In witchcraft

It is over. I am free.

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

When I came back from Beltane, I learned that this year’s Heartland Pagan Festival would be the last. That knowledge sent me careening across the emotional spectrum. I talked about it in my last post, but it bears some reiteration: I have been attending the Heartland Pagan Festival for my entire adult life, and arguably longer. (Was I really an “adult” at 18?) Since I first attended in 1999, whether I was able to go or not, my year revolved the festival. Even after I was chased out in 2017, the hole the festival left in my life was a gravity well around which everything else orbited. When I learned that 2023 would be the very last year, I was … extremely upset at the possibility that I might not get to go.

But I am a witch, and the world sometimes bends itself to my will. Help – and sales – came out of the woodwork. Not only were Aradia and I able to get out to festival, so was two thirds of our Lunar Shenanigans crew. Alvianna and I were out there Thursday through Monday. Aradia and Kraken joined us Friday afternoon. Juniper joined us Saturday. Kraken and Juniper were only there for the weekend, and left Sunday morning. Aradia, Alvianna, and I saw it through to the end.

The final iteration of the Heartland Pagan Festival wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I couldn’t get the whole Shenanigans crew out; of the Big Damn Heroes, only Cat still comes; and no-one in Camp Taco even still talks to each other, anymore, let alone comes out to festival. The fires were lackluster, and the dancers all tired quickly. Too many people were more interested in pickling their livers on Leather Lane.

But I did get what I needed. The weather was lovely: warm during the day and cool at night, and not a drop of rain. There were fires and dancing, if not enough of either, and there was a lovely afternoon at the beach. We drank mead, and we told stories of festivals past, both good and bad. We wandered from one camp to another, our wagon of blankets and bottles in tow. We tried our best to make new friends, and we huddled close to one another in the warmth of love and companionship. And Kraken did get to see the festival at least once. After eight years, my best friend finally got to see me in my natural habitat (if, granted, in a degraded form).

Few of the people most active in running me out of the organization were there, and those few who were there lacked the spine or spleen to start shit. A couple people even tried to make amends – though one was so drunk, he immediately forgot that I existed, and the other never really understood what he’d done wrong, in the first place.

In the end, the festival died as it lived. I attended the main ritual every night, but I was unable to hear most of what was said because the ritualists used neither voice technique nor amplification. The temple pilgrimage that replaced the vision quest and displaced both Saturday Night ritual and concert was a logistical mess, with one temple running their last workshop so late we couldn’t visit without interrupting, another closing early, and one simply never being set up.

The closing ritual reminded me a lot of the “Passing the Torch” festival from one of my early years, where the weary founders passed control over to the next generation of leadership. But, where that ritual was magnanimous and hopeful, honoring attendees and everyone who had ever helped to put on the festival, this ritual was a self-aggrandizing eulogy for the ambitions of the remaining members.

The current president, a woman whose own son was hurt by the same predator-friendly policies that my crew and I were tarred and feathered for trying to change, took the closing ritual as an opportunity to blame “lack of volunteerism” for the festival’s failure. She made a point of calling up any “current or past members” of the organization that runs the land to thank them publicly, but only brought up current leadership of the festival organization for similar recognition, ignoring current ground-level members and past leadership, including some founding members that were on site.

The Heartland Spiritual Alliance has promised that they will be back with something new. They’ve asked for community input, asked what the community wants. I doubt they’ll pull anything off, honestly. I know who’s left. Whatever they achieve will be as deeply cursed as the Heartland Pagan Festival was at its very worst, and I wish them all the very worst of their own bile.

I expected to spend much of the festival in tears, or deep depression, or possibly even being sought out and tormented by people who blamed me for the festival’s demise. (An absurd accusation, but well within the standard deviation of accusations flung at anyone who ever worked the festival then left.) And, certainly, there were moments of sadness, regret, and loss. But, mostly, what I felt was relief and closure.

I’m glad that I was there to see it end. I’m glad that it’s over. I couldn’t mourn the zombie the festival became after I was chased out. I can mourn the now-still corpse.

More than that, the corpse has no hold on me. The lines the zombie held me by have gone slack, and I can pull out the last of the hooks. I can retrieve the last of my power and bits of my soul that were stollen by the festival. My wounds can now well and truly heal.

It is over.

I am free.

In witchcraft

Beltane Oracle (or, Satyr’s First Prophesy)

Author Satyr MagosPosted on
high contrast image of the coals below the beltane fire, with a burning log that looks remarkably like a face

The Lunar Shenanigans Crew – the pseudo-coven I talk about so often, which I have at last decided to give it’s proper name in public – celebrated Beltane in our usual fashion, fucking off into the woods the last weekend in April. We were only able to get out for two nights, but we made the most of them. Friday night we celebrated with two of our oldest rituals: the Fuck You Fire and the I Love You, Man, fire. Saturday afternoon, I performed a personal cord-cutting ritual, one of my compatriots led a Sumbel, and we renewed our vows as Black Goat Brides – an idiosyncratic ritual that we got from Jack Grayle after he led it at Paganicon 2018. I have led the Black Goat Bride ritual several times. This year, I asked to try my hand at playing the oracle, after. They were content to let me try.

I have, in a fairly material sense, spent the last two years preparing for the role. The Lunar Shenanigans Crew spent a year of full moons Drawing Down the Moon to give each of us a bit of experience with that oracular priestex experience and role. Those of us most moved by the rite went on to form a spin-off group devoted to perfecting our trance-possession skills. Again, that endeavor deserves its own posts, but I haven’t quite figured out what to say about it.

The ritual as written gave us no formulae for preparing the oracle, only noted that one might be available at the end of the rite. Each of us who has taken that role has done so in our own way. Having received the groups blessing to play the oracle, I spent the next few hours preparing myself in the back of my mind. I think that I imagined that it would be the voice of Dionysos that came through, but what I got, instead, was my own oracular voice.

Satyr Magos was meant to be a nom de plume, not a magical name. My true magical name, which I have not and will not put in print, is more ambitious: a great seer and teacher of the mythic past. But for all that ambition, that aspiration, satyrdom is closer to my true nature, and that came through so strongly that when the voice first bubbled up in me, in the gap between talking through the details and the beginning of the rite, I literally laughed out loud.

When the rite was done, and we had all renewed our vows, I sequestered myself to prepare for and then perform my oracular duties. Preparation was largely a matter of checking in with myself, trying to determine if the voice was, in fact, oracular, not some strange delusion. But it felt right. It felt real. And if I hadn’t spent the last two years doing the work I’d been doing, I might not have been able to tell.

I wrapped my cloak around me. I draped my sacred cloth over my head. I stared deep into my crystal ball. I lit a cigarette, and then the candles to tell the crew waiting back at the main camp to tell them that I was ready.

“Who approaches the oracle?” I asked as each one came up to me. The raspy voice fit the mood, at first. Then the tone … shifted.

“Hi, NN, how’s it goin’?”

The oracular voice I found in myself that night was not the wise and noble seer of my ambitions, consulted by kings and heroes. No. I was a chainsmoking satyr who might have spent a little too much time in Brooklyn. But it was real.

“The important thing is to act,” I told one. “Once you’re moving, you can always course-correct.”

“If you’re looking for an idea, not a place,” I told another, “what you need isn’t a map. What you need is to find a rumor.”

“There’s basically two ways to be a maenad,” I told a third, “that’s full-time and part-time. Part-time has a lot of room for life and other obligations and ambitions; full-time, not so much.”

A lot of the details have faded since the night, of course. I remember just enough to get me into trouble. But the funniest thing, the thing I wanted to share with you all other than the surprising nature of the voice, was the one through line across the querents. At some point, they all asked a question that was too broad, too vague. And I would have to tell them to be more specific.

“I ain’t the Pythia,” I told them. “Just a satyr with ambition.”

“Pythia ain’t here,” I said at one point. “She’s up north with Apollo.”

I also remember that four of my five companions got real, solid answers. Things that felt right and helpful to them. The fifth, I’m sad to say, asked questions that I could find no answers to beyond my own common sense. She got robbed and I feel really bad about that. I think that the problem was how definite and material the questions were, and how far in the future. Or maybe I just dropped the ball.

But, overall, I think that I did well. I found my oracular voice and I was able to sustain it as long as it was needed. When that voice was not at all what I expected, I was able to check in with myself and determine that it was right. Maybe in another year or two, I will be more of that more noble seer whose name I took for my own back in 2009, before I even dreamed of the blog. But, for now, the Satyr Magician has spoken with a voice of prophesy, and has done well enough.

In Uncategorized

Requiem for a Dream

Author Satyr MagosPosted on 2 Comments

I first heard a rumor when I came back from Beltane, but Tuesday night I learned for a fact that this year’s Heartland Pagan Festival is to be the last. I am … deeply conflicted by this knowledge. For half my life, that festival was the axis around which my year revolved. I first attended in 1999: fresh out of high school, new to the pagan community, innocent and naïve. I only went for a single day. Twenty-four years later, the memories are hazy – the awkwardness of coming and going to the remote  location, buying my first sarong, meeting people from the townie community in a very different context – but that first daypass changed my life.

I went back the next year for the full weekend, and about every other year from then until 2006, just before I moved to St. Louis. I came back in 2008 and didn’t miss another year until 2014, which May I spent studying abroad in Greece with my Classics program. I met new friends and lovers there, some of whom I know to this day. I brought old friends from Lawrence whenever I could. I was sexually assaulted there in 2008 – an experience I now know to be frighteningly common – by a man I wanted to fuck but who didn’t want to take “later” for an answer; he was later arrested for being too disruptively high around the bonfire, and all my food was confiscated with his because we were camped too close together, and lived off the generosity of my friends for the rest of the festival. I brought my partner to HPF 2009 as a field test before we moved in together. I had profound and powerful magical experiences as a part of public rituals, there, both good and bad. One bad experience, in 2012, set off a massive public shit-fight between me and the sacred experience committee that ended up in face-to-face mediated meetings and, ultimately, an invitation to put my money where my mouth was and join the ritual crew. I was just starting college, and couldn’t commit, then, but when I came back in 2015 it was as a staff member.

My partner and I skidded in to the June 2014 post-festival staff meeting not two days after our epic road trip celebrating my graduation and her escape from her corporate hell job. We signed up to work with the Sacred Experience Committee, the same crew that we’d had our blowout with in 2012, expecting to cut wood and carry water. By January 2015, we were hosting meetings and more of our ideas were going into the rituals than theirs. Two months later, we learned that none of them had any intention of performing the rituals we were writing – all  of which required four or five ritualists – and Aradia and I were left scrambling to recruit bodies. We reached out to everyone we knew worth their salt, rebuilding bridges we’d burned to get competent witches and magicians to help us put on the festival.

I have tried before to write about those years in detail. Getting involved with the organization, getting swept up into leadership positions and being lauded for our efforts and ideas … only to have those efforts and ideas undermined at every turn. Ultimately being chased out for trying to improve the safety and experience of the attendees, and for refusing to submit to the corporate culture of “naming the problem is always worse than the problem”. It still hurts too much to go into detail, and the trauma makes some of it incredibly difficult to remember.

The short version is that we wrote and performed a series of initiatory rituals, each year sending attendees back into the world with the charge of doing more magic. Our first opening ritual was nonverbal, every action a dance, with shills among the participants to help cue their responses. Our final closing ritual was a bonfire ritual where, through enchanted masks finished at festival, we dropped almost fifty gods into various ecstatic dancers. Masks and coordinated costumes were our signature style. Prometheus featured prominently every year. None of it was perfect, but we did our very best to make our rituals as participatory and experiential as we could.

At the end of HPF 2015, I was informed that I was being nominated for chair of the committee. We had had designs on that, of course, but we’d anticipated years of work, and for Aradia to wear the title. By HPF 2016, we had found ourselves stuffed into gaps on the Board of Directors. We proposed and passed a five year plan to get the festival back on track to growth and sustainability, and to work on repairing its reputation as a drunken rape fest by fixing those problems. By 2017, I was chair of the board and she was Vice President.

But things were never quite right. I was on the edge of transitioning to gender neutral pronouns when I came back from college. The clear and abundant transphobia of entrenched leadership made me put that off, something that hurt me far more deeply than I realized at the time. As chair of the board of directors, I got to hear the then-president joke at an informal meeting about covering up the assault of a transwoman because she “had brought it on herself”. When Aradia shut down after outbursts by the malignant narcissists in the group, and I tried to reiterate her points, I was accused (in back channel discussions) of speaking over and abusing her … but no one ever tried to help her.

After 2017, though, the measures of the five year plan that the members had voted to implement were too radical, too real, and we were chased out. In particular, our desire to change security and safety policy so that records were kept of every incident and accusation, so that patterns could be tracked over time and so that the whole of leadership knew what was happening, not just the chair of the security committee, was taken as a personal threat by entrenched leadership. People were furious at our suggestion that everyone come to meetings sober. Strangely threatening was our proposal that, every few years, all staff be required to take a sabbatical year to prevent burn out, and be admitted to the festival for free as attendees. The final straw for me was in mid-2017, when I learned that both our not-for-profit status and insurance had been allowed to lapse. Chirotus had already left, as had half my crew. Aradia stuck on till November. The members of my crew that stayed on past that all repudiated me publicly.

We learned through the grapevine that new rules had been passed to prevent our return. That people believed (or said they did) that we had cursed the president and caused him to fall through a faulty ceiling. That we formed the Lunar Shenanigans Crew for the express purpose of cursing entrenched leadership. (We were not cursing anyone. We were ritualists, we wanted to ritual. The only magic we did about them was some cursebreaking and some “return to sender” work against the Evil Eye. In retrospect, I may have been flinging some Evil Eye of my own [I have an astounding capacity for hate], but I promise you, if Aradia, Chirotus, and I – let alone the three of us plus a half dozen compatriots – had been flinging curses, not a one of them would still have had a job or home.)

We were exhausted. We were hurt. We felt betrayed.

We were literally traumatized by the cult-tactics employed by senior leadership, starting with love bombing and moving immediately to trying to control the information we had available to us and trying to force us to either recruit or cut off our friends who were not a part of the organization, to ostracizing us when we could not be made to submit. I ran into one of the committee heads at the store a few months later and they literally fled from the sight of me.

To this day, I do not trust my judgment about people anymore. I am afraid to go to public events, lest I run into people who I sincerely believe want me dead. Chirotus will no longer set foot on the grounds of Gaea Retreat Center.

And yet, though I kept it to myself, I always wanted to go back. I had attended the festival since I was a literal child. I didn’t want to cede the territory forever. To my surprise, it was Aradia who brought up going back toward the beginning of April. She wanted to go bonfire dancing. We were talking about getting day passes, joking about wearing masks and claiming a vow of silence if we ran into anyone we didn’t like. I was excited to finally be able to bring Kraken to something that had always been such a huge part of my life, and whose shadow darkened the first years of our friendship.

Hearing that it’s ending has hit me hard. I got drunk and went off on twitter last night. I was already in a bad mood when tree-trimming in the neighborhood woke me up and chased me out of the house. (I’m writing this on my laptop in a park, though I’ll have to go home soon to refill my coffee.)

I don’t know who, if anyone, of the people who hurt me are still involved. I know that some of them have left because I know that someone else holds their positions. I know that one of them – the one who betrayed me most personally, and who took my place as head of the sacred experience committee – has moved on to leadership at the organization that maintains the Gaea Retreat, and runs their public rituals as badly as anyone ever has.

I find myself wishing I had the money for a whole weekend. If it’s going out, I want to be there with it. For good and ill, it made me what I am.

Some of my crew are saying “good riddance”. I can’t blame them. None of them ever loved the festival the way that I did. Maybe I should feel that way, too. But I’m not there, yet. I might not ever be.

If the end of Heartland Pagan Festival is what it takes to get those people out of power, fine.

If the end of Heartland Pagan Festival is what it takes to kill the drunken predatory culture that developed around it, fine.

Those things need to go, and I would drive the stake home, myself, if I thought I had the reach.

But, for now, I am just … sad.

Prepare yourself for some waves of Heartland memories on my various socials, and probably here, as well.

In art, sorcerer's workbench, witchcraft

Devotional Image of Persephone

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

A couple weeks ago, the Trance Possession Club subset of my Lunar Shenanigans Crew invoked Persephone. (If I haven’t told any stories about that, oops. But everything you need for this post is contained in that sentence and the next.) I was neither Vessel nor Trance Guide, and the Vessel (who assigns roles for their ritual) hadn’t assigned additional roles, so my only task was to be ready to ask a question of the goddess when my turn came.

I’ve simplified my life a lot since we started this project, and I have really struggled to find questions to ask the gods we call on. In a couple cases, it’s been a matter of not wanting to owe that god anything, but more often – since we’ve gotten away from Hekate – it’s just a matter of having the parts of my life generally governed by those gods largely under control. So, when the question of devotional images came to me, it felt like a real moment of genius.

I asked for two images, but only got one.

The above art is the image I received of Persephone, alone: “life and death joined … mycelium” (the lacuna there being my inability to understand the words of the oracle). I sketched this image on my phone immediately after ritual: a skull crowned in mushrooms with a flowering tree growing out of it.

This image is definitely a tier or two above my existing wax carving skill, but it’s also  too three-dimensional for my usual process, so … I guess I need to learn to be a better wax carver.

The second image I asked for was of Persephone as one of the two goddesses of the Eleusinian mysteries, for those devotees looking to discover and invent new Mysteries in that tradition. To that request, she answered: “I will say only that there was a reason I was known as the Dread Queen.” Which I partially take as, “not for you.” Which is fair, as I have no dream of rediscovering/reinventing the Eleusinian mysteries, myself, just being the personal jeweler of those who do.

It’s a little interesting and embarrassing that I didn’t think to ask that question before now. After all, I’ve wanted to create 21st Century magical images of the planets since I first started fucking with astrological image magic. For some reason, though, that didn’t translate into doing the same for the various gods my crew and I invoke.

In witchcraft

Crash, Burn, and Recovery: a New Lesson Learned from Venus

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

A while ago I had the opportunity to hit a series of elections that included a Saturn election one day and a Venus election the next.

The Saturn election went great. I had visions of spirits the night before, intense pre-verberations and insomnia. I just finished up the talismans the other day, and they are On Point.

The Venus election was a bust. No problem with the election, as far as I can tell, but I was so caught up in other kinds of preparation that I was twenty minutes late turning on my electromelt. I should have just quit then, but I really wanted to hit that election . So I hoped and I prayed and I proceeded as if success was possible. I set up the altar. I burned the incense. I chanted the invocations. I could feel the potent and eager Venusian spirits gathered around me to fill the metal, and I tried, I really tried, to get the metal hot enough to pour and hit that election.

I fucking failed. By the time the metal was finally ready to pour, Venus had crossed the midheaven. Technically Venus was still within orb, and I know that others have had success within those parameters, but … I knew immediately that I hadn’t, at least not that time. Strangely, and possibly of note to other magicians, the spirits hung about in my studio until I poured the metal, even though they did not apparently go into the talismans.

My initial concern was that I’d made curse talismans. So I did extensive divination. I got a bunch of weird mixed messaging, but the gist seemed to be that they weren’t cursed … I just had to decide what to do with them. The only clear and good option was 10 Disks for slagging them, and that was a monetary concern. Also good, but significantly less clear, was the Ace of Cups for “do something else” … except every “something else” I proposed after that initial reading was just as muddy.

Eventually, I just used them as photographic exemplars and kept them as well-consecrated materia for the next Venus election.

In retrospect, the talismans may not have been cursed, but the failed electional ritual definitely did a number on me. I fell into a depression that didn’t really lift until I had melted the failed talismans down (with appropriate thanks and apologies) and cast them into the next cohort of Venus talismans.

That batch of talismans is now fermenting happily on my altar. I have their names and sigils and will be writing them up for sale soon … once I’m done processing the cohort that came after (that will almost certainly be done by the time this post goes live).

I’m still not entirely sure what was going on with that divination, or with the depression. I don’t know if it would have gotten better faster if I’d melted the miscast talismans down sooner, of if I had done some more elaborate propitiation ritual. Or maybe I had just pushed myself too hard that week and would have crashed, after, even if the ritual had been a shining success.

But I want to share this story for the benefit of other astromages, so if you all experience something similar, they know you’re not alone.

In art, sorcerer's workbench

From the Sorcerer’s Workbench: Anvil of Hephaestus Devotional Pendant

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

Behold the second of April’s additions to the Sorcerer’s Workbench: a pendant for devotees of Hephaistos, the Greek god of fire, the forge, metalwork of all kinds, and the broad portfolio “craft” which overlaps with the territory of the goddess Athena.

With Dionysos and Zeus out of the way, Hephaistos was the obvious next choice for Olympian devotional talismans. I have a miniature anvil which has served as an altar to him and which has lived on my workbench since it was first given to me by a lover in 2006. His image hangs over my workshop. Those hours not devoted to the work of the muses are devoted to the works of fire and hammers and tongs.

As such, I didn’t need to do much research for this image. I chose to depict a blacksmith’s tools rather than a jeweler’s because they will be more universally recognizable: anvil and hammer and tongs. And I included the modern elemental triangle of fire, partially to fill that negative space and partly because Hephaistus rules primal elemental fire, not just its use in art and artifice.

The detail didn’t come out in the metal quite as perfectly as I might have liked, so I may redo the design some day, but I’m still very pleased with it, overall.

Our society, like that of ancient Greece, habitually and systemically overlooks the skilled craftsfolx who design and make the things we use every day, and the gods who rule over those works. This image gives me, and others like me, a piece of jewelry with which to declare our devotion to the life of fire and metal, craft and artifice, and this fiery god who rules it.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1443238336/anvil-of-hephaistos-devotional-pendant

In art, sorcerer's workbench

From the Sorcerer’s Workbench: Lightning of Zeus Devotional Pendant

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

The second new design appearing at the Sorcerer’s Workbench this month: behold the Lightning of Zeus.

I considered several gods as the second Olympian in my line of devotional imagery: Hephaestos, Hera, and Athena were all toward the top of my list. I chose Zeus for three reasons. Firstly, he’s the king of the gods, and including him second after Dionysus is potentially problematic in the first place. Second, of the Olympians, he is the one I have the least personal connection to and therefore represents the greatest inspirational challenge. And, third, he has the benefit of a clear and obvious icon: the lightning.

As with my other devotional images so far, my brainstorming for this devotional image of Zeus took me back to some Attic vase-painting. The image below, borrowed from theoi.com and dating to the 5th century BCE, was particularly inspirational.

I love the way the lightning looks like a dagger from a fantasy roleplaying game, and something about it reminds me of a phurba (though that’s almost certainly just an artist-brain shape-association thing, not a real cross-cultural connection).

Anyone looking at this can tell that the wouldn’t have been possible without multiple symmetry tools. Despite that, it was still two solid hours of fussing from initial inspiration to the final product you see above. Then, having done up the design, I showed it to a friend who *does* have a personal connection with Zeus.

Above and beyond the pure artistic joy of sharing with friends, I wanted to make sure the vibes weren’t off. Vibe check came back double-plus good, so I put it into production. Then things got crazy with the holidays, and the depression, and here we are in April, finally putting the design out into the world.

Ultimately, I am very pleased with my design, and with how that design translated into the metal. I hope that you are, too, and find it worthy for your altar or as a gift for your Zeus-worshipping friends.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1457443807/lightning-of-zeus-devotional-pendant

Although I have so far only cast exemplars in brass and bronze pendant-shapes, these are available in all the metals I usually work in, and as either coins or rosary pieces.

In art, witchcraft

First Vision of the Sabbat Fires

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

At the last Full Moon, my ritual crew and I began dabbling in Sabbatic Craft.

We’ve been floundering a little bit, since we reached the end of our year of Drawing Down the Moon. We have a handful of annual rituals that have kept us going – Dionysiac Beltane and Samhain, Her Sacred Fires, our August Ursa Major ritual – but my partner and I have struggled to fill the spaces.

At the last Moon, I pitched a handful of suggestions, one of which was visionary work. One of our members suggested a trip to the Sabbat Fires, specifically. Everyone else thought sounded good. My only objection was that I didn’t know the way. Alvianna was happy to take the lead.

The ritual Alvianna led us in had four phases: a crossroads-themed opening, idiosyncratic to her own work, with features that she had brought to other rituals we had done together; a visionary journey into and through the Wild to the bonfire where we met the Witchfather and danced with him; an ecstatic dance in our material ritual space, accompanied by feasting; and the journey back to reality.

My visionary experience was more physically intense than any I’ve had in quite some time. There were some entheogens involved, but while I do broadly advocate the use of such magical rocket fuel, the relative intensity of my experience is as much a consequence of my long lapse of practice than a statement on the relative merits of drugs versus sobriety in trance.

We each had our own experiences with the Witchfather. For my own part, I hesitate to say more than that, and thus feel doubly uncomfortable revealing what anyone else described after the circle. I know that we all made offerings of one sort or another, and that my offering was accepted graciously. I tried to find my compatriots around the fire. I could see them, distantly, but could never catch up to them.

What I will say is that, for me, it was a clear and positive of first contact. While I have been slow to start, I have had clear signs and messages over the last year both that I need to resume my visionary practice, broadly speaking, and to look into Sabbatic Craft. This, I think – particularly following the visionary preparations I did for last month’s Saturn talismans (which will get their own post soon) – certainly qualifies.

I will say, also, that my contact with the Witchfather was very, very clear. So clear, in fact, that I was compelled to create an image based on it.

The background is painted in watercolor, which is not my best medium. It’s really not intended for the degree of saturation that I always go for. But I think that, this time, I made it work. The figure of the Witchfather, himself is painted in black India ink. I have a scan that I took of the background before I painted him, and I might try to redo this digitally, where I will have second chances with the proportions of the figure. Or I may not.

What I will absolutely do is return to the Witchfather and his Sabbat fires.

In Uncategorized

Invoking al-Thurayya: My First Lunar Mansion Talisman

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

It’s been a few months since I’ve last been in a position – either personally or astrologically – to take advantage of an astrological election. I regret the lost opportunities, but so it goes. My latest talismanic experiment was for me alone: al-Thurayya, the Third Lunar Mansion, ruled by Annuncia.

As always, I got my election from Nina Gryphon. I’ve looked at Lunar Mansion elections before, but the moon is finicky – she moves fast enough, and her position varies more from location to location. But the election Nina found for LA was available in KC, too, and I felt … strongly drawn to the attempt.

The image of al-Thurayya, according to Picatrix, is a seated woman with her right hand raised over her head. According to the Picatrix (Book 1,Chapter 4, and Book 4, Chapter 9), it is for the acquisition of good things, safe travel (especially by sea), all works of fire, and to cause love between man and wife. These are all things I want and need, and as an added bonus, the Picatrix speciffically calls for the image to be made as a ring but does not mention any stones. (Book 4, Chapter 9)

I began sketches almost immediately:

I considered ordering a copper plate for my mold positive – I had both the time and money – but decided that it would be better if I hand-carved the wax. So, on several Mondays of January, during the hours of the Moon, I carved a square-topped ring from wax. I’ve carved a portait on that scale before, but never a whole body. To my delight I was able to create a crude but recognizable figure. (The photo makes it look larger than it is, but the figure is actually barely half an inch tall.)

As I carved the wax, I could feel the spirit that would ultimately come to inhabit it. The spirit didn’t speak to me, but it did provide a sense of “hot” or “cold” as I worked to differentiate design elements, flaws, and happy accidents. I had intended to include the seven stars of the Pleiades on the sides, but that detail got lost in the passion of the work.

In the weeks leading up to the election, the spirit – with the aid of my familiars – also provided details and advise on the ritual during my daily offerings. The election would be in the afternoon, but I was to throw the cast in the morning so that I could finish the ring in time to suffumigate it as the Picatrix described: wrapped in cloth. I was also instructed to make a box for the ring, also bearing the image of al-Thurayya.

This timing turned out to be absolutely critical, because the cast did not go as perfectly as I would have liked – some fuckery in the back of the shank – but I was able to do the necessary repairs while the ring was still just jewelry.

With the ring completed to my satisfaction, I took it up from my studio to my altar room, where I spent the last hour before the election mixing the aromatic oils and mastic liquor I would be offering and preparing the box I had been told to make.

When the window of the election opened, I began my ritual: making offerings of fire and liqour and aromatic oils. I read the Orphic Hymns to the Moon and to the stars. I anointed the ring with oil and called on Annuncia, the angel of al-Thurayya, to imbue the ring and fulfill the wishes that I inscribed on the paper image with blacklight ink and gold glitter and ended with the Picatrix’ invocation: “You, Annuncia, make it so.”

I felt Annunica. I felt their power descend into the ring.

This election was just at the end of January, and Nina Gryphon recommends creating your Lunar Mansion talismans in one ritual, then waiting until the moon comes back to that mansion before asking anything of the spirit, but I began to feel the effects of the spirit almost immediately. Not two days later, I was able to successfully throw the final bronze cast for my almost-due wholesale order, producing a quality of bronze talisman that I had not seen in a year.

In the weeks since, the spirit of the ring has given me its name. It has settled in among my other familiar spirits very comfortably. It has also provided some guidance as I begin designing the al-Thurayya ring that I will eventually be offering at the Sorcerer’s Workbench.

I’m very excited to begin working with this spirit in earnest when the Moon comes back to al-Thurayya next week.

In witchcraft

Further Visions of Baphomet

Author Satyr MagosPosted on

For the past couple years, my personal circle and I have been doing escalating experiments in trance possession. We started with a year of Drawing Down the Moon, each of us taking a turn as vessel for the Moon at our full moon esbats. The following year, a handful of us stepped out to do some academic study and then continue the experiment with different divinities. We each took a turn as vessel for Hekate – a goddess that we had all worked with fairly intensely, by that point – and then chose a patron deity to invoke in order to deepen our practice. This past weekend was my turn for round two, and I was possessed by Baphomet.

Circumstances were less than ideal. I have only just begun to feel fully recovered from my round with covid. Between lingering exhaustion and brain fog, and the wholesale order of doom (have i talked about that? I have a big order on my bench that is taking me three times as long as it should have), and my struggle to add anything to my existing schedule of practice (a struggle which deserves, and will get, its own post), I was not able to prepare myself as thoroughly as I would have liked. That morning’s daily divination was far from auspicious.

Nonetheless, I prepared myself as best as I could. Mostly, I rested. I did manage to complete the headdress that I had felt called to make. I gathered the bits and pieces of accoutrement that had come to me in various morning prayers, and went out and got a new bottle of absinthe when I discovered that I had run out at home. At our friends house where the ritual was to be performed, I sequestered myself for about half an hour, anointing myself with flying oil and taking a libation of absinthe, and readying myself psychologically to be filled by the god.

For the sake of science, we have a format: a ritual with minor variations for each god and vessel, but I think that I could have walked out possessed without any need for that. The god was there, ready and waiting, before I was even called from my sequestration. To invoke the god, we used a prayer based on PJ Carrol’s Mass of Chaos (Liber Null and Psychonaut, 1989, pp.130-132). To induce me as vessel, we used a guided meditation based on Janet Farrar and Gavin Bone’s Lifting the Veil (published 2016, reads like 1993). Our ritual complete, I donned the headdress and let the god move through me.

I am … ambivalent about the experience. The ritual was a success. Baphomet appeared and spoke through me. In preparation and as oracle, I believe that I had legitimate insights into the nature of the god. I believe that the answers I gave, which I can no longer remember, were divinely inspired. But I was too present, too conscious. In particular, my inner critic was too present: providing constant commentary on my own performance as oracle. I know that there were messages that I could have conveyed if I had just been able to step a little further out of the way.

I do remember some of what I said, some of what I learned. I have spoken before about my visions of Baphomet as a tripartite divinity: Divine Androgyne, White Lady, Man in Black. This weekend’s experience revealed each of those parts as tripartite in its own right, though the nature of those divisions is yet unclear to me. The vision emphasized Baphomet’s infinite and ever-changing nature: chaos in both the creative and destructive senses; simultaneously not-yet-made and complete/perfected. The light by which truth is revealed.

They experience left me tired and somewhat foggy. Despite that, I wasn’t able to sleep until late that night. If I had any significant dreams, I did not remember them on waking.