca Blanco Sortiar pulled out a black scrying mirror. She spritzed water on it and turned it toward the light. She and Professor Camael Magus gazed into it intently. Mirelle leaned in to study it as well. She had to push up close to Professor Camael to do this. She smelled his cologne. It was something with vetiver and sandal and torturously titillating to whiff.
“Are these the girls?” Lady Blanco asked Mirelle.
The mirror held an image of the inside of Homunculus Tongue. It was a dingy, rustically wood-paneled place that had tables scattered around facing a stage. 
“That’s Tina—Serpentina—Hamadryad.” Mirelle pointed to the wiry girl with the dark, pin-straight hair. “That’s Karen.” She pointed to a more imposing and husky young woman with red hair and ruddy, freckled features.
“Karenia brevis,” Professor Camael snickered. The others in the SUV turned quizzical glances at him. The consul's brother, de Lux Magus, shook his head and tapped his brow as if something very stupid had occurred. He seemed to be even more grave and snobby than Consul de Lux Sortiar typically was.
“Karen Ea Brevis. You know her?” Mirelle asked.
“The affectations of young magical persons never cease to amaze me,” the consul’s older brother quipped.
Lady Blanco was smiling smartly but sort of compassionately—or maybe it was pathetically. The consul was clucking and shaking his head. “Does Karen Ea Brevis sound like a magical name to you, Mirelle?” he asked.
Mirelle simply blinked. It didn’t .She waited for the punch line.
Karenia brevis is the name of toxic microscopic algae, the proliferation of which causes a phenomenon known as Red Tide,” the consul announced. “Do you know what Red Tide is with your ties to the Creole South—the Gulf Coast of the U S A, Mirelle?”
Professor Camael and the others gaped at her, as if hanging on to her answer.
“Red water that kills everything in it and can kill you if you eat anything fished up out of it and takes your breath away and makes you wheeze if you stand on the shore near where it settles,” Mirelle recounted.
“What kind of person would choose such a name for herself?” the consul asked bitingly.
Lady Blanco told the consul to stop picking on Mirelle. “So she’s got an adversary now. That’s the spice of life. A little excitement. Every young sorceress should have an adversary. Otherwise, she might as well get a job as a radiology technician or something in the Outer Plane, don’t you think, Leo?”
The consul simply nodded distractedly.
Lady Blanco turned back to Mirelle. “Are you a maga or a sorceress, Sweetie?
Mirelle told her that she hadn’t decided.
“Yes, why do people have to be one thing or the other? Why is that, Leo,” Lady Blanco quipped.
The consul didn’t reply.
Lady Blanco grimaced. “He’s ‘distracted,’ Sofia La Maga.  Who knew.” she uttered to Mirelle.