One of the ways I search for inspiration (and one of the ways I try to market my jewelry) is by producing a handful of annual lines. I dropped my first Pride Line in 2022, my first Samhain line last autumn, and this year I’m presenting my inaugural Beltane Line: seven (7) pieces that bring a vigorous and vital vibe that I hope you all will enjoy.
As part of this line, I am also introducing the first several pieces of what I intend to be a recurring series across seasons. These pieces, which I am calling Wood Wights, are mask-like figures that can be worn as “simple” jewelry or serve as the vessels for magical servitors or even familiar spirits. These mask-like images are meant to represent and resemble forest spirits, and would make ideal vessels for magical servitors or familiar spirits. Although some themes may be repeated – this year’s “forest king” and “forest guardian”, for example, are very likely to see future iterations – no two will bear more than a passing resemblance to one another.
Fascinus no.1 – Pendant or Earring(s)
The fascinus is an ancient apotropaic symbol dating back at least as far as ancient Rome, used as magical protection against disease and the evil eye. Yes, it is a penis with wings.
This fascinus, visually two-dimensional with its wings extending outward, was designed to be worn as earrings, either singly or in pairs, but is also available as a pendant.
This fascinus is very three-dimentional, with the wings rising high above the cock & balls, and was designed to be worn as a pendant or as a bracelet charm, but is also available as an earring or pair of earrings.
A small signet ring featuring an image of a coiled snake with a beard, an ancient Greek image associated with the Agathos Daimon, sometimes contracted to Agathodaimon, a power associated with the health and prosperity of the individual and their household. “Agathos Daimon” translates literally as “good spirit” and may also be understood as “good fortune”.
The specific image was inspired by one found on an ancient coin that I found.
Sterling silver pendant made in the image of a wooden mask with antlers. This image is based on my own visionary experiences of the Witchfather and the Sabbat.
Mask is an inch tall with the antlers bringing the piece to nearly two inches. The pendant has a pair of hidden bails behind the mask.
Originally, I had intended to mold this and make it a recurring design. Unfortunately, now that I’ve cast it up, I don’t think I can get a good mold of it. So this one will be unique, and I’ll make a new Witchfather mask with slightly different geometry at some point in the future. I will be selling this one for $255
Wood Wight no. 1 – Forest King Pend
A tall and noble face like tree bark with staring eyes and crown-like points. This shibuichi pendant has two pairs of hidden bails, ideal for wearing on either a thin chain or for stringing onto a more elaborate necklace. It is almost two inches tall and more than a quarter inch deep.
With a strong shield-like shape and an uncanny three-eyed face, this wood wight is called Forest Guardian. It has a hidden bail suitable for a chain up to 3mm and stands about an inch tall.
Last year was a whirlwind escalation of my magical practice. There were also a handful of stumbling blocks. Some of it makes for good stories. Some of it does not. Ultimately, I collapsed about mid-October. That, combined with a second covid infection at the beginning of November and the worst Christmas depression that I can immediately recall, and a few sticks in the spokes of my mundane life, culminated in the longest magically fallow period I’ve experienced in some years.
I have, except for my trip to New Orleans, maintained my streak of daily offerings. I have not, however, managed to maintain my tarot practice, my journalling, my work with the Black Book, or the rituals I had picked up from Six Ways. I’ve done a bit of money-magic, trying to get the gods on my side against this shit economy; the utilities haven’t been shut off, so I’m counting those as successful … but only barely. What divination I have done has all come out nonsense. Where, last summer, the gods and my familiar spirits were present to the point of overwhelming, now I can barely sense them at all.
It would be overly dramatic to say that I’m bottoming out. It would also be untrue: I have definitely fallen farther, before. I have had more and crueler hands raised against me. But in this moment, I can’t think of better words to describe the feeling.
This is, of course, by no means the first time my magical practice has fallen off the rails. I have been here, and done this. I know what I need to do.
I need to take a real rest. Dial back my magical ambitions. Dial back my daily ritual to the barest of bones; I may or may not need to let it lapse, completely.
I need to cleanse and purify. Spiritual baths. Banishing rituals. Rites to avert the evil eye. Fumigate the house. Fumigate the yard. Re-assert my claim to the property. Take steps to reinvigorate my protective wards and spirits.
After that, come some choices.
Usually, when I come to a point like this, I find it helpful to do some kind of back-to-basics program. My current three-and-a-half-year streak of daily ritual began with just such a move: thirty days of sigils with concrete goals that metamorphed into work with my familiar spirits and grew into a much larger and more complicated daily practice. If I am to go back to basics, again – and I think that I am, in some sense or another – what is that going to look like, this time?
Beyond that, I have a number of magical projects that I got somewhere north of knee-deep into before hitting a wall. I have, in fact, more than I can reasonably continue with at the same time.
My work with the Hekataeon stalled out again while I was gathering materials for the next series of rites. While I have the goddess’ permission to continue, it seems that it may not be what I really want. Do I continue? If so, how? If not, what then?
My work with my idiosyncratic pantheon produced a handful of rites that I am collectively calling the Satyr’s Grammar. I have shared several of those here. It has been made clear to me that I should perform some (or all) of the rites I have already recieved before I can expect to be shown more.
I have half the parts needed to assemble an altar to the nine muses that I saw in a vision. When and where and how will I complete that work?
I have made astrological images a cornerstone of my magical jewelry business, but I feel like I have reached a point of diminishing returns when it comes to incorporating astrological images and timing into my own magical practice. If I am to continue my experiments in astrological magic, what is the best way to make that work both for me and my customers?
I don’t currently have the answers to any of these questions. As I write this, I am making frantic last-minute preparations for Paganicon, including final edits on the KC Sorcerous Arts Collective’s ritual. By the time this post goes live on the Obsidian Dream Blog, we will be winding down the convention and preparing to return home. Only after that, will I have real time to sort out my own shit.
The magical life is not a choice I made, any more than i chose to be a writer. It’s who I am as a person. The choices I have to make are “how” and “when” and “where” and “why”.
Two things I know for certain: I will continue to do magic, and I will continue to write about it.
I hope you all continue to come along for the ride.
In the golden age of the pagan blogosphere, sharing images of personal altars and details of personal practices were staples of the genre. In the decade or so since, though, these things seem to have fallen out of fashion. And yet I persist. Why?
Why am I so open and personal in this blog and on my social media? Why do I share altar photos? Why do I share personal devotional artwork? Why do I talk about my daily tarot readings, and my struggles to believe in any goodness in any god? Aren’t I trying to establish my credentials as a Wize Mystic and Professional Wizard? Aren’t I trying to sell jewelry? Aren’t I working my way up to selling classes and apprenticeships?
Yes. Yes, I am.
I think it’s worth noting, first and foremost, that these things haven’t actually fallen so far out of fashion as it might first appear. No, those few of us who continue to maintain longform writing platforms don’t seem to include so much of that content “on main” (to use the tumblr and twitter phrase), but many do continue to do so on their social media pages. On Instagram, it can be your entire brand.
I post about my personal daily practice – my offerings and my tarot readings and the visions and strange thoughts that sometimes accompany them – partly for the sake of having something to say. I do this for a living, now. The Great and Terrible Algorithm demands a steady stream of content. And the altars and cards that accompany my morning ritual are much more interesting than the coffee at the heart of it, or whatever carbohydrate disaster I make myself for breakfast, after.
But I also do it because it is the place where I am the least authoritative. Every day is a struggle to get up, to remember my dreams long enough to write them down. Every day is a struggle to stand before my gods, step past the anti-theism that partly appears to be a part of my nature and partly appears to be the clearest manifestation of the religious trauma I bring forward from my upbringing in Christofascist Amerikkka. (This anti-theism will get a post [or series of posts] of its own, as soon as I can come up with something more articulate than screaming-possum-aaaaaa.jpg) Every day is a struggle to lay out my cards, to study their meanings writ large, and come up with an interpretation that makes sense on the scale of “one day only” and which makes sense in context of the day that I have planned.
I am a competent witch and magician. I am a professional-grade artist and sorcerer. I am a veritable library of magical knowledge that I will never find time to put into use. But, contrary to what some influencer-esque personalities would generally have you believe, “competent” and “professional” are not “all-knowing” or “unerring”. At this point in my life and my work, spirits almost always come when I call. But that’s still only “almost always”, and it doesn’t mean that I always understand what the spirits are trying to tell me, or that they even often tell me what I want to hear.
I like telling stories of my successes as much as anybody else. But success stories don’t always sound like it. Every astrological image I make that resonates with the people who see it is a magical success. Every jewelry design that began with a vision is a story of magical success. Every piece of art that I sell is a story of my artistic and magical success. Every collection of astrological talismans that I list for sale is not just one but a whole collection of magical success stories. Shit, every day that my right-wing neighbors don’t burn down my rainbow-flag-waving house or report me to the city because I haven’t gotten to my lawn, yet, is a story of the successful effects of my protection magic.
At the same time, telling stories only of my successes feels dishonest, disingenuous. All of my peers now that we all struggle with some parts of our practice. I, for one, think less of any witch or magician who doesn’t speak as openly about their struggles as their successes. I mean, if you never fail, were you really trying that hard?
So I talk about the daily struggles to maintain my streak of daily offerings. I talk about my struggles to do divination for myself. I talk about the magical rituals that went wrong. I talk about my struggles to trust, let alone honor, the divine.
In doing so, I hope to be an inspiration to my peers, and to those who were in the position that I was in five or ten or fifteen or twenty years ago: full of inborn talent and researched facts, and desperately unable to figure out how to combine those two things into actual magic. Struggling to step up and put my skills and talents to use for the betterment of my community. At a loss as to how to take the things I’d seen, and the things I’d done, and double-down on them in a way that produced new revelations.
I also hope to model a different kind of expertise. Social media so often wants us to be self-proclaimed experts and elders, to claim titles and honors which may or may not be rightfully ours, to refuse to engage with material that we are still learning or struggling with, to treat everyone we meet as a potential student or customer (or, worse, a potential mark), all in the name of branding. Hot takes get more clicks than nuanced discussion. Wild accusations will always go farther than reasoned responses.
I can’t fight the algorithm, or the demons of human nature that it appeals to. All I can do is … well, this. Talk about the work. And talk about myself. And talk about my work as openly and honestly as possible. To do the artist’s work of being vulnerable in public. And to do the mystic’s work of travelling into the darkness and coming back with shining fragments of Mystery to share.
If you want to get my posts a week before everyone else, to see the magical experiments that I don’t share with the public, to get first dibs on my elected talismans and fine art jewelry, or just want to support my work, you can do so through patreon. If you’d like to make a one-time donation, or don’t want to deal with all the non-occult content I post on patreon, I also have a ko-fi.
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.
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.
I think it was in April that I started playing around with Horned God imagery. It’s such an iconic part of modern neo-Pagan witchcraft, and yet … I’ve always avoided it. (This, of course, has everything to do with my deeply fucked relationship with masculinity.) In all honesty, I don’t really know what kicked off the research and fascination.
It did not take me long to learn that the iconic Wiccan and Pagan image of the Horned God is not widely attested. In fact, the best known image – the horned man with a snake in one hand and a torc in the other – comes from just one place: the famous Gundestrup Cauldron. That figure – one of dozens of images on the cauldron – is utterly unique in the historical record, and yet it has gone on to inspire so very very much modern theology.
Detail of the original Gundestrup Cauldron
Looking at the original figure, three things really stood out at me. The first, obviously, was the mask-like face. The second was that the figure is clearly clothed. And the third is that, while the animals that surround him all have clearly articulated joints – knees and elbows and wrists and ankles – the human figure is much less naturalistically stylized.
The mask-like face fits so perfectly with my own praxis and theology that I just fucking ran with it and carved a literal mask that sits on top of the face of my figure. When I do the mixed-media version for round three (and maybe four), the mask will be in the alternate metal and be bound (possibly cast, possibly soldered) to the face.
The clothing – a tunic and perhaps leggings – is almost antithetical to is modern counterparts. I have never been initiated as a Wiccan, but my experiences with those who have, and with their iconography, leads me to understand that the Horned God’s nudity is as theologically significant as his tumescence. I left him modestly undetailed for my stock pendant design, but for the more elaborate devotional image I made him ithyphallic, and gave him tattoos based on the texture seen on the garment of the original cauldron image.
The final point – his limbs – gave me real pause. Looking at the surrounding animals, clearly the artist had the skill to give him more naturalistic joints if they so desired. The legs might have been a stylistic concession – as an illustrator, I know well how hard it is to draw a cross-legged figure, and doing it in repousse can only have been a nightmare. But the arms? That shit looks like 1920s “rubber hose” style animation and is very clearly a decision that the artist made. Which begs the question: was it significant?
Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that, while there almost certainly was symbolic significance to the noodly arms, I had no idea what it was. Further, it played against my strengths as an artist. So I ultimately decided to carve more naturalistic limbs.
Overall, the piece went beautifully from a technical level. The carving was much easier than I anticipated. The cast turned out very very well. The original torc didn’t cast, so I drilled through his hand and made one from sterling silver wire (next time I’ll do a double-wire twist). And – as those of you who follow me on other social media may recall – there was a giant hole where his left ass cheek was supposed to be, so I filled that with bronze casting grain and sterling silver wire. (That repair is much more visible in the above photo than it is in person.)
It took me a couple tries to get the polish and patina right. Photographing it was an even greater challenge, and I may make further attempts at that. (Actually, I absolutely will: this piece will feature prominently in my next jewelry and witchcraft photoshoot.)
In the end, though, I am extremely pleased with this figure, and am looking forward to starting the second in the next month or two.
It is available for sale in my Etsy store shortly after my next photoshoot.
At the last full moon, my ritual crew and I joined Sorita d’Este’s Rite of Her Sacred Fires. It was our fourth round – 2018, ’19, ’21, and now ’22 – and the fifth anniversary of the point where, at least for me, we crossed the line from a working group that (singly and together) happened to do a more-than-average amount of Hekate-oriented rituals into what I now jokingly call the Accidental Hekate Cult. Having done the ritual three times before, all as-written, we could not help but give it the Lunar Shenanigans treatment: elaborating on and escalating the ritual, taking a relatively short and to-the-point ritual intended for a solitary practitioner and turning it into something that six people could do collaboratively.
We started by adding an opening purification of self and space, drawing on elements of our various syncretic practices and the opening rites of the Hekataeon. We added a protection spell written by one of our members. We included an invocation of Hestia. We added a space for each participant to pour offerings, and to prophesy or speak as called, and a divination to confirm that our offerings were both worthy and sufficient. And then we divided up the ritual so that everyone had a key part in the overall ritual.
Alvianna consecrated the candles in earth and water the night before. Someone else in the crew made special incense for offerings. I built the altar while cleaning the house for company. We had a lovely dinner and then transitioned quickly to ritual.
It all came together beautifully. Our offerings were accepted, and then we went outside together to look at the eclipse. As a personal bonus, though I did have a section, I was not *in charge* of anything.
We may make further changes – that’s who we are as people – but we’re definitely keeping the changes we’ve made so far.
And yet, for all that …
I think everyone else got more out of it than I did.
That disconnect is why it’s taken so long for me to post this.
I am still, as I’ve spoken about before, more sorcerer than priest. I work with gods and spirits far more than I worship them, and the Rite of Her Sacred Fires is more devotional than magical, more theurgy than thaumaturgy. Religion, in any conventional sense of the term, remains strange and uncomfortable to me. It’s not like ancestor work – no matter how many people I otherwise respect advocate for it, they will ever convince me that white people can ethically do anything with ancestors other than bind them, and the very subject makes me physically ill – but it is deeply alien.
I know when a magical or ecstatic ritual is successful – I know that feeling intimately. But devotional ritual? We had divination, this time, to confirm that for me. And I will say that I felt the presence of the goddess. But the very impulse of worship continues to make me uncomfortable.
Why am I even doing it, you ask? I don’t entirely know. Each of the various devotional practices that I have taken up in the last five years have made sense in the moment. Each has been a natural and obvious outgrowth of the work I had done up to that point.
But together, in aggregate? I’ve reached a point where I barely recognize my own life. I remain deeply hostile to anyone practicing a mainstream religion, or who is willing to submit to a god-king. There are powers in the universe that we can work with, but those are edge cases. Like the mortal parts of the world, the majority of the supernatural and spiritual realms of the cosmos are indifferent to or hostile to human life.
You know what, I take it back. Just thinking about religiosity does make me angry.
And yet, here I am? Twenty-two months into daily devotional work, mostly centered on my familiar spirits, but increasingly encompassing a handful of gods. Five years into an increasingly devotional Hekate practice wherein she is the de facto patron of my jewelry business (I sell more Hekate devotional jewelry than everything else combined). Ten years into my devotion to Dionysus, the only god who has ever felt more like home than a threat or a challenge.
When I’m just doing it, everything’s fine. Maybe I’m a little bemused. But the harder I think about it, the weirder and more uncomfortable it gets.
Three weeks out from this latest encounter, I am still struggling to write this, to reconcile my feelings around this. What does it mean, what does it cost, to offer devotion and sacrifice to a god?
My Christian upbringing teaches me that devotion is submission and slavery, not just to the god but to their worldly representatives – priests and missionaries. Large parts of the neo-Pagan movement exist ostensibly to cut out those intermediaries. But, frankly, so was the entire Protestant movement, especially in the US, and all that did was establish smaller and more absolute fiefdoms for charismatic priests. And sometimes Paganism feels like it’s just reproducing US Protestantism, just with different questionable fashion choices. But I know that it doesn’t have to be that way.
So, I continue the work to the best of my ability. And I wait. and I wonder.
Behhold, I am a Black Goat’s Bride! Behold, I am a wife! Behold, I bear a breast to feed The one whose tongue’s a knife! Behold, I bear a breast that bleeds The very stuff of life! Take me, Dionysus! Make me the Black Goat wife!
Of all the gods I honor, the one with whom I have a relationship that most resembles “religion” is Dionysus. I make and drink wine in his name. I study his lore, both ancient and modern, and I study the history of his worship. I ask nothing of him except that which is his nature to offer: the ecstasy of wine and mystery, freedom from bonds and oppression, healing from the wounds of madness, to come when I call, and to move through me into others. Perhaps, some day, I will scribe my own golden tablet with which to be burried.
Through the years, the relationship has been more and less regular, more and less formal, more and less intense. I was not, as I have said before, raised with anything that could legitimately be considered religion, just the cultural malaise of compulsory Christianity – much like and interwoven with compulsory heterosexuality – which is to say, a form of rigid social and thought control, but without meaningful ritual or any attempt to connect to divinity. So “worship” in any sense of the term has always been fraught and confusing, at best, and, at worst, alien and threatening. This has always been compounded by the fact that so many of the Dionysiacs I have known in person, especially early in my experience of Paganism, are less devoted mystics and more illiterate alchololics. So I have found my way in the darkness, more by luck than skill, and I remain ever insecure in that first, formative devotion.
I first encountered the Black Goat Bride ritual at Paganicon, 2018. It was led by Jack Grayle, now of Hekataeon fame, then just an exceptionally charismatic ritualist who managed to take seventy-odd people in a hotel ball room down to the underworld, where we retrieved a dead god and returned, with little more than the sound of his voice and a consecrated goat skull. It was, hands down, the best public ritual my partner and I had ever participated in, possibly including the best we had ever led. In the weeks after the festival, I wrote to Jack and asked for a copy of the script, so that we could introduce it to our working group.
The ritual has several stages. It begins with an invocation of Hekate, who will lead the initiates to the underworld where they will find the corpse of Dionysos. The next phase is a procession to the underworld, and the casket where the goat skull symbolizing the body of Dionysus awaits. The ritualists then mourn the death of Dionysus – he dies in several myths, most famously as a child dismembered by the giants, and every time grapes are crushed into wine (I apologize that I can’t find an easy-read citation for either of those) – and wail their grief out loud. Then an invocation is performed, which was very clearly inspired by a great deal of work with the Greek Magical Papyri, though I can’t point to any specific ritual. The god rises, the goat skull is freed from its casket, and the ritualists rejoice and dance – laughing and howling and ululating. When they have worked themselves into a frenzy, the dance ends and recite the chant at the top of this post while the goat skull is passed around the circle like a suckling babe. When all have fed the god, it is placed upon the altar and participants may worship individually at the altar, and if one is moved to act as oracle, they may do so.
It took us longer than it should have to source a skull and have money at the same time, and then the plague came, and it worked out that we were not able to stage the ritual for our crew until Beltane 2021. I led the ritual. My compatriots danced and cried around me. We raised Dionysus from the dead, and danced in his honor. My partner, Aradia, took the role of oracle. And, when it was done, I was possessed by the god for the first time in my fifteen-odd-years of worship. The difference was obvious to everyone. I moved differently. I talked differently. I could not participate in basic things like making dinner. And when we had all eaten, I became contagious: spreading the presence of the god to each of my compatriots as they worked up the courage to meet my eyes. And then, eventually, the god left me and I collapsed.
I thought about writing this up, then, but …. other things happened, and the writing didn’t.
We performed the ritual again at Samhain. That night, my partner Aradia led and one of our compatriots (for whom, if I have ever had a clever pseudonym, I have forgotten it) played the oracle. That night we were camped in a different location, and there was some asshole driving laps around our camp site. Perhaps because of the outside interference, perhaps because of the season, the mourning seemed to be the focus of the ritual, and rather than the revelry. The mood afterward was subdued. I had a quiet meltdown, and went to bed before everyone else.
I thought about writing up the ritual again, but the words stuck in my throat – so to speak – and the first paragraph of this post lingered in my drafts for six months.
We performed the ritual again this Beltane. Alvianna took point leading the ritual, and Kraken sat as oracle. Building on our experiences from previous years, and because Alvianna in particular likes exceptionally long rituals, she added two preparatory sections to the overall ritual – a Hermes Crossroads rite, and the Sensibus rite from the Hekataeon (pp.36-41 of the first edition).
I have been … feeling and seeing signs that there are big changes coming in my life, and that I need to make big changes to my practice. I had hoped that I might have some experience this weekend that might clarify that sense, even point me in a direction. Leading into the Dionysus ritual, I was feeling powerful and connected and ready to call the god and revel in his presence and perhaps have a vision. But when it came time to mourn, I could not make a sound. I felt the pain and the grief, but I could not make myself cry. All the built up power and impending ecstasy … just fell away. I found a little bit of it back as the ritual continued. But when the revel ended, and everyone else was yipping and howling an ululating … once more my voice caught in my throat, and I was stuck. I ended the ritual feeling lost and confused.
Kneeling at the altar after the ritual, I could feel the god – present but aloof. I can’t put into words what I asked, or what was answered. Only that, as I knelt there, I felt the presence of not just the god, but his panther, who circled and then came up behind me, a comforting weight.
Afterward, though, the sky was as clear and beautiful as the last year, and the Great Bear constellation hung in the sky directly over our camp, framed by the trees. Given my experiences with the Great Bear on my 2019 desert road trip with Aradia, and the Great Bear rituals that our crew have done since, I was inclined to take that as a powerfully good omen. Which I needed, because the answers I got from the oracle were not as clear or helpful as I hoped they would be.
The ritual did not go as well for me, personally, as it has in the past. I am still glad that we did it, and that everyone else in the Lunar Shenanigans crew is as excited to include it in our small but slowly growing ritual calendar. Dionysus calls to me. He has called to me, probably, since before I first decided that I was willing to fuck with gods. This ritual speaks to me. I like that this ritual is so somatic, so all-in. I like that it has room for drunken revelry, but that it speaks first to the uncanny, disturbing, cthonic aspects of Dionysus and his worship. You cannot suckle a goat skull at your breast and pretend that what you’re doing is just like church.
For those curious, the goat skull is back in its place on my public altar, draped in its shroud. When I am keeping up with my own lunar practice (distinct from the work I do with the Lunar Shenanigans pseudocoven), it gets a candle and a wine offering at the full and dark moon. Otherwise it waits patiently for its next resurrection.
For myself, I am back in the world, sitting with a mystic’s visions – both my own and the oracle’s – and with this month’s divination, New Moon and new month uncomfortably simultaneous, and try to see the road forward. Whatever’s coming, it’s weirder than what came before.
And I am the Black Goat’s bride.
If Jack Grayle has published the full text of this ritual anywhere, I am not aware of it. I hope that he does, some day. I do not have permission to share it. If you want the full text, I encourage you to reach out to him from his website.
Most of my talismans are unconsecrated: empty vessels waiting for you to fill them with power and/or a spirit. There are numerous traditions and schools of thought on how to perform that enchantment (even the word “consecrated” is up for debate), and I’m writing some guides for that as we speak.
In addition to those empty vessels, I offer a small selection of talismans that I have cast and consecrated at opportune astrological moments. I have made initial contact with the spirits that now dwell within them and acquired a name and sigil, which I pass on to the client, but I can’t do all the work. You – the hypothetical you who is both reading this post and has purchased one of my consecrated talismans – must still introduce yourself to the spirit, and come to some sort of arrangement.
If you have a lot of experience with spirit work, or a well-developed tradition into which you’ve been initiated or from which you’re working, this guide will not be necessary for you. You will either have your traditional rites to fall back on, or be able to communicate with the talisman spirit without my guidance or input.
This guide is for solitary and intermediate practitioners for whom a roadmap is at least helpful. If your tradition covers some of this territory (anyone with a background in eclectic Wicca, for example, has a tried and true circle-casting procedure), feel free to substitute that. However you proceed, I recommend writing out an outline and doing some basic divination to confirm that that ritual at that time is the way to go.
You will only need to perform this ritual once, to make initial contact. Afterward, the talisman spirit will tell you what it needs. My personal talismans all wanted a box to live in while they weren’t being worn or carried. They all also eventually promoted themselves to familiar spirits, at which point they were added to my spirit altar and now receive daily offerings and weekly consultations. Yours may not be so intimate or demanding.
Supplies
You will need:
A flat surface upon which to lay or draw your triangle of conjuration. If you do not have one you already prefer, I have included my own, based on the Trithemius circle used by Frater Rufus Opus. If you have a mirror or crystal that you use for spirit work, place it in the center of the triangle.
Consecrated incense for your temple space. I use a stick of frankincense and myrrh, usually consecrated just before lighting it.
A brazier and charcoal and tools to light it.
The incense from the envelope that came with the talisman.
An offering candle. I prefer tea lights or chime candles.
A libation to offer. I prefer coffee or wine. Clean water is usually acceptable.
Set and Setting
Schedule your ritual for an appropriate day and hour. I recommend the dawn hour of the appropriate planetary day, or the Third Hour of Night.
If you have an altar or temple space you usually use for spirit work, use that.
Opening
Purify yourself with a bath and/or by washing your hands with cinnamon.
Cast your circle by drawing the perimeter clockwise with a blade and consecrate the space with incense.
If you have any guides or familiar spirits, invoke them to help make the talisman spirit welcome, and to facilitate communication between you.
Body
Draw the talisman from its envelope and either draw the sigil in the center of the triangle or place the envelope with the sigil in the center, beneath the mirror or crystal if you are using one.
Place the talisman in the triangle on your altar. If possible, sit it upright so that you can look at the image on its face.
Call the spirit by name, setting some of the incense in the charcoal as you do so. If necessary, chant the spirit’s name until you can sense its presence.
Introduce yourself. (Also introduce your cadre of guides and familiars, if you have brought any.)
Light the offering candle, pour a libation, and add more of the incense to the charcoal.
Ask if the spirit has another name or sigil that it would prefer you to use.
Sit with the spirit until you are confident in the answer. If given a name or sigil, record them and thank the spirit.
Tell the talisman spirit what you need from it.
Sit with the spirit until it speaks to you, or until you have a sense that your petition has been heard.
Ask the talisman spirit what it needs from you. Possible answers include preferred offerings, or taboos.
Put the rest of the incense on the charcoal and sit with the talisman and spirit until all the incense has burned.
Closing
Thank the talisman spirit for appearing.
Thank any guides and familiars that you have summoned.
Dismiss the circle by drawing the knife along the perimeter counterclockwise.
If you are in an environment where it is safe to do so, leave the offering candle to burn.
Going Forward
Magical talismans are not D&D magic items. They don’t just work without your interest and attention. Traditions vary as to what maintenance they need. As I mentioned above, the talismans I have kept for myself have been, I think, needier than average. Then again, I ask for a lot.
At a minimum, your talisman should be kept clean and intact. To that end I have included a polishing cloth and a box to store it in. As jewelry, your talisman should not be worn in the shower or when swimming, or when you sleep. Please trust me on this: I’ve been a jeweler almost as long as I’ve been a magician.
My experience has also been that talismans left on the altar, rather than worn or carried, need that time and attention made up in other ways.
Commune with your talisman on a regular basis. Thank if for fulfilling petitions. If it fails to manifest what you have asked for, ask what it needs to fulfill your requests. If you can’t hear spirits clearly, use divination to facilitate the conversation.
Thank you for patronizing the Sorcerer’s Workbench, and I hope that your talisman serves you well.
“The image of the moon according to the opinion of Picatrix is the form of a man who has the head of a bird, and he holds a stick above him, and he has a tree before him.” — Picatrix Bk.II Ch.10, p.105 of the Greer and Warnock translation.
Image of the Moon according to the opinion of Picatrix
This Image of the Moon was my second Picatrix image. I designed it during the Covid lockdown, at a point where I was struggling to draw at all, let alone draw magically inspired art. There are parts of it that bother me, now, but the way it actually came together in the metal is absolutely phenomenal.
It has, in fact, proven to be my second most popular planetary talisman (after Venus) and one of my best selling deigns overall. A little to my surprise, I have only had one insecure man asking me to hide the figure’s penis.
With all that said, I have to confess that, of the numerous images of the Moon presented in the Picatrix, this is only my second favorite. My actual favorite is far too complex for me to produce at my current skill level, and will surprise no one who has looked over the Picatrix images, is “…according to the opinion of Mercury is the form of a woman with a beautiful face, with a dragon about her waist, having horns on her head with two snakes encircling them, and with two more snakes above her head and a snake entwined around each of her arms, and a dragon above her head and another dragon under her feet, and both these dragons have seven heads.”
I think I’m going to have to make this poster-sized using either digital media or learn to paint. But I’m probably never going to be able cram it all into a one-inch-disk talisman.
As one would expect, Lunar talismans can be used for any lunar purpose – definitions of which, of course, vary wildly from one tradition to the next. Various Picatrix passages suggest lunar talismans to make the wearer happy, well-liked, safe, healthy, and fortunate, for protection while travelling and against evil. The invocation of the Moon (Book III, Ch 7, Para 33, pp 177-8, trans. Attrell & Porreca 2019) seems to be all-purpose, treating the luminary as an intercessor to any and all of the other planets.
For obvious reasons, silver – the metal of the moon – is the best choice for this talisman, but I also offer it in shibuichi and brass, for a more exotic look on the one hand and a more affordable purchase on the latter. As with all my pieces, this talisman is available as a coin, with an upeye for use as a pendant, or with three jump rings for use in a rosary-style necklace.
Each piece is hand-made to order in my home studio, with unique variations and defects as a result of the fabrication and casting process.
These talismans are NOT consecrated. That is your responsibility.
Astrological timing and consecration is available with a minimum of 30 days advance notice at an additional charge depending on the difficulty of the election.
