witchcraft – Page 18 – Journey Through The Obsidian Dream

As I have probably mentioned before, I was raised without religion. Christianity was pervasive and ubiquitous throughout my childhood, of course: on television and in the Cub Scouts, in my textbooks and in everyone else’s assumptions. I even went to church for Christmas, sometimes, and Easter. But my upbringing did not include any actual, direct instruction in Christian religious doctrine or practice.

My early explorations in religion, such as they were, were self-guided, and—ultimately—their own undoing. One hears about That God and the Bible quite a lot in Cub Scouts and in a Kansas elementary school, but always in ways which presume that one already knows what the speaker is talking about. Now, generally, this is actually a very effective indoctrination tool: the presumption of knowledge backs most people into a corner where they will agree to anything to avoid admitting that they don’t know what you’re talking about. That never worked on me. Gathering the impression that the explanations for all the gibberish could be found in a certain book, I picked up the children’s Bible my parents house. There were rules, I learned (so many rules, but mostly the Big Ten), with dire consequences promised for breaking them. But I could see that those punishments weren’t being meted out. The only conclusions that my pre-teen mind could make from this contradiction were that That God must be absent or unjust.

Thus began my decade-and-a-half “phase” as an angry agnostic. I wanted no part in any gods. I found the Neo-pagan movement (Wicca and its offshoots, in particular), and although I found a home, of sorts, for myself … I rejected their gods, too.

All of which is to say that I have no early-life framework for worship or devotion. I have, in fact, often compared worship of any sort to spiritual slavery. So…. For about twelve years I celebrated seasonal festivals to satisfy needs I can no better articulate now than I could then. Nor am I yet certain what changed in my head or why, that day in St. Louis when I suddenly called out to Dionysus, Hephaestus, and Apollo.

Six years after that sharp about-face, my altar is home to nine gods and three familiar spirits. The spirits I have solid working relationships with: although we are still negotiating the precise terms of our arrangements, we are friends and partners. The gods, though … Dionysus, Hermes, Hephaestus, Baphomet, Rhea, Athena, the Kouros, the Witchmother, and the Sun … some of them are as uncertain what to do with me as I am with them. Each has reached out to me, or me to them, and made solid contact at least one time. Rhea was the first power whose voice I could discern calling to me from the darkness; Athena found her way to my altar through a series of omens; the Kouros answered my call when I went searching for meaning in the Divine Masculine, and the Witchmother came to me through the statue I had used to search for the Divine Feminine; Hephaestus stood at my side when I sat at the bench; Hermes is the chief god of the modern Western esoteric tradition; and Dionysus … well, that’s a slightly longer story.

I recall deciding, in the strange days leading up to that first call, that if I were ever to worship the gods, Dionysus would be among them. A youthful, effeminate, sometimes cross-dressing god. The god of wine and ecstasy, of loosing yourself in the beat of the drum, and of running and fucking in the woods. The god who causes and cures madness, and who disdains the kings appointed by his father Zeus. Himself an initiate into the Mysteries of an older, more primal goddess. As long as I have made mead, I have done so in the name of Dionysus; those of you who have had my wine can attest to its improbable efficacy. Dionysus was the first god to appear before me at my initiation, and he is always the most firmly present when I perform my pentagram rite. His leopard visits my astral temple. And yet, at the same time, he is the most inscrutable of the gods upon my altar. When I seek him out, I cannot find him. Only Athena has less to say to me when I pour the libations.

I wonder, sometimes, if it would be easier if it were in my nature to devote myself entirely to a single god. Could I then count on the god to tell me what was wanted of me, and what I would get from it in my return? If that were my only dilemma, though, I could simply go the other obvious route, joining one of the Hellenistic recon communities. I could be well-loved there, as an actual Classicist. But my own UPG is too far afield, and my witchcraft too radical (to say nothing of my feminism) for those groups I’ve seen.

Each of the powers who has come to me has told me a little bit of what I need to do. Just enough that, with a little bit of luck and creativity, I have (so far) been able to struggle up to the next step. I make offerings of coffee, candles, wine, and/or mead at least three times a week. I must not abandon my visionary practice—I must, in fact, escalate it—but I must also have daily planetary ritual. But the Orphic hymns aren’t quite …. working. There’s something lacking : something maybe 25 degrees off. And while they’ve been showing me how to make masks, magically, I’m still trying to puzzle out some of the material components of the process. And I have to keep with the lunar and solar calendar I have already devoted so much of my life to.

Now, don’t get me wrong. So far, none of these are hardships (well, except for the occasional extremely hung over Saturday or Sunday dawn offering rite, and they’re usually pretty forgiving if I’m late). But … there are disparate pieces that I haven’t figured out how to smelt into a cohesive hole.

How do you obey the gods when they talk so little, and you can’t quite hear them when they do? When you have no background in “religion” as it is so frequently understood? When your knowledge of history, and the way in which the gods have been deployed to further—or, given a less charitable set of assumptions, participated in and even instigated—injustice in the name of power for as long as there have been priests and kings, makes the whole idea of “religion” more than a little suspect? When your grip on sanity is adequately shaky that you’re not one hundred percent certain you’re hearing anything but the echoes of your own derangement? And, perhaps most to the point, where do you find the missing pieces of a ritual practice that has never quite existed in the form you’re working toward?

True story, y’all: I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

In hedonism, scholarship, witchcraft

Hyperbolic Masculinity as an Expression of Queerness and a Source of Magical Power

Satyr Magos07/02/2013

In the ancient world, the power of magic was sometimes understood to be fueled by twistedness and inversion[1]: twisted, spiraled, and backwards writing; calling upon the restless dead for aid; binding. In a sense, I have been drawing on that for years: flaunting my difference, my Otherness, and making it into a source of distinction and recognition. I have, at times, less-than-half-jokingly referred to my gender identity as “witch” rather than as masculine, feminine, or even genderqueer in the sense that word is usually understood. I wear skirts instead of pants whenever possible, and make elaborate ritual robes for myself which double as “costumes” and festival garb, and I wear my peplos in effeminate fashion.

I am queer and I am a witch and people fucking know it. I am that I am. Certainly there are disadvantages to this, but there is power in it, as well.

And yet …. Gayatri Gopinath would argue that my “cross-dressing”[2] is, itself, an expression of another form of hegemony, which conflates same-sex desire with gender deviance.[3] Thus, disdaining the Euro-American emphasis on androgyny and inverted gender expression, she argues that what she describes as “hyperbolic femininity” can be and is a clear expression of queerness and queer desire among some women.[4] Because she is largely discussing this phenomenon in the context of popular South Asian culture and the tension between nationalist and diaspora populations, she cites a number of films for exempla of this phenomenon: Fire (1996), Ustav (1984), and Hum Aapke Hain Koun…! (1994), in particular.[5] This idea is particularly moving to me at this stage in my life, when, given my career choices, publically “cross dressing” as I currently do may well be barred to me.

I am not willing or able to live without being visibly queer. Interestingly, though, I have already been engaging in behaviors which could well be described as “hyperbolic masculinity”: adopting and adapting exceptionally butch tropes to serve my queer sorcery. For much of my life I have shaved with a particular brand of razor; to my annoyance, they have phased out my preferred model, and even if they had not, my environmentalist and feminist ethics, as well as my poverty, all agree that I should cease to patronize the company. So I have acquired an old fashioned straight razor from an estate sale, and am simultaneously learning the art of shaving with a deadly blade and the skill of keeping it adequately sharp. When not in use, the razor lives in the box on my altar with my Venusian seals and talismans.[6] Having recently given in to social pressure and conceded to the wearing of a neck tie—at thirty-two years of age, a (hypothetically) cisgendered-presenting male can’t get away with disdaining them in a “professional” or formal environment—I have committed myself to learning complicated and uncommon knots. My favorite, so far, is the Eldredge knot, which I find works particularly well with my Jupiterian tie. The Trinity knot is also fun, though I haven’t quite mastered it. My taste in the ties, themselves, is just as eccentric. I wear a vests and jackets at times and in places where they are entirely over-the-top: my co-ed campus where pajamas are as common as cargo pants and my favorite dive bars, for example. My chivalry knows no restraints of class or virtue: I hold the door open for everyone; I will come to the aid of anyone who asks nicely, male or female, “purest” virgin or even sluttier than myself; and I do the damnedest to keep my nose out of other people’s business unless that business is actually hurting someone else.

The thing of it is, I take a great deal of pleasure in my male body. It’s the constraints and strictures of masculinity which I despise: The presumption that I must dominate or be dominated. The presumed (and violently enforced) limits on my capacity for emotion and its expression: that being hurt by someone, or sympathetic to the pain of others, is proof of weakness and failure. The constant “threat” of loosing my Man Card—I burned that piece of shit long before I began identifying as a queer or a feminist—and all the Guy Rules I’m supposed to follow in order to keep it, and the way in which my refusal to play those games threatens the masculinity of others, and thereby exposes me to the risk of physical and sexual assault.

But my my body? The flesh which thousands of years worth of mystics and puritans have said that I must despise if I’m ever to touch the divine? I love it! The mass and strength of it: the wide shoulders and large hands, and the long, square lines.The warmth and shelter and pleasure I can offer by virtue of my size and above-average core temperature. All my hair; both that on my head and all the rest. The nipples which serve no purpose save for my pleasure, and being pierced. The push and pull of penetrating and of being penetrated.

It helps that I’m pretty, of course. But I think I’d like my body even if I weren’t.

And it infuriates me that the value of my flesh—the likelihood that I will be aided by the police, or assaulted by them; the quality of the medical treatment I will receive; my chances of promotion or even employment; and so many other things—depends on the degree to which I conform to the hegemonic expectations of others. I hate that my ability to survive in the world is dependent on playing into a rigged game that literally kills the losers.[7] I hate even more that, when I play, the game is stacked in my favor.

All of which is why I have, traditionally, drawn my power from my identity as an outsider, the monstrous Other. Sadly, though, that game may be played out for me.

My best hope, now, is to discover if I can draw power from from the other game, too. There is magic in the authority that flows from being perceived as a butch (cis-het) man. I just have to hope that if I’m very clever, maybe I can figure out ways of making certain that my share of that hegemonic current always undercuts the banks of its headwater. And I have to hope that if I’m very lucky and careful, as well, maybe I can do it without being poisoned when I drink from that most bitter well.

1 – Ogden, Daniel. “Binding Spells, Curse Tablets, and Voodoo Dolls in the Greek and Roman Worlds.” Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: Ancient Greece and Rome. Edited by Bengt Ankarloo and Stuart Clark. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. p.29

2 – A problematic frame that implies there is some validity to the distinctions between gendered clothing, that the “line” I am “crossing” in my dress is in some way real.

3 – Gopinath, Gayatri. Impossible Desires. Durham: Duke University Press (2005). You should read it. It will make you smarter. It also digs into the way heteronomativity and nationalism are intertwined. Good stuff.

4 – Ibid. 104

5 – Ibid. 24, 103-13. Actually, it’s pretty much her core methodology, but these passages are particularly relevant.

6 – In an unrelated note, even if you don’t use a straight razor, I really recommend making the switch to an old school shaving brush and mug with a good organic soap: it’s actually cheaper than chemical shaving cream, works much better, and feels really, really good.

7 – Through race- and class-based differences in health outcomes, a racialized and classist prison industrial system, and institutionalized racial violence in the forms of police brutality and murder, and the unequal enforcement of the death penalty. There are months of research to be done on this subject, though, so, no: I’m not just going to cherry-pick you some links. The science is in; do your homework.

In witchcraft

An Early Experiment in Shape-Shifting

Satyr Magos04/02/2013

I wouldn’t have called it that at that time, of course. Shapeshifting was something that happened to your body, something dragons and gods could do, but mortals could only pull off in the pages of the trashy fantasy novels I liked to read.[1] Sadly, I don’t remember what I actually did call it: it would be misleading to say that my notes from those earliest days were a shamble: I didn’t keep any. All I have are some drawings that I can date back to 10th and 11th grade, and four lines of notes dated 8.11.98.[2]

It might be an understatement to say that I was socially awkward. I was never actually that kid with no friends, but when I say that I often felt like I was, I think a lot of you might know what I’m talking about. But, unlike a lot of socially awkward people, I understood the principle of trial and error: when I identified a behavior that wasn’t working, I would try substituting a new behavior. And I sometimes got very, very creative with my “new behaviors”.

In the process of one such episode of social (and magical) trial-and-error, I “identified” (read: developed and then “discovered”) four “facets” of myself which I understood as other “selves” inside me. Each one had a name, which I will totally not share because … well, I was a 17 year old who read too many fantasy novels, and I’m embarrassed by my former self.[3] Each also corresponded roughly with one of the four Classical elements. The language I use to describe these things today, of course, bears little resemblance to the way I conceived the experience at the time: again, the lack of journals.

The first was my academic self: small, self-contained bordering on asexual, a creature of elemental Air in a brown trench coat surrounded by walls upon walls of books. At times I identified with him very closely, even using him as an online identity. At other times, though, I feared that his erudite reticence served me poorly.

The second was a sort of Fiery shadow-self: hot, sharp, dark, and savage; he carried a sword, wore a black cloak, and had black eyes with no visible iris or pupil.[4] He was my rage, my hate, my impulse to violence …. I believe, at the time, that I framed him as a sort of self-defense mechanism, or protector.

The third was a great, horned beast-like figure: massive and furred, with wings and claws, even digitigrade legs and a tail. Interestingly, the drawing from my oldest Book of Shadows depicts him standing on an ocean shore—someplace I had never yet been, nor ever felt the elemental pull to that so many seem to experience at some point in their life. He was elemental Earth and—more interesting still—the bearer of both my sex-drive and social impulses.

Fourth and finally was an aspect of myself that I was never able to put an image to: Watery and female, the keeper of my emotions, intuition, and pain. This is the earliest point at which I can recall having conceived of myself as partially female. Not much later than this, I would come to the conclusion that I was “Yin instead of Yang”[5] in nature; if I’d had the framework, I might have experienced this as gender dysphoria, but instead I was simply bitter that my sensitive, emotional nature was so difficult to reconcile with my masculine body and socialization.

I worked with the first and third “facets” extensively: calling upon the one or the other when intellect or social grace was called for. I worked with the second mostly to the end of keeping him at bay: I have feared my own temper for many, many years. I had no framework within which to relate to the fourth, though I wanted to: my experiences had already taught me that my emotions were chiefly a means through which others could torment me.

Over a period of several months, however, I found myself increasingly unable to function without slipping into one of my personas. I felt like I was fragmenting internally, splitting into four separate entities. To my credit, I immediately recognized this as a bad thing. My solution, which I actually still stand by in retrospect—I might or might not do differently, now, but knowing what I knew then, it was the only sane solution—was to reincorporate all four.

In essence, I created four separate magical personas, then devoured them. All at the tender age of seventeen. Now, to put this in a little bit of context: I had read Eliphas Levi’s Doctrine and Ritual of Transcendental Magic, but I hadn’t understood a damned word of it; following that, the most sophisticated thing I had ever gotten my hands on was a dumbed down version of the LBRP. These were my days of DJ Conway and Amber K and Scott Cunningham. I had no way of understanding that this magic might be called invocation by some, or shape shifting by others.

Given all that, then, I don’t think I did too badly.

1 – Still like to read, actually, though I don’t talk about that side of my nerd-ness, much.

2 – Yeah. That’s right. August of 1998 and before. We’re stepping into the Wayback Machine.

3 – If you think that I have an overdeveloped sense of drama now….

4 – See note 3.

5 – People who know something of Chinese mysticism need not inform me of how asinine this was. I do know better now.

In witchcraft

Personal Practice: Imbolc

Satyr Magos03/02/2013

Imbolc is a holiday generally associated with the coming of the spring, the lactating ewes, germinating seeds, and the waxing year. It’s a fire-festival honoring the goddess (or saint) Brigid (however you prefer to spell her name), overlapping a little with the simultaneous holiday Candlemas. Of course, all these things are rooted in the climate and culture of England, where Wicca and modern Neopagan witchcraft were born. I do not live in England.

I live in the Midwestern United States. I can’t speak to what the ewes are doing, but there is no germination going on here, no coming spring. Growing up in Kansas as I did, I’m accustomed to Beltane festivities being interrupted by snowstorms every once in a while: the second of February isn’t the end of winter, it’s her darkest heart. And, unlike last year, it even feels like it.

Further, I don’t live and die by the agricultural calendar, like my ancestors did. Nor do I romanticize it in quite the same way as many of my Neopagan peers. No …. I live and die by the academic calendar, by which measure Imbolc isn’t the beginning or end of anything in particular. This year it happens, coincidentally, to be the first Saturday of the month and the end of the third week of classes.

So I celebrated small. Offerings of beer and wine the night before. That morning, I bolstered my usual weekend offerings with an inordinate amount of candles. Then, the night of, I made more offerings of wine and mead before I went out drinking with a few close friends. We celebrated the hope that it might someday again be warm. I had two bottles left of the Imbolc mead that was bottled last year, made from Pasiphae’s blackberries, and I brought one of them to share. Those who partook enjoyed it immensely.

Blessed Imbolc to those of my readers who celebrate it. May your hearth be warm, your beer frothy, and your belly full.

In witchcraft

Shaping and Shielding IV: KC Christmas Edition

Satyr Magos21/01/2013

The proto-coven was blessed with an overabundance of exceptionally watery Scorpios, each with radically different approaches to shielding. While the differences were intellectually fascinating, however, I never had call to use any of them, as they were alien to my native ways of practice and all had various side-effects that I was unwilling to tolerate.

One such took a rather literal view of a watery aura: viewing it as a watery planet, with the most dense and personal things sinking to the core and the “garbage”—the psychic flotsam and jetsam of the outside world—floating and forming a hard crust on the outermost surface. I hesitate to go into greater detail for obvious reasons, but suffice to say that the negative side effects were exactly one one would imagine, and were entirely invisible to to the individual in question as they largely reinforced his male-socialized solipsism and emotional disconnect. Thus, I initially dismissed the technique, despite its magical efficacy, because—despite my continuing attempts to deconstruct those—I already suffer from an exceptionally bad case of those same toxic masculine narratives.

It occurred to me, however, that those side effects would be totally neutralized by abandoning the shield once I had gotten home and banished, and only rebuilding it when needed. With that in mind, I used the technique to augment my various protection talismans when I went back to the mall to work Christmas season over my winter break. Combined with my various talismans, the effect was near-perfect.

Unfortunately, I had an entirely different set of psychic challenges to overcome when I was not at the mall. Being a generous hippie soul, Aradia had permitted her room mate (also her brother) to bring in a friend who was out-of-doors. And, when it came to light that the couch monster had neither car nor job, and no real prospects of or interest in acquiring either, she did not promptly throw both both unemployed alcoholics out onto the street. Further, working two jobs already, she had neither the time nor energy to maintain her magical dominion over the space, which took on more and more of the psychic malaise of the two young men who never left it except to go to the bar. (No, we don’t know where they got the money for that.) In short: “home” was not as safe or relaxing as it ought to have been. I have found, however, that shielding and the use of protective talismans within one’s own home leads to an unpleasant sort of disconnect. So we tried other things.

My daily banishings—both before and after work—helped some. As did evicting the couch monster about a week after I arrived, and the wave of sage fumigation we did to clean out his lingering presence. As did the fiery wall of protection I threw up around the building after a particularly nasty incident between the downstairs neighbor and her own family. A major cleaning spree did wonders. The whole mess was so toxic, though, that, while things were better, it didn’t start to really get right until the dark moon, when Aradia and I burned through an entire wand of white sage over the course of two days of fumigations in conjunction with white-light bombing.

The dark moon fumigations were the most effective, after physically getting rid of the couch monster, but the fiery wall of protection was the most interesting. I started by daubing my fiery wall of protection oil (of course I left some with Aradia. duh.) on the entrances to the apartment. Then I did the same for the entrances and doorsteps of the building. Then, standing at the threshold of the property, I performed the full Qabalistic Cross and, using the power I drew down in that fashion, cast three nested circles: one around the apartment, one around the building, and one around the entire city block. Finally, I anchored the circles to the fiery wall of protection and made that structure into a semi-permanent (“semi-“ because I didn’t anchor any of it to a talisman of any kind) ward structure. The whole thing was done empty-handed, save for the oil: my ritual robes and blade were left in the temple. I haven’t practiced that sort of energy-shaping work very much over the last year and a half—it didn’t fit very well with the ceremonial experiment or Project Null. The last time I’d attempted anything on that scale, it took the aid of a half-dozen other similarly experienced witches. Perhaps if I had been more in practice it would have accomplished more.

In hedonism, witchcraft

After-Action Report for Enchantments of Fall 2012

Satyr Magos18/01/2013

When I came back to school in the fall of last year, I enchanted heavily for a few things. Some of those I doubled down on over the course of the semester. I mostly used sigils, though there were also a few planetary rituals, and a few projects that started over the course of the semester.

Sigils for Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll

These results were mixed.

One sigil was specifically aimed at getting people to give me weed for free, and that worked splendidly: I was given some smoke to bring back to the temple with me from KC, and when that ran out I was able to make it through the rest of the semester on the generosity of friends when I visited their homes and on shake and roaches provided to me by my neighbors. Hell, I’ve still got some of that left. That sigil is DEFINITELY getting recharged.

Another sigil was targeted at convincing people to give me booze. This, too, worked like a champ: people brought booze to my house and abandoned it, they bought me drinks at bars (even when they didn’t know me), and I was even able to get a couple commissions for my homebrew operation. The effects even continued over winter break, with two different people handing me large quantities of honey to ferment. Another sigil for the permanent collection.l

Finally, and this may be part of the problem, I had several sigils aimed at getting laid. I took several different tactics: my sexual needs are met, people feel comfortable approaching me for sex, I have generous and intelligent lovers … all to no avail. The only people to grace my sheets last semester were my partners Aradia and Sannafrid. Unfortunately, they were each only there for a week at a time (not the same week; my life isn’t quite that awesome) out of the eighteen week semester. I was getting a little desperate by the end, and as things stand I have no new prospects for this coming semester. (Anyone reading this blog is, of course, welcome to volunteer.)

Sigils for Health and Happiness

Again, results were mixed. I specifically enchanted that I be “sound of body and mind”. Perhaps that wasn’t clear enough. I also enchanted for the solidification of old friendships and the establishment of new.

Physically, I was healthy for most of the semester. I was laid up with a fever for a couple days, once, but it wasn’t that bad. What really fucked with me, though, was the bouts of insomnia.

Mentally, things were much worse. Maybe it was the Chaos Magic. Maybe it was the absence of friends on campus. Maybe it was Saturn in Scorpio, combined with the psychic backlash of Aradia’s Saturn Return. Whatever. I spent the majority of the semester depressed, neurotic, and struggling with paranoia.

I didn’t make many new friends this semester, but I did make one or two, and I was able to really solidify some existing acquaintances. These are good things.

Sigils for Wealth and Prosperity

These enchantments were utter failure, at least in the short term. I tapped every resource I had and called in every favor owed me, and I still had to beg for money from friends and family to make it back to KC for winter break. The school actually threatened to not let me come back next semester unless I paid them part of what I owed them before the start of this semester.

Now, that’s all been worked out. In fact, I may actually end this semester ahead rather than behind. But it took a lot of enchantment—some of it by friends of mine—and more than a little hard work in the material world to get there. And I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sigil for Academic Excellence

I haven’t been invited to Phi Beta Kappa yet, but I did earn an honors GPA this last semester, despite being on the verge of mental collapse. 3.69 for the semester is nothing to sneeze at, particularly given that I was doing two dead languages at the same time.

Shielding Talismans

These, made toward the end of the semester, were a resounding success. Coming back to classes this semester, in fact, it’s been a little bit of a shock to me to realize that I actually need them at school more than I needed them in the mall. Apparently, at least right now, I find the psychic miasma of adolescent angst and the occasional authority-abusing professor to be more toxic than the capitalist nihilist malaise of the indoor mall environment.

Conclusion

So, overall mixed results for manifesting my will last semester. I got most of what I needed, but not everything I wanted. Two sigils, though, proved so effective that I’m going to turn them into semi-permanent talismans, which is a definite win.

This semester, I have set myself a challenge of launching a shoal of sigils every Sunday. For myself. For my friends. For politics. For the world. For whatever. Three to five sigils every seven days.

Let’s see how this goes.

In hedonism, witchcraft

Mad Satyr Wormwood Infusion

Satyr Magos02/01/2013

My primary flying potion is absinthe. Although a touch unconventional (not having any deadly poisonous hallucinogens or rendered baby fat or any of that), I find it highly effective, particularly when combined with drumming and occasionally marijuana. The major problem is that it’s fucking expensive, and it flies a little in the face of my DIY ethic. So I’m trying to make my own.

The First Experiments: Bacardi 151 Rum (151 proof) vs. 360 Vodka (40 proof)

Herbs – ground together and sifted into repurposed glass bottles.

3/4 oz. wormwood (~1/2 cup)

2 Tbs. star anise

1 Tbs. fennel

1 Tbs. mint

1 tsp. hyssop

1 tsp. angelica

1/2 tsp. coriander

1/4 tsp. caraway

Infusion – liquor poured over the herbs. Then the waiting.

One batch of herbs is being infused into 151 proof rum, the other into vodka. While my recipes call for high-proof rum, or even pure grain alcohol, I have some serious doubts as to how that’s going to work with the flavor profile. I’m also a little skeptical that the high proof is actually necessary for thujone extraction. Finally, in the backassward states I live in, high proof alcohol is taxed to the point where it is actually more expensive than alcohol fit for human consumption (and, living in the United States, there’s always the issue of denaturing). My research recommends three to ten days for thujone extraction, and basically the same time frame (at least three days, or until you run out of patience) for other herbal infusions. These, my first experiments, were infused for four days.

Results

Neither infusion took on the characteristic green color of absinth: both are rather brownish. If I recall correctly though, the green comes from a second variety of wormwood and from the mint, which I may add more of.

Both varieties have a strong bitter undertone, which I had hoped to avoid with the short infusion period. The rum infusion tastes much more like absinthe than the vodka, and the native flavor of the rum covers the bitterness a little. Mixing the vodka infusion with sugar and water opens up the flavor and dials back the bitterness; I believe that a second lump of sugar will perfect the cocktail. (I will report on the rum infusion when I deliver it to the friend who paid for the experiment.)

Visionary results from the wormwood infused vodka were well within expected parameters. I suspect the same will be true of the rum infusion.

Conclusions and Sources

One of my two primary sources for this experiment recommended infusing the alcohol with the wormwood first, then the other herbs. I will do this for my next experiment, tasting it as it steeps so as to better gauge the efficacy and bitterness over time. I may also steep each of the herbs individually so as to best understand their flavor elements, as well.

Each 750 ml experiment lost about 20% of its volume to the herbs, which I had infused loose. I will tie the next batch in cheesecloth or cotton, which satchel I will be able to better extract the finished potion. Larger batches may also help solve this problem, as the herbs can only absorb so much liquid.

The above experiment was cobbled together from two recipes:

Dangerous Minds DIY Absinth – Originally intended for use with a still.

Ingredients: Alcohol 80% and herbs (the most common bought in the chemist’s, in grams per 1 liter of alcohol):

Herbs:
Wormwood: 100 g
Fennel (fruit): 50 g
Anise: 50 g
Mint: 15 g
Melissa: 8 g
Chamomile: 3 g
Cumin: 10 g
Angelica: 10 g

Original “Classic” Formula

750 ml. 151 rum

One ounce dried chopped wormwood

One tablespoon fennel or anise seeds
One tablespoon dried angelica root
One teaspoon dried hyssop leaves
One half teaspoon coriander seeds
One quarter teaspoon caraway seeds
One pinch cardomon pods
750 ml. 151 rum

And for future reference: another Homemade Absinthe Recipe.

In witchcraft

Lucky 13

Satyr Magos01/01/2013

So concludes another rotation of the Earth around Sol. By the Gregorian calendar, at least, counting from the approximated birth date of the Christian Savior. For many years now I have also counted my year Samhain-to-Samhain, emphasized by the fact that my birthday is only seven days after. And most recently, I have also come to live and die by the academic calendar, which is not quite half done. By any of those counts, though, this has not been the best year ever. Not by a wide margin.

It’s been a trial-by-fire since the end of the last Spring semester: going back to the mall for the summer, but somehow not making enough money to actually cover my rent; an art class that consumed twice as much time and energy as it was supposed to; higher costs of education combined with a slightly smaller financial aid package—culminating in the very real possibility that I might not have been able to go back to classes in January if I had not been able to find work over the break; financial policy madness in the United States which may STILL reduce my financial aid to the point where I am unable to finish my degree; fewer friends on campus and fires all over the terrain of my social life; the paranoia and insanity associated with Chaos Magick; and, just for spice, a little bit of inheritance drama on my father’s side of the family.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve gotten a lot done, magically, and there’s been some significant awesomeness in my personal and academic lives. I finished off the ceremonial experiment and started Project Null, and in doing so I’ve made friends and inroads all over the cosmos. I’ve come to new levels of understanding and communication with my lovers and our burgeoning polyamory. I’ve solidified a few friendships, and maybe even started a couple new ones. Despite the exhausting workload, I ended the semester with a 3.69 GPA, bringing my cumulative at the new school up to 3.44. And yet, especially as I look a the two lists … it definitely doesn’t weigh out the way I want it to.

So fuck you 2012. Good riddance.

With that in mind, I did a Tarot reading for the coming year. My card for the year is the XX Aeon; as I was shuffling, I also caught glimpses of the XVI Tower and XXI the Universe. When I did a full spread, 0 the Fool, XIII Death, XIX the Sun, and VI the Lovers were all prominent, as were the Queen of Wands and the Page of Swords. II the Priestess and XVII the Star also made appearances. Except for Death in my 10th House (professional recognition; clarified as 6 Swords, not III the Empress), the reading is overwhelmingly positive.

Sure, that could be the 6 of Swords as “travel” not “fleeing disaster”, but … I don’t like that shiny red reset button blinking on my career dashboard. It makes me nervous. I don’t graduate until 2014. This is the year I take the GRE and start filling out grad school applications. An ill-timed “Death” in my professional life …. well, y’all get the idea.

When I get back to the Sunrise Temple – I’m in Kansas City with Aradia for the winter break – I’ll compare this reading with the annual I did at Samhain. This should be … interesting.

In witchcraft

Full Moon Musings–November 2012

Satyr Magos30/11/2012

Over the course of the semester three new magical tools have come into my possession: a pentacle, a staff, and a black-handled knife. The pentacle I picked up at a swap-meet hosted by the local pagan store. The staff is hand-made by a fine gentleman in the local community, and was given to me as a gift. The knife was also a gift, a birthday present from another friend here in Sunrise. These were my first clues that it was time to get back to my basics. I didn’t ignore the message, per se; I just couldn’t figure out how to enact it in the context of my current workload.

In witchcraft

Icepick Initiation into Hermetics

Satyr Magos14/11/2012

I have just completed three consecutive weeks of daily planetary conjurations, two of those weeks overlapping with the two phases of Rufus Opus’ Seven Sphere in Seven Days challenge. The results included several visions of the Planetary realms and a ridiculous boost in personal power, and culminated in the ability evoke planetary forces at will … and my first magic-induced migraine since I recovered from my blown a gasket eight years ago. Ultimately, it seems to have served as an initiatory culmination of last year’s ceremonial study.

When Rufus Opus made his challenge, I was already on my third day of planetary rituals prompted by my spirit-allies. Although that first Jupiter conjuration was relativity weak, things escalated quickly. I could see the group current flowing across the sky as I did my work, and I bathed in it. I caught glimpses of the Planetary Realms of the Sun, Mars and Mercury—powers I had not touched so successfully or so formally, if at all. I received ritual instructions from Saturn, and built on my relationship with the powers of the Moon.

The group took a break between Phases I and II of the work, but I continued in between: making my first foray into the Planetary realm of Venus and receiving further instructions on how to perform my conjurations even better—most significantly an upgrade for my Circle of Art and Triangle of Conjuration.

When Phase II began, I was rewarded with a powerful Solar initiatory experience—less than apotheosis, but more than dismemberment. Then the tone changed radically. Although I was able to make contact with each of the Planetary powers in turn, the effects felt anticlimactic after the visionary drama of the week before. I could certainly still feel each planet’s influence—in fact, I could feel it continuing to build throughout the day, particularly as the First Hour of Day passed from the Eastern time zone into Centeral, and as the Third Hour of Night came around. It was at this point that I found the discussion group on facebook to be particularly helpful, as others were able to point out technical differences between Phase I and II that I had not been able to perceive, and to confirm that I was not alone in this particular manifestation of effects They also reminded me that, within the Hermetic frame, the planetary powers are not so much places or forces (as I usually concieve them) but refracted lights emanating from God. RO, in particular, suggested that I take some time to look inward at the changes going on within my sphere; doing so revealed that, by Thursday evening, I had tapped into far more planetary power than I had realized.

Saturday, though, I went over the cliff. My final ritual left me filled with black light and white light. I bumped up against the edge of something, the limit of Saturn, and when I came back to my body full of that bi-colored light, I saw a six-winged figure looming over the current. Things have been quiet on the board and in those corners of the blogosphere since the project finished, and I think that whatever I caught a glimpse of (Iophiel?) might have borked some brains that got a better look.

As usual, I had performed my rites at the First Hour. Within a few hours, my head started to hurt. I thought it was psychic feedback from lunch on campus: things were a little strange over the weekend in the wake of a tragic accident involving several students. Come the Eighth Hour, though, the pain had escalated to the point where I could no longer function well enough to run the errands necessary for my birthday party. Fortunately, Aradia—in town for the party—was driving and able to get me home, where I promptly collapsed into bed with a full-blown migraine headache.

Ninety minutes later, I felt up to taking some painkillers, and was finally coherent enough to put two and two together: the psychic weather—no matter how nasty a college campus can be—was not enough to lay me out like that. It was Saturn that had pushed me over the edge from “magicially manic” to “magical migraine”. Looking to my aura, I concluded that it was too densely packed: I separated out the planetary power—not wanting to ground it altogether—and pushed it out to the edges. That felt better, so I pushed the edges out further. The further I pushed, the better I felt. When my aura was bigger than campus and the surrounding college-owned student ghetto, the pain was finally manageable. It finally disappeared about the time I pushed out to the city limits. That sort of “coverage” is unsustainable, of course, but the pain did not return as my aura deflated over the course of the evening.

The final Saturn ritual brought with it a sense of finality. Whatever it is that my spirit friends wanted me to get out of daily planetary rites … I’ve gotten. I can now channel planetary power at will, just as I can elemental power, though I’m still struggling with the personal consequences of hot-and-cold-running-Venus (just as a for instance), and half a week later, I’m still struggling to maintain my aura at a reasonable level. There have been no new migraines, but my energy level has been up and down like an EKG and requires too-frequent “maintenance”.

Clearly I had some unfinished business with the planetary powers that I began working with during the ceremonial experiment. That’s been fixed: I have now received my first initiation in the seven Planetary Powers, complete with dissolution, crippling agony, and even some ἱερῳ ἀναμιγνομενος. And I’ve also just been handed a brutal reminder of what happens when I let my magical practice get too high-octane.

So I’m taking a short hiatus from magic: doing just enough to keep from setting off the cold-turkey migraine. My Dark Moon rites have so far been minimal. I’m going to get back into more “pure” Chaos Magic pretty soon here, but I am definitely not fucking around with any more Hermetics until Mercury goes direct again.

But, before I fall further down the NaNoWriMo rabbit hole for a few days, I want to thank Rufus Opus and everyone in the Seven Spheres In Seven Days working group for the opportunity and the camaraderie. It was a mad ride, y’all, and I’m glad I didn’t do it alone. I know that I would have gotten even more out of it if I could afford RO’s Gates Rites (and I am not for a moment questioning that the years of practice that went into developing those rituals is worth $12 a pop: I just don’t have the scratch), or if I were capable of believing in the Ptolmaic/Hermetic cosmology as the Truth, not just aTruth. In the end, though, I got enough: initiated into Hermetics with a Solar immolation and Saturnian icepick to the brainpan.

SEMPER LVX

φως ἀθανατος

Τιερεσιας Σατυρος ὁ Μαγος

Showing all posts in witchcraft

Devotion and Worship: What Is This? I Don’t Even ….

Hyperbolic Masculinity as an Expression of Queerness and a Source of Magical Power

An Early Experiment in Shape-Shifting

Personal Practice: Imbolc

Shaping and Shielding IV: KC Christmas Edition

After-Action Report for Enchantments of Fall 2012

Mad Satyr Wormwood Infusion

Lucky 13

Full Moon Musings–November 2012

Icepick Initiation into Hermetics