Fairy Tales for the Insane, Part II
Moths of Fames: Graves of Fortunes
It’s about building up the character of your people, that’s what leaders do, it’s about making them strong and free, that’s what a statesman does, it’s about making them just and happy, that’s what a wise man does, it’s about making them reasonable, educated and thinking, that makes a teacher It is not about leaders being strong in character, free and strong statesmen, happy and just sages, educated and thinking teachers, it is about inspiring people to be that, that is the difference between privilege, appointed role and greatness. The first is merely a given, what we make of it is our own decision and is not gained by us, the second is an opportunity and can be beneficial if used wisely, the last promotes further, it is a source of giants who keep the least to themselves, for they are endless, they inspire individuals to equally individualize themselves into greatness and build healthy societies.’
All our movements reflect our innermost, our striving, our speaking, thinking and acting projects what we really are. Objectively speaking. The rest is reception and perception of others, which also obey this law. The denial of objectivity is a delusion or self-deception. But who claims the objectivity of evaluations? Who knows our innermost being, the treasuries of mind, heart and soul? What is made of our geniuses and destiny in the eyes of the sun? How does it change in the course of time and destiny? Mortuaries and cemeteries are only - profession, date of birth, date of death, the rest is superficial. One can build a palace for his corpse or be buried in the forest. A splendidly buried one can end up in the howling underworld of the Styx, punished by the oath of the gods, an anonymously buried one, torn apart by wild beasts, raised by them by a twist of fate. Depending on the position one occupies in the wheel of worldly fortune, one must respond to fate accordingly, this is not a responsibility, but a sign of fate. If one who has good luck abuses it, he is cursed, if one who has bad luck is unfortunate, he is pardoned, if his bad luck turns into persistent overcoming - that is a worthy quality, if one who has great luck makes the luck of others greater - that is a great master. Turning an unlucky person into a noble person, turning a noble person into an unlucky person, making an unlucky person overcome himself and become noble - that is worthy, turning a noble person into pure gold - that is perfection. Time writes the greatest obituaries, history is the necrology.
It is fame that governs earthly memory, fame confers neither personal greatness nor personal misery, it can elevate the greatest scoundrel and punish the noblest creature. It is for the times to decide. In golden times the noble are elevated and the wretched are disposed of; in bad times it is the other way around. But fate plays tricks on us and changes, it is not a law: sometimes in fallen times the wretched are punished and the noble at least keep their position, and in golden times it may be the other way around by mistake.
Time is not a witness, history is not a memory.
On Evil and the Curse of Volition
I was called to be a magician, to create, to act, to dare, to divine. People like us gather many enemies [on the other side] based on certain additional rights and laws. Therefore, we must develop our arsenal and tools of the trade quickly enough to survive, to outwit and meet the forces that face us in this life. It is an intellectual self-defense mechanism that has become almost an intuitive habit. People like us were burned at the stake in the Middle Ages when we struggled with things these Christian pedants had no idea about. The latter were partly the cause of the problem. Having encountered many malignant spirits, or spirits that mingle ‘badly’ with the human spirit, I assumed that the doctrine of the ‘mingling of natures’ was sufficient. It is, from a de-anthropocentric perspective. Natures are not capable of judgment.
However, from a human-centered perspective, I have chosen to define ‘evil’ in these terms. It is nothing more than a defilement of the human mind that is predisposed, conditioned and, depending on circumstances, educated to negative encounters that drive it to self-destruction or others to destruction. But this is a trivial evil, it is destructive, and a schoolboy knows what it is.
Pure evil is cold, undifferentiated, spineless; it is a blade of deranged cruelty on one side and a blade of sadistic, cruel indifference on the other. It is the look of an innocent smiling boy who has just killed his sister without remorse. It is a dictatorship that is like a machine. It is a cold machine that does not work by reversal, like antinomian evil, it is beyond good and evil, it recognizes both factors and yet pursues the psychopathic goal of self-loyalty towards the abyss of hallucinations, the Black Brother is a force of annihilation, he is blind, deaf and wants to contaminate with himself. Woe to those who are contaminated by the Black Brothers of the Shadows. I do not blame murderers. Know thyself. My guilt was will, my survival was based on my will, I was at the mercy of ‘I Will’ as a curse. Every break, every crack in my will meant death, derangement, suffering, pain, all that I killed. I was forced to kill all my love for the Will, for the Want, to sacrifice everything human in order to survive. My spirit was tortured, my body tormented, broken for years, humiliated - it was like a wheel of misfortune. Put me in a uniform and I will be just another executioner, put me on a podium and I will organize a dictation. And I have met the pyramid heads. They took advantage of my pain, I screamed, and then silence - I looked in the mirror with my face half rotten, pyramid-headed shadow silhouettes on either side of me. I froze with understanding. I smiled with a lazy grin.
The question is - can ethos and intellect overcome sterility and cruelty when conscience, shame and morality go to hell? I would rather believe it is possible, I would rather not check it under all the smiles and comforts. But it must be trained, continuously, constantly, so that it becomes intuitive like steel, always on guard, always self-reflective, deeply focused and aware. How can you check people’s integrity? I know that people like me were given new identities or sentenced to death at the Nuremberg Trials. I am glad that this will never be put to the test. Suffering and pain, hatred and frustration either give birth to a spiral of evil or find rebirth as love and compassion. Evil and good are made. You have to know good and evil to know what is right, otherwise you are just a puppet on the strings of fate. A broken mind leads to evil, which can either be restored or is irretrievable.
When evil defiles the mind, it breaks man’s reason. All evil is based on ignorance, stupidity and obscured vision. But when an arm begins to rot, it is difficult not to cut it off. When evil is deeply rooted in the blood, it is a waste of time to eradicate it, because it grows malicious and mocking. If one adopts the habits of evil, one is irretrievably lost. One may be aware of the fact of defilement or not want to acknowledge it, the other may fight against it - this is a condition of holiness -, the last is completely taken over by the corrosive force and is finally devoured by it.
May the defilement not take us as its harvest. May we become white brothers. Sometimes the knowledge of virtue and vice is not enough to survive in this game. It must be practiced without a hint of distraction in a gigantomachy of mortals, giants, awe, nightmare, liberation, enslavement, obscuration and enlightenment.
Day of the Dead: Nurturing Thanatos
In keeping with the rituals of ancestor veneration and a reconstruction of the Eleusinian rite in which melicraton, a mixture of milk, honey and wine, was poured on the grave as a libation, I wanted to honor the dead this year, as I did last year.
I prepared the mixture at home and then spent some time asking the spirits of the higher generation to consecrate it as a meal for the dead (the substance acquired properties that made the meal for the dead a sacred scenario). I arrived near the cemetery and bought a candle that I had wrapped in plastic to protect it from rain.
As I walk through the gates, I introduce myself and ask permission to enter the ‘King and Queen’ of the cemetery, the first people buried here. A necromancer (a 3 m tall humanoid shadow soul) appeared at the gates. He was my guide. At first I wondered and watched the moving statues, then some aetheric incubated dead began to move and noticed me. It would be a good day for incubation and dreams sent by the dead if the cemetery did not close at 8 p.m., I thought, but I was not prepared for that.
Last year I opened a small plutonium in a forest that is not a cemetery, wounding the earth with a spoon with the intention of opening a gate to chthonic words. The dead and the shadows come soon, partly to enjoy the feast of Melikraton, partly to suck my life force and blood and get more ‘matter’ in the shadows.
This year I have been guided by the necromancer’s shadows and have been stopped at a grave of a recently deceased Polish senator and a young student. Using the dead gaze (a technique of witchcraft where you pierce the veils with your gaze), I penetrated through the figure of a standing angel and saw the face of the lady who called me. She said she would direct ‘from above’ what she could inspire for the better in this land in silent ideas.
I asked the winged one, flashing silver over the cemetery, to guide and release her through my spine. She passed through my nervous system,the snakes on my spine entwined and she was released, flashing gold above the cloudy night sky.
Then I lingered on in the cemetery with the thought that I could not serve them all, it would be too exhausting. I lit a candle at an unguarded grave, intending to light it for all the anonymous, forgotten dead. Then I moved to the left and approached a mausoleum and with the words ‘Child of earth and starry sky that I am, I arrive here, may you be free, our race is heavenly’ . I poured the melicraton into the tombs. I prayed and called the star friends, took two pictures and quietly withdrew from the cemetery.
On the purpose of learning
-What is the goal of your studies? - To refine the intellect and correct the mind, constantly striving to
discipline and overcome my thoughts in excellence
-What is the use of all the human knowledge you have acquired if you are successful?
Nothing, I recover my memory, which is in accordance with the truth, after I have passed to the heavenly spheres, after the operations in Theion Ergon are effective and sanctified. Then all knowledge on earth is less. But you respect the scholars who have gathered all this in laborious work like worker bees, so that you can study... Have they not also created and forged their intellect by contributing to the ever-moving fountain of knowledge and wisdom? -Indeed, they have done so. Respect their geniuses, because thanks to them you are able to refine the intellect in such a way, to make the movements of your conscious mind so logical and rhetorical, that you can understand metaphysics in an ever clearer way. - --What about those who do not care for learned pursuits?--They develop according to their talents here in crafts, there in arts and sciences, in manual labor, in enterprise,in political and social affairs, so they develop in silence, often unconscious of the occult movements of the feelings, of the mind, and of the soul, as long as the will to excel is present, they are in harmony with their nature--what greatest harm do you do to them?- -They may not control themselves sufficiently, they move on the strings of fate as a plaything of their conditions, this is a terrible waste that these, who could be taught to strive for great natures and ingenious devices, are like puppets on the strings of their minds, jumping to and fro like wild monkeys. -What do you advise? -- To observe the flow of thoughts and then consistently and rhetorically learn to discipline them, to tame them like a yogi and consciously direct them to what you think is perfect and useful. For there is also a yoga of life, henceforth called the art of living. Those who know this secret are happy people indeed, despite the greatest torments and terrors that haunt their hearts!
The Devil in Me
Remembering my love, the last time I catastrophically tried to remember it all, I ended up on the floor in epileptic spasms, whispering ‘no more’, then I pulled myself together and stood up, returning to the steel armor of cruel Saturn and walking in pride and anger, in cruelty and petty mimed malice, in a cold grin of forced compassion that looks like the smile of a murderer. The plants I adore most, the little birds, they are innocent in paradisiacal naivety.
They have crossed the laurel wreath and the lotus buds on their ophitic wings, with deeds and bravery that shake their tired heads above the cheesy sky. With outstretched arms and glorious lips they invoke the glory of the starry heavens to descend upon the children of the human race. O sweet sleep of a holy pagan man, kissed by the wings of angels.
Rise to a new prayer, an action, a ritual, an invocation, may the Great Goddess bless the little children of the human race. Too much light invites darkness, a known matter of defilement, too much resilience invites destruction - so that only a monument of steel can stand. Long stories, shortened in the state of
‘now’, memories are of no use to me, every day newly broken bones of the mind, newly sewn scars splintered and re-sewn, stuffed with maggots of small, insignificant games. They crawl and bore as I watch them crawl through the skin of my cheek.
Broken hearts immortalized in gold now stand not black, but in cold chasms. So I stare through my heart into the void, through the burning spirit of my vampire into the silent austerity of what broken statues of Ares, Mercury, and Helios might have felt when they struck the floors of temples, when cold marble in a thousand mirrors can translate their feelings into human prey to a dragon’s spiked brain.
This half-broken, a rotten mask, replaceable body, the demon has grown inside me. A twitch, a habit, a pattern of feeling and thinking, all devils have left a trace of their malignant taste on me. With each pain, each black, dead tear, new habits were destroyed, new bravery was broken and replaced by a void that quickly filled with lesser things that grew into my nature like poisonous ivy of those things that remained unconquered and choked by great power. The greater my shadow, the distorted image of everything lived, everything painful, the greater the state of compassion and anger. To conquer is to keep still, to be detached, victories are measured by not giving in, losses are tragic and ponderous, deepening the deadly game of losing.
On active meditation. Voided mindfulness
It was a bus station in one of the districts of Warsaw, Poland. The bus was already there, waiting for people to get on. There was no one else there, the journey began here. I sat down, the lights were still off and the bus driverwas smoking a cigarette outside. I reach for my companion, the Book of Changes, and read a passage from hexagram ‘The Mountain that Keeps Still.’ While pondering a fragment, I flipped the book closed, stiffened my spine, and folded my hands in a U-shaped gesture.
Immobile monolith. This time it was not the steely heaviness that moved the mountain, but a light, gentle pause, like a youngest daughter on the shore of a lake, settling down in front of the majestic mountain, pondering a lost thought in the snow.
The flow of my thoughts was like a ravine. I brought it to a standstill while a certain disturbance struggled to invade and corrupt the mental continuum to corrupt it. ‘I heard sounds from the city,’ said a dark baritone voice in my head: ‘Once again, you are a laughing stock, do not even try’.
They are to be ignored, discursive polluters, dialectical errors and lies, injecting thoughts and playing with empty phrases and sentences. They have nothing better to do than drive wedges into their own power. Rabid dogs and manifold tribes of utterers, clinging to their chains of illusions about their own person, their own self, and the shackles of their movements, mistaking them for their own, controlled by greater puppeteers of fate who hate me for it, that I undo mine, but in the end, when properly perceived, they free me in their misery, peel off superficial things for themselves to devour, digest and vomit out to go to the next feast of delusion, ignorance, illusion, filth.
At first I wanted to visualize geometric thought forms and give them a hypostatic, metaphysical proportion, but I decided to enclose a primordial spirit between two yin lines and connected them to my pneuma sitting on a throne between my eyebrows, my will, my name, my spirit, my star, the wholeness that I always was in this human form.
Just as everything I have lived through since childhood on the thread of my consciousness, wearing the garment of my life, hardening it, beating it, sharpening it, depending on my life, my mind, my emotions, and yet independent of them, once accomplished, forged into a completeness, wholeness, holiness.
This name, the spirit, the will, the power that moves from world to world, from a human animal into a God body, a vehicle of divine expression. when will this crooked, ruined spirit, this pain, this defilement depart from me? When will the bitterness, the domineering severity of the hardliner release me from its iron grip?’ Itis only a transition. All that breaks with death, the spirit rises and dwells in a body of glorious solar victory. All the dirt is removed, the enemies of the past fade into bitterness and chase their own tails in great hatred, divinity is restored. Consolation. Hymn of the Pearl. Life is short, after all. Let us not waste it, between despair and affirmation, between torpor and paralyzing spasms of pain.
A man sat next to me. I tried not to distract my extended consciousness with random sounds and events. He was eating French fries, the smell and sound temporarily distracting me, I merged them into a stream of phenomena around me. I conjured up the sound of an empty, rushing stream that I remember from the descent. For a time I was a skeleton in robes, holding my skull in my hands.
Like a picture I saw, swords of the Minor Arcana of Tarot and the memory of the only one who loved me, my madness, who embraced me like a lioness. La Forza for a rose.
Meditation on a corpse. Nothing is without effect. A political thought that What I heard, erased, none of these phenomena should reach me here, they are insignificant in this depth. Rex Profundi, Regina Silentia. Then everything faded away as I moved from the phenomena into the void. My personality, mind and body became a selfless, radiant emptiness. I had practiced this so many times.
Sometimes I was engaged in rituals, conjuring illusions and sending out signals about the emptiness and fullness of the galaxies. A quick change of perception and I was back in the glorious golden light symbolized only by the stars in the universe. Just as this world is a shadow of the infinite worlds, a star is a shadow of the transcendent creative fires. The abyss and the cosmic voids are an insignificant spectacle. In Egyptian eschatology, the abyss is defeated in millions of years and the chaos of the black fires is extinguished intothe nothingness that they are. The lotus buds open in glory and close in perfection.
I wear my robes of darkness, I wear my robes of golden cloth, in between I embrace the entire phenomenal world. A whisper distracted me, a couple in love, a couple, a small daimon pulled a string in my mind.
Is he inciting jealousy? Overcome it with loving kindness! I too was once a recipient of love, rejoice in the love of others! How can one reconcile a vastness of mind that reaches the vast spaces of the world, that sees the horrors of infinite space once as a void, once as a winged thing that became spaceless and enters the safe cocoon of the human body, with the distraction of an insignificant little worm whispering some nonsense and clouding one’s perception? It amuses me a little that an insignificant fly entering the eye can obscure the larger view of the world, that a small obscured mind - for a while - can stop the work of a titanic spirit in insignificant narrowing? Does not that evoke a smile?
I opened my eyes, put my book aside, and watched all the people on the bus, like a small child with curious attention and yet with the stern look of a stern man. Nothing was going to disturb me anymore, the equanimity of the phenomena and their ultimate nothingness, even if the advertising on the screen somehow distracted me. Not again The chain of causes of mental habits must be penetrated and understood in order to cut them at the root. I do not like advertising, foundations, dissection - they have their own built-in egregors that feast on human attention, like little attention whores for people who have nothing to do with their mental faculties. They have an attraction for me. I do not like it when my will is overwhelmed, I do not like it when I am distracted from my concentration. But annoyance is also a form of attachment, it means that I am overwhelmed, that I am distracted. A Ukrainian and a Georgian or maybe a Chechen working in a hotel nearby were sitting in front of me, I was looking at them attentively and smiling. Is not that the whole point? To sit like an adult child and play with a sword of concentration with perseverance, is not that a significant goal?
For I know that I have already gained immortality above. Floating in the Cosmic Vastness of Tartarus. Years of the construction of the solar cross. Years of the Theion Ergon, when I reached for the gods, they reached for me. I called and they answered me. Years of a noble war. While the stubborn, darkened, bitter worms kept me from a purposeful life. So much for a committed life, I think.
Even if I end up a homeless, penniless, vicious wretch, I stand above the like pigs who made me that way. Liberated from darkness and freed from a Dionisian tomb, I rise in great laughter, a joyous arrow of brilliance, and dance like a dervish with my swords, smashing and scattering the pathetic attempts of the sycophants who consider me an enemy to all corners of the hells as they go down screaming, obliterated, humiliated and devastated until they gather enough strength to strike again against someone else, somewhere else. As I write this world, some vampiric worm screams “I shall kill you.” One corner of my mouth smiles contemptuously at the depths of their stupidity, illuminated by my hard-won pride. Dragons have no natural enemies. In human form, they are attacked only by deluded creatures who wrestle more with themselves than with anything else than anything else.