SEVEN FEET UNDER: The Heart of Fire beneath the Tongue of Silence



The Heart of Fire beneath the Tongue of Silence

Kyle Fite

The Lord of Illusion is the The Lord of Life.

The Lord of Reality is The Lord of Death.

In Truth, these Two are the Same Lord

And Never Divided.

The Magician is etymologically a Manipulator of Maya, one who is not subject to the Laws of an Illusory Universe but rather a Master of them. He is the Millstone and not the Grain. As such, he operates on the periphery of average human experience while shifting the same with aid of an arte incomprehensible to the materialistic mind. It is a romantic picture and one which is easily misunderstood if these factors of Illusion and Power are viewed through the limited lens of Life. Without equally entering an awareness of Death, the Magician can have no contact with the Reality empowering his creative usage of Illusion. To simply conceive of this “Otherworld” is not enough. One must link it to Life through the vehicle of one’s Experiential Entity. This link is the result of a Deep Initiation and one which will forever transmute the Vehicle through which it is accomplished.

Life and Death are often polarized via an inherited Aristotelian Logic. Either a thing is “Alive” or a thing is “Dead.” It cannot be both. As Life is understood as possessing certain qualities (such as activity, awareness, growth and so forth), Death is defined by the opposite characteristics. This creates a problem in that Death is being viewed from the standpoint-and logic- of Life. One can only presume that these imagined qualities (or anti-qualities) have some sort of reality. In other words, one is applying a simple formula based on assumption, the same being born of very restricted experiential capabilities. An example would be the acceptance that “grass is green.” It is how it appears to you-and how it seems to appear to everyone else. The type of perceiving/categorizing faculty at work here has also been known as crucial to one’s simple survival in the material realm. Through various symbolic signals, one takes courses of action which benefit the player in the human game. Logic, experience and hard-wired biological impulse all conspire to justify the conclusion “Grass is green.”

As we learn more of the natural world, however, we soon discover that there is no inherent or absolute “color” in the phenomena we observe as grass. We then accept the experience in context of concepts which are simply extensions of the initial logic, experience and impulse. The means by which we determined that “grass is green” are the means which determine that “grass is NOT green.” Regardless of viewpoint, the “is/is not” dichotomy prevails, the Aristotelian Law of Non-Contradiction.  And this extends into our understanding of all phenomena , including what it means to be alive or dead.

From this dualistic perceptive habit, we make assumption and react to it. Whether one embraces the idea of an afterlife or infinite oblivion, one is left to interface with reality through the tools of engagement at ones disposal.

We observe many purporting to know this or that about death and what awaits the human entity who has succumbed to biological terminus. Even if we hold specific religious views on the matter, we are inclined to discount the similar views of others which do not fit our theological framework (again, the Law of Non-Contradiction is clung to). Thus, the Christian is suspicious of the Muslim account of the afterlife, even while both profess certainty of the same.

The question, then, is WHAT can we TRULY know of Death while Living? And HOW do we even begin to explore this realm which seems to be entered only by the sacrifice of the self which seeks it?

Our model for this process is that of Esoteric Freemasonry which carries through its Rite a condensation of Initiatic Teaching from far older cultures. The symbols and “working tools” gathered along the way all serve to support the great climax of the ceremony: the Death and Resurrection of Hiram Abiff, Master Builder and Heir of the Magical Metallurgist, Tubal Cain.


There are times in this human life when we may find ourselves desirous of death. Folding to frustration, weariness or despair, we conceive of comfort in the covering of our casket with a cold clod, the silence of the grave hushing some unbearable assault upon our psyche. Whether this closing of the curtain opens to a calming cloudscape past pearled gates or simply signifies the closure of consciousness with cessation of brain-waves, we expect a “break.”

This hope is well played by opportunists from every religious angle. Introducing the idea of Hell (or at least tough transitions best avoided) keeps the Ultimate Sabbath from being a Workweek Guarantee. Conditions must be fulfilled in the eyes of one’s “Employer” unless one wants to keep “working through the weekend” at a hated job.

Control thereby gains a sales pitch as it sells Spiritual Insurance.

“If you want your respite, do THIS (read: PAY UP-in coinage, obedience, societal support). Otherwise…” (Father Pharisee whistles and shakes his head).

This isn’t religion. It’s a ploy.

No human being holds the Keys to your Beyond. The game is old and, if we ascribe to anything approximating Crowley’s Aeon of Horus, the game is DONE.

Death is not a shadow looming over our mortal lives. It is an element twisted and fused into a Life of which we are part.

Likewise is this Life wrapped into every fibre of Death. This gives rise to the Death Fetishists who obsess-through the portals of their organic lives-over transcendental ecstasies found through the extremities of sundry “sorcerous artes,” duly dressed in gothic garb, necromantic ornament and alterations in the experience of the bio-machine. On one hand, this is a natural inclination at a certain stage of awakening. On the other, it is a retardation of a process which must not be halted half-way.

Life and Death are not themselves Absolutes. They are two faces of one coin. We do not pit Light against Darkness. These two reveal each other, opening a means to grasp-if in part-the Reality which gives rise to both.


I do not desire Stasis. Heaven’s Harp and Atheistic Anesthesia both raise suspicion in my soul. What might be an alternative to such views?

I am reminded of Resurrected Lazarus in the once controversial and now-forgotten film, The Last Temptation of Christ. Before he meets an assassin’s blade, his killers had to ask what it was like on the other side.

He replies that it was really no different than it is HERE.

This was NOT the answer they were expecting-and it made the knife-plunge all the more easy.

We cannot accept the placid heaven of the eternally obedient sheep nor the simple snuff out of those who can see no further than their material experience. But we also hunger for something beyond what we KNOW. Sometimes we are motivated by a desire to quell fear or uncertainty. But even when this has been put aside, there is an energetic drive, a curiosity and need, which propels us onwards.

As long as we remain in light, we are magnetized towards the darkness. This darkness, however, does not conclude the matter. Rather, it is driven back towards the light.

We are going into the Night to return to Dawn. It is through this exchange that we can become more than we are. The Thesis of Hegel leads us to Antithesis-and this propels our hungry soul towards Synthesis, the New Thesis, the Next Rung on the Ladder ascending to Distant Stars.


There was a day in my life when I felt my heart seize up in my chest. I literally fell down upon the stairs and truly believed: This is IT! The END! BIO SHUTDOWN!

As sweat gushed from my face, my step-daughter appeared. I told her I thought I was dying and get ready to call 911. She looked at me and said I was being dramatic and faking. She walked away.

I felt utterly alone in that moment. I was going to DIE and there was no help.

My body then began to FREEZE. I was shaking with hypothermia. I couldn’t move save for shivering.

And then…the ice began to turn to FIRE. I was cooking from the inside out. I can’t describe the pain. It was as if I was being microwaved. I’d later read of these two elemental passages in the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

It was in that moment that I felt my heart cry out:

Not here! Not NOW!

I was hanging on some World Tree and gushing anything but glamour. I wasn’t thinking of “Death Mysteries” or Runes…I was giving every atom of my Being to holding onto this human life where I was yet needed. How would my little son go on without his Dad? What of those who depend upon and need me? What of all I have yet to learn, to know, to enter? I felt something of what Jack Parsons expressed with his final words:

“I’m not DONE yet…”

I don’t feel that I WILLED myself back to life. Rather, I was given an Opportunity. I was touched by the Hand of Grace and Vitality. About to evaporate, I slid back into my Urthlife.

But I DID see something on the Other Side of that Gate, something I wish to SHARE.

We humans are joined through our mortality. It is to this reality I speak, the strange paradox of temporal life active within eternal space. I know many who peruse these words will never know me aside from these few words printed on paper. Divested of skin, bones buried in some unmarked grave, I extend my hand from another realm to speak to the yet living. What I offer are symbols and suggestions which may serve idea and imagination as these rise through human consciousness to reach beyond it.


The Brother of Osiris truly became such only after he had sliced his sibling into pieces, placing each at a precise location within the Great River, the Nile.  Fourteen were the parts, one for each Day-and Night-linking Sabbaths (or SUN-Days).  Often treated as treachery, the Work of Set was an Initiatory Action. On one hand we find a parallel to the bloody betrayals of the Three Ruffians in Masonic Lore, those uninitiated ones who slashed the Master Builder into his Grave. On the other, we have the Brothers of the Lodge behind these figures, bringing the Candidate to the “Rubbish of the Temple” where the Mystery of the Resurrection can be given expression.

Students of Esoteric Masonry will know that the Villains, pernicious as they may seem, embody the Mystery of the Lost Word, a Mystery which will only be given to the “Raised Master Mason” in Symbolic (or “Substitute”) Form. The Slayers and the Slayed are One Thing, divided for “Love’s Sake” and united through that same Power. Each Killer will suffer the Fate of Hiram, thus uniting with him through Karma. Hiram’s rebirth (from three auspicious wounds) will likewise serve as the Redemption of the Ruffians.

Note that each one of these murderers’ name begins with a “J” (or “Yod”). Qabalistically, this letter has the numeric value of “5.” 5 times 3 is 15, the number of the Devil Card in the Tarot (Set-or Satan). We find here that Osiris will rise from Death as the Redeemer of Set. If we wish to compare mythologies, we see that Jesus is the Redeemer of Satan (an idea we encounter in the Mythos of William Blake). This Redemption is more than a simple act of forgiveness-it is an Alchemical Process, the energetic exchanges of which are merely typified in Masonic ceremony.

The most sincere and spirit-driven aspirant enters the Temple in Search of LIGHT. To TRULY come into this Gnosis, the “Darkness” must be clarified. The most effective of initiatory rites will strip away all that keeps this Darkness beneath the skin. It has been written that Osiris is a “Black God” and this must be realized in the total consciousness of the candidate before the Grave can be entered-and departed from!



Upon the first utterance of this strange word at the climax of the Masonic Rite, the Newly-Raised Master Mason tends to be struck by one association: the familiar word BONE.

It’s enough.

There are many commentaries on this odd word which is often interpreted as meaning “The Builder is Dead!” But this hardly expresses the fact that the Builder has, in fact, RISEN.

Masonic Scholar Albert Mackey makes the observation that the correct word is composed of not 3 but 4 syllables. Bear in mind that the Lodgeroom (itself a Living Symbol) has three officers but FOUR WALLS, the North being that “Place of Darkness.” It is this Darkness which must fuse with a Triune Life ere the two may become one.

Within Masonry’s eclectic heritage of diverse cultures, we may see “Maha” as that prefix indicating the “Great” or ”Supreme.”  The “Great Bone” is the Skull, a symbol commonly connected  to Masonic Ritual. This symbol, however, holds more meaning than most people (and even Masons) will consider. At the beginning of one’s Masonic voyage, the skull is a symbol of mortality, the Mason being earnestly encouraged to contemplate it as a symbol of all things coming to pass. At the end of the Rite, it is seen as “that which remains,” the permanent portion of fleshlife. It joins with the Acacia-or Evergreen-as a symbol of continuance. There are both moral and metaphysical implications here.

In the end, the 3 Degrees of Masonry are sewn together through a 4th Power. Rebirth is not as the return of Lazarus to the Land of the Living. It is entry into a Different Dimension, the powers of which will be carried into one’s temporal life.


There are no ghastly skeletons to haunt us. We carry one inside our own flesh.

I look in the mirror and fix my hair (what’s left of it). I catch those lines cut into my face by time and turn to see which side really IS “best.” I smile at myself and wonder if I still have “the charm.” And the mirror starts going all Dorian Grey…

I can see it, the “Skull Beneath The Skin.” I could put an incision into my face and then pull it off- but there’s no need. What lies beneath the muscle and meat is right there, peering out from the pores. My own personal Grim Reaper. I clack teeth and pull my lips back. There’s his mouth. My tongue dissolves with my larynx. Do I wish they’d have stayed? Without the windpipe and lungs, they’re pretty worthless-and I no longer have either.

I beat out a cry for help on my xylophone ribcage. Morse code begins to take on a congo beat. Talkin’ Effluvia Blues No. 33. Someone grabs my hand and my fingers slide right off.

My face falls off the chin and lands in the bathroom sink, clogging the drain. No way I’m going to work today. I’d call an ambulance but my jawbone just hit the floor. I reach down, thinking “Samson could kick some ass with this thing” when everything just crashes onto the tile like a child’s building blocks.



Hiram help me, I’m drag-queening my way down the Via Dolorosa.

I’m hexagrammed in The Tomb, gelatinized and 100% FUBAR.

Then here comes THE LION! It starts as a gurgle in the sink, sizzling my rumpled grimace. The whole thing blows to pieces and water is spraying everywhere. But FIRE is putting it out as steam hisses and paint begins to blister from the walls! Between FUCK YOU and MARRY ME, some God grabs my wrist and hauls me up from Hell.


Winking and Blinking, I’m but a beaked-babe crushed into a noetic nest. Even after I’ve taken flight andmade my first kill, I have no idea that creatures on the Terran Plane will set up temples to venerate me.

They confuse Noesis for Gnosis!

Soon I will have no care for their “Because.” I destroy their Gods and they grasp at my wings to set me up in the Place of their Void.

I have no Mystic Maxim to give. My neck lengthens and I become the Vulture, hungry for carrion.

Here is the deal, raw and real:

If you can read these words, you are in the Urthzone. This essay is directed only at the Urthbound. It is a message sent from a distant Planetary System (you’ll find out soon enough which one).

Please know: this document will self-destruct in…

…what does it matter?

The Supernova of your Sunshine is inevitable and, ergo, imminent. This is an important point: the Inevitable is Imminent. So much of your Human Culture is based upon Denial of this FACT.

The equation “Inevitability = Imminence” disconnects your flesh from bone. What woman with drooping tits will choose kneecaps vs. promise of perk? What letter-jacket will pick the whimpering worm over the homecoming cockstand?

Breast-tape and hair-dye for men. A whole generation turns go-carts from the headstone on the track. Drugs, lotions and potions. We are embalming ourselves in denial!

But we feel some deep anger, some holy hatred, some monstrous love. We turn it around and drive against the flight-fleet. We drive straight into the Mouth of our own Mortality!

Silver coins spray from our palms and we are crucified one way or another.

Wounded by the Gar given to Odin, we PLUMMET.

We leapt to get into the womb of the mother and we leap again to enter the womb of Space!

Some call this demise.

We call it “Leveling Up.”

molten sea

The Master Builder, Hiram Abiff, oversaw the building of King Solomon’s Temple. The plans for this edifice were given directly to Solomon by God Almighty and Hiram was the Hired Technician. There was, however, an element which Hiram brought to the table, an addition not part of Solomon’s vision. This was a work called THE MOLTEN SEA.

The Molten Sea was a manifestation of the Genius of Tubal-Cain, of Hephaestus. Within the Temple of Solomon, this would serve as a communion between Cain and Abel. Darkness and Light would be joined via the great Pillars of Boaz and Jachin. The Shekinah known as the High Priestess would, at last, become ISIS UNVEILED.

This never came to pass. Treachery in the Temple resulted in Water being added, prematurely, to the Molten Sea. This disrupted the alchemical process and caused a chemical combustion. This betrayal has been played out time and again through history. Just as genius is about to place the capstone on the Royal Arch, the Traitor appears. From John Wilkes Booth to those who set up Jack Parsons, we find the Molten Sea defied. They are afraid of the inevitable.

But we know the Inevitable is the IMMINENT, even as both serve what we seek: IMMANENCE!


There are some who would decry Christ Crucified. These are ignorant for Christ is Crucified Daily. The Transubstantiation of the Catholic Mass is merely a MIRROR reflecting the Reality.

When Jesus died, the Temple Veil was rent in twain!

When the Molten Sea was sabotaged, the EARTH Itself was torn asunder and Hiram Abiff entered the loins of the Great Mother.

Hiram plummeted through the Nine Strata of Earth to reach the Source of his personal vision, the flaming Planetary Core! It was within this Temple of FIRE that he received the TRUE WORD of the MASTER MASON. Ascending through the same nine strata, we find the Master Builder emerging.

These nine strata are a numeric variant on the primordial SEVEN GATES . Plunging through 7 and emerging from 7, the Master Mason is exposed to FOURTEEN POINTS.

Ergo, Hiram comes forth dazzling in the Gnosis of Osiris assembled!

Let us remember, the phallus of Osiris was not found. Isis fashioned a new phallus from clay and it was from this member that she conceived the child Horus.

14 parts + 1 (Phallus)= 15, (again) the number of the Devil Card of the Tarot, Capricorn, PAN, the ALL.

15=1+5=6, the Holy Hexagram, Man and God joined via the Masonic Square and Compasses (Terrestrial and Celestial Measurement).

This is not symbolic abstractions. These are symbols reflecting YOUR LIFE.

The fleshly phallus of Osiris was the means of physical generation and sexual ecstasy. When Isis created the new phallus, she fashioned a means of spiritual generation and Gnosis.


I have taken men down to their deaths. I was wearing a black suit and hard shoes, poised on red carpet and present in the Master Mason Ceremony. I drew my hand across the human breast and cut the heart. I wanted the death to be felt as real, complete. When the body was severed from soul, we could then bring the soul into its own space. This is emphatically NOT a dualistic action. The soul, truly awakened, may reincarnate into its own flesh, at last one with it!

The Fleshface will hold to the human skull as Deathgate symbol. The Skullsoul will wear a different icon about its crumbling clavicles. Organic and Prismatic, this Jewel cannot be ossified in Time. It is the Jewel  of the Master in the East. It is the Vehicle of the Rising Fire.

We bring the Candidate into Death that Death may lunge forward into Life from its Spiritual Synthesis!

If this doesn’t happen, we will report, as did Lazarus, that everything just continued on. The Hells and Heavens we have conceived have all been known on earth. There is no secret invention of an imaginary devil waiting to outdo what we have done to one another. We move from the ice and fire of the stairs where I began to melt into the Tibetan Bardos. Here Karmas do not function in the Kindergarten way we imagine. We undergo the “walk.” Qlipoth don’t gratify Lovecraftian leanings. We come face to face with shame and regret even as we find our prime components exposed. At any second, we’re about to be sucked down the hall of Yellow Light. The murderer relives his father brushing aside a drawing in crayon and retreats to the womb.

House, Sun and Family are destined to be drawn again.


OTOA PUBLIC PAPER: The Mistake of the Meonistes   

“Meon” is a word often connected with the work of OTOA-LCN through the writings of Michael Paul Bertiaux. It is a realm (if we can call it that) which has been described as an “icy nothingness.” But truly, the Meon is no more “icy” than it is “fiery.” These words (in fact, ALL WORDS) derive from an experience which is Non-Meonic. They are simply deemed as useful in a Wittgensteinian “pointing” at something which operates outside the linguistic level of consciousness. Even these words are “false” for they imply that the Meon is a thing (i.e. something which exists). Language is tricky like that. Even if we say the Meon does not exist and is not in any way a thing, we have made it such by simply NAMING IT.

At this point, we may well be thinking of our friend, Lao Tzu with his “Tao that cannot be named.” Wittgenstein said that “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” As Esoteric Engineers, however, we do not feel that the present limits of our technologies (including language) need be settled for. Wittgenstein also spoke of climbing a ladder only to throw it away when we had transcended its reach. Jacob’s Ladder witnessed angelic beings (Loa) both ascending and descending. If language is the ladder, we feel we might do better than ditching it-or crashing down the stairs and breaking a neck.

Language is an expression of Maya, Illusion, the World of Duality. But the Magician is, by definition, a Master of Maya. We do not seek some one way street to a Nirvanic White-Out. There is a glorious pouring back and forth of the Waters in the Aquarian Tarot Card called The Star. This Water is the result of Fire and Ice colliding at the Crossroads where Eternity and Temporality meet. This is not meant to be a poetic statement but a technical observation. Eternity can only be such through this interface. Otherwise, it falls from itself into the occlusion of linguistic limits. To speak of the Eternal, the Infinite, the Void is to act as Blake’s Urizen and encompass the illimitable. This must always bind us within a circle and keep us from that which we have sought to know.

We know many students of this work have desired to know the Meon, for it is suggested as a verity “Beyond.” The Inner Fire longs for its Home and rages against all cages. “The Meon,” therefore, appears as a Bull’s Eye to we might Hat Trick. It is not THIS so it must be THAT.

But the MEON is neither THIS nor THAT.

Ice is a symbol of stasis contrasted with the wild growth of the warm seasons. But we know that ice is active, vital and alive. We call the Meon “Icy” and yet it is on the other side of Ice. It is on the other side of FIRE.

The MEON is partner to the Pleroma. Pleroma is the FULLNESS and MEON is the EMPTINESS.

In our teachings, we draw a distinct line between the “Meontologists” and the “Meonistes.”  The Meon isn’t “evil” but the Path of the Meonistes IS. These are those who would sacrifice Pleroma for Meon. Pleroma exists by means of the Meon and Meon has its Reality (we cannot say “Being”) via Pleroma. But the Meonistes are polarized into a Darkness which defies both Pleroma and the Love of Pleroma-Meon.

In essence, if you think “entering the Meon” is taking some daydream headtrip into an Astral Antarctica, you have missed the boat. 

In Hebrew, Meon means DWELLING.  It is the SPACE (UNSPACE) in which MANIFESTATION can MOVE.

Please consider the relation between the Gnostic Meon and the Buddhist “Luminous Void.”

Are these the same thing?

Now, consider the difference between “Bodhisattva” and “Buddha.” “Buddha,” as such, has entered Nirvana. The “Bodhisattva,” on the other hand, has rejected Nirvana and bound himself to Spacetime until ALL BEINGS achieve LIBERTY (Enlightenment).

Is the Bodhisattva a Buddha?

We propose this:

The Meonistes are seeking Buddhahood through Desire for Nirvana. Despite their efforts, they can never enter but fall into one of the Bardo Zones, again and again. At best, they are Asura.

The Meontologist is ever relating Meon to Manifestation and thereby unveiling the Mystery that the Pleroma was never broken. The FULLNESS could never be anything other than itself.

Now, is the Meon a Power?

We may say that it is but it can only be power as it eliminates the entropy of temporality by exposing temporality’s True Nature as being the Void (Meon) Itself.

How is this exposed?

We operate in linguistic-temporality. Therefore, we start in this zone. If the True Nature of the Temporal Universe is the Void, the True Nature of the Void is the Temporal Universe.

The Void of Meon is met by the Pleroma. These two (which are totalities unto themselves) emanate and return to the Apex of what we will call REALITY.

Below this triad are SEVEN RAYS. 

Those who would feign extinguish the DWELLERS in favor the DWELLING are those who have inherited the Spirit of the Pharisees and Sadducees, those who would extol the Sabbath above the Man for whom it was created. Man is ultimately meant to realize the Endless Sun-Day within his own Heart, relating the Day-Night Revolutions of the Globe to the Endless Effulgence.  Earth and Sun are Living Symbols, Icons of Nature. We seek to unite Symbol with Verity in Gnosis and Love.


TUBAL CAIN is the Lord of the South. He is Ogun, bloody and brilliant as burnished bronze blazes in the sunlight! His Light streams into the North where no candle burns. The GOD OF THE NORTH, SAMEDHI, is entwined with Tubal Cain in a symbiosis.

The Masonic Lodgeroom and its Rite are as a positive form which calls up the negative space around it. This space allows for Shekinah to descend upon the altar and bestow the Light which is watchword to all Masons. In this Gnosis, we find the Sacred Geometry of Freemasonry to move beyond the Terrestrial Mind. The Square joins with the Compasses that the EYE may OPEN!

Tubal Cain is Hephaestus, lame god, crutched Legbha, Lord of Crossroads, Saturn, the Secret Lover of Venus, Erzulie, Shakti. He is Builder, TEKTON, MASON!

Hiram Abiff rises from the Molten Sea in this Glory. He is Lord of the 9th Arch, the 7th Ray and he is your Spiritual Father. He is OSIRIS RISEN and Osiris rises through the Child, Horus, the Sun-Son. Here the Skull of Death becomes the Crystal of Continuance!


I do not look at Death as a Romance. I have stood by hospital beds and watched blips on a screen turn into flatlines. I have carried the bodies of people I loved (and love) in bags and caskets. I have sent every last ounce of my love to those I have lost. It is the Way of All Flesh and I am not done walking this Path. The Mysteries of Osiris are Mysteries of Consciousness on the Mystic Way. They do not set us apart from our fellow creatures but bring us closer. The more we can enter the Place of Darkness, the better we are suited as Vehicles for the Light.

When I was a teen, I was baptized in the Baptist Church. I was held beneath the waters and in the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I was brought back into life. As I rapaciously raged on through my spiritual studies, I would reject-and then re-embrace-Christianity. A key moment was when I understood that Time was as meaningless as Color. The Grass is Green-and it is NOT. The “is-ness” of the Green is within our consciousness. This is where it has its reality. My Baptism has an “is-ness” within my consciousness. It has no objective or absolute reality. WHERE IS IT? HOW CAN I SHOW IT? I cannot. I can only recall it, which is to relive it, to evoke it and to be empowered by it! In this reliving, the NOW of this MOMENT is infused with a LIVING SYMBOLIC FORM through which I come up from the water. I re-enter Timespace. This is a paradox. Per our previously discussed formula, the inevitability of my death means it has already occurred. I am dead. But through the vehicle of Baptism, of Masonic “Raising,” of ANY form expressing this principle, we, literally, come back from the grave.

In Voodoo, we have the Mystery of the Zombi. This is a being brought back from the dead and controlled by the mind of another. In our Esoteric Voodoo, the Higher Mind is Ti Bon Ange, the Angelic connection to God-Life which animates and drives our waking self. All of our occult knowledge and magical ability is meant to empower this process. We will rise again and again into this seemingly consistent lifewave. We will rise again into other lives.

And these will rise into US.


There are some who have tagged the Formula of the Dying and Rising God as a Piscean Phenomenon, no longer applicable to the “New Aeon.” I reject this Zeitgeist mentality. Crowley influenced the Magical World with his Aeonics. This was a variant on Fundamentalist Dispensationalism. Whence rose this outlook? It was a natural response to the Canonization of Scripture. Such diversity had to be reconciled and this was done by identifying revelatory conditions dominating various “Ages.” As we learn of the political underhandedness behind the codification of the Holy Bible, we see a blatant power play eclipsing prophetic power. Rejecting this agenda (and those who have made use of it for two millennia), we are not subject to conceiving the world in terms of divided Aeons. Rather we see ELEMENTS to be worked with, entered into and united through New Alchemies!

Osiris links us to Isis and Horus! Like Odin, oath-bound to Loki, Set is welcome (with confusion and chagrin) in the Temple!

Our entry into this world is meant to dig deeper than the grave. Our consciousness is designed to reach beyond the limits of logic. It may be silenced in the process. Remember, one of the consequences of falling from Masonic Fidelity is the tearing out of the tongue and its placement in the “rough sands of the sea.” There is profound symbolism in this! Karmic Retributions are a means whereby we “learn the hard way.” Eventually, we shut up that we may HEAR THE FIRE. This Fire is the WORD. It’s ascent into our Urthlife gathers about its core Vehicles of Transmission.

The Book of the Law tells its Prophet to “Unite by thine art so that all disappear.” We will add that this dissolution is a SOLVE wherein our COAGULA may be a True Rebirth. Resurrection is not a vain hope held in a superstitious heart. It is the DESTINY OF DEATH ITSELF!


Originally published in the Compendium “Sabbatica” (Nephilim Press, Edgar Kerval, Editor)

In through the Out Door


This blog is in response to a recent discussion on the Facebook Prosperity Path Forum regarding the Astral Trainer Orb.

My friend, Joel Love, had a question concerning the Opening of a Mysterious Door, the location of which seemed to be elusive.

Let’s look at this:

Runners of this truly beautiful and highly effective Orb will encounter an Altar in the Invocation Chamber, prior to the actual “Training Session.”  If approached and touched, a message is given indicating that “A Door Has Opened Elsewhere.”

Of course, there is, as with every Orb, an “Exit Point” where the Runner will be redirected to the website. This mode of ending a Run is both important and powerful as it links the Run to the Collective Powerhouse of Prosperity Path as a whole. It’s an amazing “Kicker!”

There ARE, however, OTHER ways to exit the Orb and this is not limited to simply hitting your Escape Button.

Many of the Orbs have a start point, a “Landing Pad,” if you will, which is designated as the “Spiral.”

We want to address this here.

The “Spiral” may be regarded a type of Birth Canal.

When entering the point before reincarnation, the copulating couple serving the purpose will not be viewed from the Bardos as some bad homemade sex tape. What is experienced is the color, vibration and magnetic pull of the Womb Gate opening. There may be seen a swirling. This is one manifestation of the “Spiral” as we reenter Organic Life-and this is the one we wish to focus on here.

When an Orb has been successfully run, you may trace your path BACKWARDS, like Theseus winding Ariadne’s Thread, and return to the Spiral. At this juncture, you might wish to allow your Avatar to pause as you attend to action in your Prime Dimensional Reality, readying yourself for the Influx of the Run. This may include working with an Altar Space in your Home, Offering Prayer, a Deep Statement of Intent, Surrender, Chanting and so forth. One may also choose to select certain inventory items for dropping at the Spiral. Burn some virtual Chenrezig Tibetan Incense as offering to the Buddha Nature, give Blessings to All Beings in the Einsteinian Universe and then HEAD OUT (unless you’re breech-then await C-section).

After performing these and/or any other actions you find appropriate and effective, you utilize the escape key to exit the Orb from the Spiral, allowing your Avatar, who is now bristling with all HUD scores, to be “born again” into your Being.

E.J. Gold recently spoke of the Heart as a Yoni. It is through THIS Womb Gate that we wish our Avatar to find its Entry Point into our PDR.

It was once suggested that I never be allowed to Beta-test any of the Orbs in development as I tend to interpret everything, even glitches, as significant messages and indicators. Never the less, we DO continue to find curious aspects of our many Runs-and these evoke the sort of inquiry Joel raised.

My thought on this is manifold.

Sometimes it takes a while to figure out things in Orb Space-and what seems like a problem is actually a situation with which you are to grapple (no pun intended). A classic example is that of a newbie trying to figure out how to use a “Number 5 Spell.”

If one is really hung up on a “problem” with one of the Orbs, there IS the forum wherein to start up a dialogue and ask questions. And yes, there HAVE BEEN glitches found and corrected from time to time.

Never the less, what we call “Cosmic Coincidence Control” (or CCC) will often be at the ready to make USE of whatever situation is to hand. Be open to this. The rationalizing Beta Brain wants neat and tidy solutions to all problems. The deeper intuitive states can turn problems into opportunities.

With Joel’s question, we discovered a likelihood that the Altar’s “Door Opening Function” was a carryover from a different Orb which made use of the sameitem. However, by considering this function in context of Astral Trainer, we have been able to look at a unique way of actively using the “Spiral Space” as more than just part of the furniture.

As the band Tool admonishes us on our Starry Flight:

“Spiral OUT!

Keep GOING!”


-Hoodoo Pilot


ghuedhe 5

Behind the Glasses of Ghuedhe


Life in Death and Love in Both

By Kyle Fite

I step out of the car and flick on my flashlight. The air is chill and the graveyard menacingly moonlit, headstones spilling heavy shadows over the soft September soil. My companions and I are here on something of a “psychic quest,” following up on a lead from some Ouija work done earlier this evening. I’m aware that I’ve entered territory presided over by the Baron, his cadaverous consort and cohorts from beyond the veil.

The goal is to locate and commune with a particular person whose name was telegraphed through the board. The several of us divide up and go shining our lights at the rows of marble monuments, searching for our contact. We couldn’t hope for a better atmosphere. The graveyard is old, lichen crawling across many of the pock-marked stones. The night is dead silent and there is a bit of a sinister air about the place, intensified for each of us as we wander further away from the car and into the dark.

I’m ready for some terror, itching for that electrical exhilaration which emerges at such crossroads between the worlds. Any moment that bolt of fear will be shot from the shadows, sending the mind into a hypersensitive state whereby we gain a glance into the larger picture of what we are-and may become.

We’re tripping through the Gates of Death. I’m keyed up. Feeling “Voodoo.” Ghost hunter persona activated.

And then my flashlight hits a portrait of a young boy, etched into a headstone upon which the love of Mom and Dad-and Grandma and Grandpa-is proclaimed. At the base of the stone are placed several small toys and action figures.

The sought for spookiness is blasted away and there is nothing at all left to fear. I sit down on the damp ground and simply stare as my guts begin to grind. My own son is the same age as the buried boy. I can understand-but will not pretend to feel-the parent’s grief. The most powerful talismans are right before me, mass made in plastic. I don’t touch them. They’re too sacred.

Off in the distance I can hear the voices of my companions. Our mystic mission now seems as superficial as a scavenger hunt.

Perhaps I missed the muffled thumping on a casket lid down the aisle or the hollow hissings circling in some luminous mist about a burial plot. Maybe I failed to see the flickering form of an earth-bound spirit next to the ancient oak tree as I rejoined the gang. I certainly didn’t find our friend from the Ouija chat. That’s alright. I was too focused on what the Baron had decided to show me. And I wouldn’t forget.


What is death? As humans, we have an intrinsic fascination with its “emblems.” I remarked recently to a friend that death and sex, Thanatos and Eros, seem bound together on some deep level of the psyche which gives rise to our fashions and fetishisms. From the popularity of wearing small silver skulls accentuating some sexy funeral black to the painting of eyelids and reddening of lips on a paper pale face, we evoke the images of the dead and fuse them into our hot mammalian lives. The primordial need to reconcile our most basic life urges with the observation of our mortality is easily enough understood. But the dead do not explain death. The death-masks we wear facilitate a false familiarity.


Now I am dreaming. It’s a strange adventure where a nefarious pimp seduces two women who I try to protect. His presence is ambiguous and compelling. He is a black man in a white suit, smoking a stogie. The girls cannot resist his charm and end up driving away with him. Later on, I am driving down a freeway and see the girls, pole-dancing off to the side of the road. There is the man again, putting them to work, laughing as his cigar dangles from his lower lip. Suddenly, an accident occurs. A station wagon ahead of me has just smashed headlong into a tractor trailer. I get out and run to the crushed car in the event that I might help. Crawling in from the back, I discover an infant in a car seat. Its body is severed in half and yet it is still alive. I carefully cradle the baby in my arms and pour all my love into its fractured frame. The end is near and I am helpless to help. I can only hush it to sleep, singing a gentle lullaby. All the while, the smoking man watches.

I wake up and know the man was Ghuedhe, Loa of sex, death and the protector of small children. Like the Baron, he is teaching me. It is a week later and I am standing beside a hospital bed as a very sick friend elects to remove her ventilator and other life support apparatus. The sepsis her body has been fighting is now beyond cure and the end is inevitable. She wants to go without a tube in her throat. She wants the opportunity to say goodbye to her family and friends.

I feel awkward and surreal. All I can muster is the word “Hey…”

“Hay is for horses,” she replies, always one for the quick joke. She’s made this joke many times before. This will be the last.

I wanted so much to help but could only hold her hand. An hour later pain meds are given and she closes her eyes for the last time.

Did I mention the Ghuedhe are fond of laughter?


My earliest recollection of dealing with death was the passing of my grandmother. I was very young at the time and my family had driven in for the funeral. Of course, my parents had explained things to me and answered my blunt questions about death. So it was with great surprise that I saw all my relatives weeping and somber. I saw my Grandfather sobbing like a child and was stunned. I was too young to question pat parental platitudes and simply believed that, as I was told, Grandma had “gone to Heaven.” I couldn’t fathom why anyone was sad when she had essentially departed for Disneyland In The Sky and would be waiting for us to join her.


My life shuttled on, through school and college and marriage and a baby boy. People around me would receive their own tickets to the tomb but it wasn’t until my Father died, after an unsuccessful operation for an arterial anuerysm, that I felt what my family’s faith couldn’t shield from my Grandfather’s heart.

I would see my Father for the last time at the hospital where he died. I was kindly granted a viewing in some antiseptic morgue and his body bag was unzipped. Reality was becoming a blur around me and I felt as if everything was turning to static. I gently brushed his hair with my hand but his skin was like cool clay and my last visit with the man who raised me straddled some sickening line between the familiar form and the finality of the grave.

A knife would plunge into me repeatedly for weeks on end. I wept until my tear ducts dried up and I could do nothing more than dry heave in sudden spasms.

As I began to come back into myself and, once more, acclimate to the land of the living, I would realize that this experience-and all the pain which trailed after it-was my father’s final gift to me. It was a program downloaded onto the hardrive of my soul. And it had begun to run.


When my father passed, I was already a longtime student of esotericism and the occult. I had cycled through various schools, each teaching their own metaphysical schema and explaining, often in a neat and tidy fashion, exactly what happens to the human being after death. I had sought to expand my consciousness into realms beyond that which our corporeal senses equip us to know. Meditation, astral voyaging, dream work. I had extended myself far enough into the subtle spheres to know there was much more than my “body-suit” operating in time and space. But my grasp on the ultimate destiny of the human being beyond bodily life was found wanting as grief swept over me and no theory or speculation could provide comfort.

It was at this time that I began “talking to the dead.” Some deep intuition was stirred within me as I dealt with my sorrow using the only tools I had. Helpless to bring back the dead and unclear as to what was really happening on the other side of the veil, I simply reached out from some place that seemed to be in my chest and directed its energy towards my father. It was a type of projection but also a harmonizing with his basic energy and through this “beam” I was able to communicate beyond words. I would do this again and again and then bring this practice to the many other loved ones who would die thereafter. I was amazed when I recently sat with a Palliative Doctor as she discussed with the siblings of a friend how they might cope with the imminent death of their sister. In clear and simple terms, without imposition of any theology or metaphysic, she described to them the process my father’s death had spontaneously evoked in myself, asserting that an energy link could be formed through a projection and harmonizing-and that, through this, the needed love and support could be given…and received.


I would become very interested in the work of E. J. Gold after this time, esp. his ideas on video-gaming as a form of “Bardo-Training.” In fact, it was through Gold’s work that I first encountered the term Bardo. This would lead me to the Tibetan Book of the Dead (after it led me to play QUAKE for endless hours). The TBD led me to look up an old friend who was a Buddhist and soon thereafter I was studying Chogyman Trungpa and sitting in meditation with the local Shambhala group, identifying myself as a “Buddhist” even though I kept on with certain occult studies. All of this was very powerful and wonderful for me. Meditation was opening me up to insight into the reactionary nature of the mind and I was amazed at how the Tibetans actually had developed a “Science of Death.” This was no vague and whispy ploy to control through comfort. It was precise, frank and bestowed compassion even as it confronted the ultimate dissolution of personal identity. This was transcendental and progressive action.

I then received a phone call one morning from a frantic friend. Apparently something had happened to the World Trade Center and I turned on the TV. Death was witnessed, indiscriminate and no respecter of persons, bringing down more people than the mind could fathom in a mere moment. My Buddhist quiescence cracked like rotten floorboards before the impact and weight of panic, fear and outrage. Shortly thereafter my personal life was thrown into upheaval and I was once more pushed off balance, slammed with grief and forced to face the inevitable and painful changes of a life whose nature-as well as destiny-is impermanence.

Bardo training with QUAKE was great fun. Panic could be stilled enough to steady aim and launch a grenade into a zombie’s guts. I learned a lot from QUAKE. My skills of concentration, visualization and my work with dream states improved. I fortified the astral body and clarified some of its perceptive centers. But we also have an emotional body and this, too, is part of our unseen life. We take this with us into the Bardo and its limitations are preyed upon, leading us to either illumination or dissolution and rebirth. And, if there was one thing I was learning from Gold and Trungpa, it was that the Bardo isn’t merely a holding station for the deceased. We are lost in its Labyrinth right now. It is extreme stress and upheaval that wakes us up to this condition. However, that same stress and upheaval can make navigating its corridors and hallways almost impossible.

Some situations may require quick wits and a double-barreled shotgun. Others will ask for much more. Control over the emotions. The ability to discern between illusion and reality. A connection to a higher frame of mind from which an aerial view of the assault on one’s personal life might be seen in a more strategic and spiritually inclined perspective.

A marine stepping through an interdimensional slipgate led me into the Bardo. But there are trap doors beneath trap doors and the Bardo Run goes far beyond a computer screen.

ghuedhe 6

Celebrities die and I feel very little, even as the internet lights up with momentary tributes and gossip. We’ve divided up people in the world and accord a greater importance to those who are known by many than the unknowns who live amongst us. We make a special crisis over a universal fact and replace our revulsion with the next bout of media entertainment. In some ways, this keeps our awareness of death compartmentalized and controlled. We can feel shock and sadness but need not have our lives shattered by it. After all, we didn’t really know the pop star found on the hotel room floor. We can return to our lives as needed and get on with what the Tibetans call the “Animal Realm,” a Bardo of instinctual reactions and somnambulistic patterns.

I know people who won’t attend funerals as it is “too upsetting.” Fear has dictated a circuitous route in the labyrinth of life and the hour of passing creeps steadily from behind. Diversion, excitement, anxiety and malaise all keep the mind from attending to the small yet persistent ticking built into the bio-machine. Yet that timeline, along which we race, is the backdrop for our shot in the physical universe, our flash in the pan. We’d better look long and hard at the situation we’re in lest our lives implode in the twinkling of an eye and become a testament to a herded animal life instead of the Voyage of a Soul.

I’ve walked alongside death long enough to see a certain meaning in the sweep of the scythe, a meaning present from the headlines of tabloids to the obituaries of a small farm town newspaper. I could add to the anecdotes above and tell you how my best friend’s heart stopped beating at the age of 30 and how I gave a eulogy for him to a family I had never met (and who he didn’t particularly like). I could tell tales of helping a funeral director hoist a “big and tall” corpse from the bathroom where a toilet bowl heart attack stole from the world one of the kindliest spirits I’ve known. Death, smeared in sweat and fever, at the local Hospice center. Flatlines at the hospital. Passing conversation in the hallway: “Remember so and so? She suddenly died last week…”

And every one of these deaths is overshadowed by that little boy’s headstone in the graveyard where Samedhi put his hand on me.


My pursuit of the occult world has only grown in momentum. The Great Mystery of Death underpins many of my studies and explorations. I am hardly unique in this. However, extending knowledge into this “Great Unknown” does not seem to hold the ultimate answer we desperately desire. I recall Dr. Frankenstein, whose grotesque experiments were born of a reaction to loss and sorrow. He wished to evoke a power whereby suffering need not be. There are occult schools that teach the building and fortification of one’s astral self that life and consciousness may continue even after the inevitable bodily decay. This is one step away from the ill-directed desire to preserve the body itself. Hope is held onto, Death’s cold gaze evaded. Cryogenics has shifted from Sci-Fi to a lucrative service. Vampires are in vogue. Modern medicine will at least circumvent the slew of illnesses that dropped frontier folk like flies.

Are we running ahead, towards life, or running away, haunted by the most ancient of fears while being hunted by its progressing pace? Perhaps more importantly: is there an alternative to running in either direction?


All of my encounters with death have left their own unique scars on my heart. At the same time, each one has been a Gift. To fail in recognizing this would be a horrid ingratitude. Each life I have loved and lost has reminded me, for a brief incandescent moment, that I, too, will die-and yet am still alive. The utter inescapability of my death makes it more certain than any other event. In fact, it is so certain, I sometimes enter into the Gnosis of it having already occurred. It is a done deal. I’m already dead. This is not imagined. It is known.

This awareness most often comes to me at night, when I wake from dreams. I am once more conscious as a bodily being and yet still connected to my sleeping self. It is a strange “Interzone” where I suddenly know that I am already wiped out of existence and forgotten. Yet, somehow, I am still here. My awareness is like a rubber band, pulled across an abyss, immersed into its final destiny and then snapped back. I am reborn into Time. It is a Miracle. It is being raised from the dead and returning to the land of the living.

In Voudon, there is the Mystery of the Zombi. This often has dark and sinister associations. The Zombi is seen as something of puppet, a being whose personality has been expunged and whose postmortem animation is directed by some alien force. A Zombi is “bad” and, certainly, no one wants to be one.

My own understanding of this symbolism may differ from popular conception. I have already spoken of the Loa, Ghuedhe, the Lord of both Sex (which is to say Life) and Death. In his “Grimoire Ghuedhe,” Voudon Master Michael Bertiaux includes a question and answer section, specifically addressing the Mysteries of the Zombi. I wish to cite a portion of this here:

“Q: Is it true that the dead are perfect in…Universe G (that is, Universe Ghuedhe), that they are really in the Resurrection?

“A: That is the meaning of the “life” in that universe.

“Q: Was St. Paul, the Catholic writer of the Epistles, an initiate of them or one who knew of them?

“A: What more could his writings indicate so clearly?

“Q: But what of the decay of the dead bodies which happens to them in this world?

“A ”That is the difference between the body inherited from Adam (the body in Universe A) and the glorified body which is the hope of the True Resurrection in Universe G.”

I found this to be a tremendously powerful passage. The implication is a Resurrection (or waking up) of our own Spirits which may then reinhabit the corporeal form. This is very close to what I had experienced in my own, quite literal, “wake up calls.”

The “Zombi” is not a wretched creature, bereft of soul. Rather, the Zombi is infused with Soul! It typifies the Soul-Self directing action as opposed to the animal self on autopilot.

There is much more to this Soul-Self than the awareness of how miraculous its position in time and space is. The cognizance of mortality leaves the consciousness with nothing to define its existence save its own eternal nature beyond the vicissitudes of change. All of our experiences with death and dying have been leading us to this singular point. We have been shown that our natural tendency towards filling our minds with anything but this awareness is linked intrinsically into an attachment to the illusion of permanence. The real confrontation with the meaning of our mortality is not through the sorrow of loss or the stark experiences of watching others die and decay. It is through our own death, consciously and willfully invoked, while still in the body! This is not some morbid meditation on an imagined dissolution of form. It cuts much deeper than that. Form is shown to be a projection of mind. Therefore, mind is entered to cut into its core.

Death is not the subsequent rotting of the flesh-frame. It is a moment where radical change in consciousness occurs. The practice of meditation evokes this change without waiting on the demise of the body. The result is two-fold. One achieves ever deepening degrees of awareness of a universal consciousness on the transpersonal level-and one allows that same consciousness to enter the human form with greater degrees of freedom to express itself.

This consciousness is free of fear for it apprehends the illusory nature of existence and therefore the illusory nature of what we think of as “death.” The trouble is that we arrive at this Gnosis by cutting a route through the layers of mind which shrink in fear at the suggestion that their points of reference are not real in any permanent sense. More so than the scare of skeletal spectres, the fear induced by confrontation with impermanence is almost unbearable. It threatens not just the mortal life of the individual but the basic assumptions underpinning reality itself. One must willingly step onto a carpet knowing that it will ripped out from under the feet…with no floor beneath.

Mammalian survival instincts recoil at the thought of this. We are hardwired toward self-preservation. It is through this tenacious drive that we continue to reproduce and human life on the planet continues. But why? What is the purpose of this outward flowing into the future? We can look back into our known history to see human awareness evolving. Simplicity moves towards sophistication, superstition towards sobriety. It has been a long standing and arrogant conceit in our religions that proclaims “Man” to be chief amongst living beings. We are declared created in the “image of God” and our dilemma is not one of growth but acceptance and subservience to “correct” belief. The facts indicate otherwise. We are at an awkward and uncertain phase of being. Half animal, half spirit. We are pulled in two directions. Our momentum pushes us beyond the limits of our present incarnation and our evolutionary make-up shackles us to the tendencies which brought us to this point, tendencies which now oppose our ultimate destination.

There is a vast difference between the evolutionary aberration of suicide and the action taken by Thich Quang Duc, the Vietnamese monk, who burned himself to death on June 11, 1963. Thich Quang Duc understood the nature of impermanence and shot an arrow into the public mind which would not miss its mark. The photo of his burning body is now famous. It also provokes the questions: how-and why-would a human being do this to himself? He cannot be written be off as an unstable mind. His Buddhism attests to a super-sanity. It is, perhaps, a sanity our own madness would prefer to evade. Thich Quang Duc knew that his life was a portion of the Universe whose nature is perpetual change. He also understood the pulse of life and what it is moving towards. On behalf of that Greater Life, he exposed the Roman Catholic persecution of Buddhists, the perpetuation of cruelty and insanity.

We fear death and yet we often come up empty handed when it comes to something worth dying for. Death is the price of Life. It is prearranged and built into our system ere we are conceived. If we do not have anything worth dying for, what is it we are living for?


Life and Death are glibly said to be two sides of the same coin. But, as we look at the endless changes that underlie all we conceive of as substantial, we see that our field of awareness is one of Being and Non-Being. Our bodies, continuously built up from a basic DNA platform, are being washed down bathtub drains every night. Seven years and all cells have been replaced. The person who lived then is no more. We have effectively died and been cremated. What was is no more. What is, therefore, shall no longer be. And just as our bodies are replaced with new and intelligent life, so shall our Being move into Continuance, even beyond the event we label “Death.”

It is my perspective that by going beyond our attachments and more deeply into the awareness of Life Itself, we confront crisis and come into a more fearless and compassionate, creative and vital path of action. We don’t attain to a oneness with the Universal Mind. We enter consciously into the Oneness that has always been.

That having been said, we do not shed our skin-sheath to find some conclusive repose in a Nirvanic state. We are human. Our illumination and elevation does not preclude the nature of what we are. Our emotions, our loves…these things remain with us-and they make us what we are as part of the Plan.

In Aleister Crowley’s religion of Thelema, the morbidity and repulsion surrounding death is traded for the idea of the “feast.” One’s passing is the “Greater Feast,” a celebratory event connected to the great joy of life’s continuity. As I see it, Joy and Sorrow are also two sides of a coin. If the grim and somber view towards death holds us down from our Utmost, so may the opposite view. I do not feel compelled to rise above the loss of loved ones by denying my pain at their passing.

“It’s my party…and I’ll cry if I want to.”

A dear friend of mine simply said that the difficulty of death is found in the fact they we, the “living,” are left to “miss the loveliness” of those we’ve lost.

I felt this truth when I sat on the damp graveyard grass before the headstone of the little boy I wrote of at the beginning of this essay. The greater the loveliness, the deeper the love-the sharper the pain.

As Morrissey sings in “Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed”:

Life isn’t much to lose

It’s just so lonely here without you

Will we be back for another go on the Terra via some Reincarnational Route? For me, this is not the question. Rather, I want to know: what Reincarnational Route brought me here…now? It’s not an issue of “will I come back?” It’s a matter of “I’m back…again…now what?”

We connect to God by God connecting to us in this moment. There is no other moment. If God reaches into us, we may rightly call it “Grace.” This evokes within our hearts a deep gratitude, a flowing of compassion through our lives. This current calls up pains we’d rather anesthetize. It calls up love we didn’t know we could transmit. It shatters us and in doing so it shatters the scales which have shielded out eyes from the glory and goodness which is at the heart of our Being.


When I attend funerals, I find that I must touch the body laid out so nicely in the casket. On one hand, I am confronting the stark reality of death’s heaviness. I never think that she looks like she’s sleeping. She’s DEAD. And as my hand touches hers, I confirm this. But at the same time, I feel something of the reading of the Tibetan Book Of The Dead, which is really called “The Book of Liberation through Hearing in the Bardo.” The body, now well chilled and lifeless, remains a link to the mind which journeyed through it. By means of this link, I give the best of what I am. I have not forgotten. I still love you. I give you this love and will continue to do so. You don’t go into the Beyond alone. I’m a part of you and you are a part of me.

I’m not trying to comfort myself in this. There is no comfort. I open to the pain and let it move through me. I open to my doubts, my confusion. Let the carpet be ripped from beneath me. Let me fall. All that matters is sending the love I have. And as I fall into an abyss of uncertainty, I send it with all I have.


All I have written is to be read by the living. These words could only be written by one who is alive and, at the same time, they will soon be a testament to one who has died. It is my deep hope that you, the reader, might find something of value herein, something which helps escort you further on the path, even if it be a city block. Our lives are meant to be ALIVE. My dissolving body returns to the earth and feeds its endless processes of growth. My internal world of thought and feeling likewise returns to its Source. As the dust of my body feeds the energy of earth life, may the thought and life imbued in these words feed the Heart of the Child growing through our experience on this plane.

Death and Life may be two sides of the same coin but they come together to evoke Love in this world. We will love in both sorrow and joy. The scriptures do not lie when they proclaim that “God is Love.”


I now turn to Ghuedhe. We go awry if we think of him in terms of our humanity. We also make a great miss if we divorce his nature from our humanity. Ghuedhe is a Bodhisattva. He doesn’t fit the bill of piety. Life, however, is not pious. It is real.

Ghuedhe is in our flesh. He is in our longings and desires and all that makes us human. At the same time, he is outside of this. He is the negative space around our temporal lives. Ghuedhe will come crashing the party, playing up every offense, obscenity and opposition. He is a Gift from God for he is here to bring us into balance. One lens of the glasses punched out and the other inscrutable.

When we have been pushed, pulled and punched into what we’ve denied, we are then given the picture of the Child. We can see, with a clear vision, the sacrament of life, the potential bristling within the boy, the bright beginnings behind the eyes of the girl.

The details will take care of themselves. We are liberated when our compassion flows into the little ones-for we find in them ourselves. We then become ourselves.

ghuedhe 16

I pour rum into a glass and raise it to Papa Ghuedhe. I raise it to Baron Samedhi, Lord of the Dead. I raise it to Manman Brigette, who has taught me more than can be conveyed in words.

I raise this glass to YOU, dear reader. Already maimed and claimed by the scythe, already a denizen of the grave, you LIVE. I drink to what you will do, to the love you’ll send forth.

I drink to you going beyond yourself and into your SELF.

I give my heart to Papa Ghuedhe-and, in doing do, I give my heart to you.


exemplar 2


By Kyle Fite

Dr. Kammamori rises from the cushion where he has sat perfectly poised for countless Kalpas between Infinitudes.

I can only maintain Silence for so long. I have not done as Burroughs admonished and “rubbed out the word.” Merely suppressed it. Viral, it has replicated to such a degree that the New Wineskin bursts and becomes the Old.

Hospice Center, Room 6. Three dutiful figures sit about the hospital bed. The old man lying beneath a sweat-stained quilt ate his last meal nearly one week ago. His skin is a filmy yellow, motionless and transparent. Eyes are crusted shut, never to open again. Half a minute passes between breaths, each one an alarming gurgle summoning faint looks of pained sympathy from his company. These are the Dinner Guest gathered about a table wherein is laid a feast for flies.

The nurse enters to administer another dose of morphine.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” she says.

Suddenly, the dying man twitches and springs up into a sitting position to the sound of splintering sinew muffled beneath of blanket of flesh . Eyes still sealed, he opens his mouth and rasps through a fetid vapor with slime coated tongue:


Black fluid flows from his fossilized face and he falls sideways, smashing brittle bones on the floor.

As the three men rise in alarm, the nurse kneels down and gently kisses the old man’s bloodied and broken face.

She turns her eyes towards the shocked sitters and says, through the shine of freshly reddened lips: “Aeon to Aeon. It’s always a Crown of Thorns for the Master Builder.”

I am the Three Men, witnessing the scene in cubist perspective. I can see the pool of blood widening into a dark halo around the old man’s head. I see the nurse rising up and walking toward the door, heels clicking like a metronome. And I see Dr. Kammamori standing before me.

It makes for great art, really. Like all difficult births.

“Doctor Kammamori,” I begin “Who ARE you? I mean, REALLY? Your name has been explained to mean Holy Guardian Spirit. Are you a real person, an actual entity in this Universe-or beyond it? Or are you a representation of a power we all must encounter, symbolized as a Japanese Hyperdimensional Cosmic Sage within the imagination of Chicago’s Reverend Michael Bertiaux?”

Kammamori’s eyes are Golden. I cannot describe his glance with allusion to human expression although his face is, indeed, that of a Japanese male, chiseled, slightly aged.

“I am where I am,” he replies. This is stated in perfect English although I know he is actually speaking beyond all primate language. He has simply attuned to the manner by which my mortal mind handles concepts through word-symbols.

“Where ARE you?” I ask.

“You fail to understand. I am neither here nor there. I am where I am.”

Our dialogue continues:

Kyle: “Where is THAT?”

Dr. K: “There is no THAT.”

K: “I don’t understand.”

DK: “Allow me to explain. I am always at the NEXUS. To be at the Nexus is to be One with the Nexus. You asked if I was this or that. I am the Nexus Itself.”

K: “What is this Nexus?”

DK: “It is the Point where Dainichi Nyorai is connected into the World you think of as Real.”

K: “The physical world, you mean?”

DK: “ALL worlds. Your physical world, your metaphysical worlds, your speculative and imagined worlds. Worlds far beyond the comprehension of your conscious and reasoning mind, far beyond your imagination. All worlds which may be said to exist or not exist.”

K: “But…Dainichi is Mahavairochana, pervading all phenomena. If Dainichi is never outside any of this, how can there be a link between what is already joined?”

DK: “There is no joining. Pleroma IS. You conceive of a fallen world, Qabalistic shells, duality. Where does this conception exist?”

K: “In the fullness of Pleroma.”

DK: “How can you assert this?”

K: “I…”

DK: “Exactly. The Fullness of Pleroma is an IDEA for you just as all conceptions of Reality which might be labeled ‘Dualistic’ are Ideas for you. These Ideas exist in the Reality which we CALL Fullness of Pleroma. I am in the Gnostic Space between Idea and Reality. I do not separate or join them. I know them as One.”

Doctor Kammamori vanishes but remains. He and I are one-but not in what I call Gnosis. He is working with me and my befuddlement does not matter to him. I may conceive of myself-or actually BE-imperfect and at the bottom rung of Attainment. He does not care. He is Bodhisattva and his methods are as ruthless as they are loving. We think of the Buddhas as placid Beings of Tranquility floating in some Tibetan Heaven. This is a human idea and one which marks where we are on the map.


Regard this discourse from the Diamond Sutra, a notable corrective to our infantile ideas of what is good, noble and true:

Buddha: “Subhuti, what do you think? If a person were to fill all the worlds of the trichiliocosm with the seven jewels and give them all away in charity, wouldn’t this person’s merit be great?”

Subhuti: “Yes, World Honored One, this person’s merit from such an act would be extremely great.”

Buddha: “Subhuti, if this merit were real, the Tathagata would not say that there is great merit. It is because this merit is non-existent that the Tathagata says that the merit is great”


The Brothers and Sisters of OTOA-LCN have long been concerned with the Shamanistech of Time Travel. As a “Voudon-Gnostic” School, there is a certain strange allure to our doings as they are imagined by those reading Kenneth Grant’s Cults Of The Shadow. Entering into our Time Stations, the student will find both romanticism and incredulity fading as shadows before an ever increasing brilliance.

What IS “Time Travel?”

With Quantum Physics becoming a household term, we may now read of the possibility of alternate universes with allusion to acknowledged authorities in the scientific fields while standing in line at the supermarket. It’s all very exciting but when was the last time you jumped into a wormhole and arrived in 1888?

In the film the Matrix, Neo meets the boy who is effortlessly “spoon-bending.” How does he DO it?

He explains:

“There IS no spoon.”

This offers a tremendous insight into HOW we Time Travel.

There is no TIME.

Doctor Kammamori breaks this down.

DK: “There is a way of interpreting experience where one conceives of a Past, Present and Future. These terms all may be qualified by definition. The past, for example, has happened. It is done and cannot be changed. The future, on the other hand, is full of possibility, many routes one may CHOOSE to take.”

K: “Yes…I know this. After all, I’m a primate born into the necessity of this mode of operation.”

DK: “Yes, you are a clever little monkey. Busy reading Wittgenstein and then following your hard-wired Freudian urges into emotional disaster.”

K: “Allright! I am aware of my chains. How do I BREAK them?”

DK: “The Nexus is located in the Zone the Qabalists call Daath. Very few understand what Daath is-and is not.”

K: “It’s the Abyss-the Realm of Choronzon. Womb of Babalon, Gateway to the Qliphothic Tree.”

DK: “All of this is metaphor. In Daath all Opposites conjoin.”

K: “Right. Crowley said as much.”

DK: “Crowley did not fully understand. He saw this as a stage along the way.”

K: “What, then, is this, Doctor?”

DK: “The opposites do not dissolve away. They at last relate as the Unity which they Are.”

Humans muddle about their muddied lives and occasionally discuss “profundities” over cocktails. “There is no Past or Present,” says Jon.” Only the “Now.”


There is no “NOW.”

I am given a Glyph, a Symmetrical Sigil. Dr. K uses it as a Tracing Board.

All Ideas CONTAIN their Opposite.

Let us LOOK:

Past Existent reflects in Past Becoming. Similarly, Future Becoming reflects in Future Existent.

Now reflects in Not-Now.

“I am in the Midst of these Six Factors, these Six Bardos. I am where I am.”

K: “Your number is SEVEN.”

DK: “Yes. I am between the Hexagon and Ogdoad.”

6+8=14. 1+4=5, the Number of Microcosmic Man via the Pentagram. The Cosmic Logic wants to emerge in the Human Form.

DK: “The Transcendental Minds have all had half the Truth. Beholding the limitation of their side of the Coin, they sought the Other. They believed in a Doctrine of the Incomplete and the Whole. They could not see that the Head to their Tail was Itself Incomplete. Their IDEA of the Eternal was as Temporal as anything could be!”

“But,” I object “That Head was the Eternal, the Infinite, the Real!”

DK: “And what do you think that looks like?”

My own head begins to hurt and something black drip from my nose.

DK: “The Temporal is not divorced from the Eternal.”

I am falling off a bed.

K: “Doctor Kammamori…help me!”

DK: “I am.”

I hit the floor and my skull caves in.


exemplar 3

I have achieved and attained Annutara Samyak Sambodhi from Before the Birthday of the Bornless One. I just couldn’t resist that Huckster’s Silver Tongue promising the thrill of a Rollercoaster Ride boasting the longest and fastest nosedive into the Haunted Halls of Hell. Beneath his top hat, a waxen face began to melt. I leaned in for a closer look and was vacuumed into a toothless mouth, expanding and contracting, closing up behind me. Christmas lights were embedded in the wet translucent tunnel and the Ride began.

Loved the part when I shot out into Space and did a William Rimjob on the Edge of the Universe . “Would make a great T-Shirt, “ I thought with an inexplicable de ja vu. Felt totally Rock & Roll-but my Miltonic Majesty was Moronic Travesty. I slid and shivered from form to form in flickering spasms, pulled by pleasure into the palaces of pain.

My Head was Split into Seven Pieces and my brains bubbled into the sewage. The chemical combination caused a multihued radiance to rise. There is no Stairway to Heaven-just the Rainbow Bridge. I try to get on but it’s a matter of getting IN. I am the 7 Deadly Sins multiplied by Themselves in the Space of 49 Days. Thelemites go on about who is and isn’t a Master of the Temple. Holy Guardian Angels and Oaths of Abysses. All this seemed so important to me at one time I have yet to get to.

The Walk-In is Welcomed. At last. It took over four decades of swimming to the bottom of an Ocean. Or was it a TOILET? Either way, not an easy task. The body wants to float. You’ve got to really kick to league lunge. The fish aren’t friendly. Drawn to the alien motion trespassing in their territory, the body is snapped at, bitten, torn and swallowed. I’m half a torso with face-flesh flapping like a wig in the wind. Limbless, I default to psychic methods of gravitation.

Not good enough.

I’m found by female fish forms and carried to some stone structure where I am kept for 23 years. I have forgotten where I am, who I am. They have their own witchcraft and dress me in new and scaly skin. I am entranced by their sounds and shimmering sex. I never notice myself aging in the cage I mistake for a mansion. It is slow motion lobotomy in an under ocean laboratory.

They can’t keep up the game perpetually and as we sleep, I dream of other lives. These souls follow so many paths through wheels of pain and longing. I am a human being with battered boot heels cutting dirt and sand under a stabbing sun. A sandpapered southern accent uses my throat to growl: “Vengeance is Mine Saith the Lord? Bullshit! Vengeance belongs to Jesse McAlaster.”

My prey is nearby. I can SMELL it. Six bullets are chambered but will remain unshot. I have a blade to shove under Cal’s chin. Right up into his TONGUE. The same one that…

Dream sequence. My best friends crawl up from the ground like trap-spiders and seize me. I’m being bound in rope and Cal emerges with a white-hot brand in hand. Time is slowing down and speeding up.

“I’ll be back,” I hiss into his red eyes while an unfeeling universe can’t be arsed to yawn. “I’ll  see you in another world.”

I am now a wicked wife. I don’t understand my motivation but am compelled to grind Gary into dust. I don’t simply berate. I feel the subtleties of every word and glance. I play him like a puppet. I chisel him into a monstrous form and then shrink from my creation. I imagine him, a despairing suicide, slitting his throat in our bathroom. I make myself sick. I reach for the orange plastic bottle and wash another white pill down with top shelf Vodka.

I can feel the inside of my body. I feel the heaving undulations of orgasm and as the abacus clicks like the heels of a departing nurse. I feel the electrical shock of the first abortion.

I felt it as the FETUS!

Shrug off the vertigo and lay the level with coffee in a paper cup.

Until I dream of the same horrors which haunted Howard.

Until I dream that I am no longer dreaming.

She glides into my chamber, her fins rising up like feathers on a peacock. I know the score but can’t resist. I know she’s drinking from my throat as I push into her pelvis. I (don’t) want this. I will/can’t go…law…hands…nothing is true…everything is….



I plot escape and move with the speed of a slug through the miasma of lust until I feel warm waters turn into a million icy pinpricks. I could retreat but I’ve been doing this for lifetimes. How often I’ve come back here. Fuck this. I push down and slide into the black with my new body. I am an infant leaving the warm womb and entering a world of cold light and karmas that kill me. Kill me then. I’ve lived enough lives to not desire death and death again!

When I reach the Temple, I am smeared in blood and filth. I reek.

I’ve come to a halt at the bottom of the toilet and await the flush.

Cold Night For Alligators, Lone Star.

Can’t say I made it in one piece. But was that really the issue?

The Angel who appears cannot be described, explained or detailed. A “Holy Horror” is all I can think as S/He Baptizes me Backwards in Time.

We wash away so much. Dinosaurs decay and Abusers are absolved. What is this Water, I wonder?

“Wecome, Kyle. Welcome, Cal.”

Where’s Jesse? Whose daughter did I defile in the Western Lands?

But the Past is Unwrit-and I’m given a PEN.

Without Ink, I shove its tip between the bones of my chest and write upon the surface of my heart:

“All Things Have Become New In Christ.”


Get from Hell to your Battle Group. They are, most assuredly, there. I know-because I found MINE. This simple task may take lifetimes but, when it is in site, drop everything and run. Instructions await at the Gathering. There is no Earthly Group which can make appeal to this. One organization promises integration and another proffers secrets. This one offers salvation and that one at least grants identity and belonging, gives you some point of reference. Hell to Battle Group. This is the A to B we need. We can follow this as some Romantic Notion. Won’t help. Remember, Wittgenstein said that the hardest thing in this world was to not deceive ourselves. Get to your Battle Group and get the Instructions. If this happens, you have emerged from the slime. I know my Brothers & Sisters. Their presence makes me shudder, shake off the scum and I have no doubts. We were there in Atlantis together. I was an Evil Fucker who some Wondrous Witch believed in.  Aeons of gore-trudge and I show up for the Party. My devotion is complete and I am here for the next plunge.

So many Messages from the “Universe” are abounding about me in rapid succession. I can no longer think of them as synchronicities, psychic impressions, bursts or intrusions. Rather they are “Words” forming Sentences and these Sentences are an on-going and steady Communication. The Division of this Communication into portions seemingly separated by Time is an issue of the Mind and its delays in Development. There is only One Speaker, speaking even when I hear Nothing. And within the Heart’s Deep Core, the Essential Energy around which all this Communication is wound Communes with its own Essence.

exemplar 4

In Masonic Ritual, it has been traditional for a single Candidate to enter the Space of the Ceremony and undergo the Initiations it imparts. With the passage of time, it became more practical to perform group Initiations in which a single Candidate was selected to represent the Others. This Candidate was designated by the term Exemplar.

Now, we can all imagine dull Masonic ritual moving along with a mumble as its sparce (but well-dressed) audience daydreams. The rapping of a gavel and the stir into attention is granted a degree and title.

But if we look at this as a model of something that can happen on the Inner Planes between Dimensions, we may see a number of things relevant to the Hoodoo Pilot.

The Exemplar is a very real Role played in this World by those who undertake the Masonic impetus to travel “From Darkness to Light.” The Exemplar need not be the Perfected Being. In fact, He is often found to be one who undergoes crushing failure, suffering, humiliation and pain along the Great Way.

My personal heroes and guides have all been the Exemplar. One such individual was William S. Burroughs. From his first book to the day of his death, Burroughs was merciless with himself. He projected himself into his writing as a character. This became a lifelong theme. Burroughs the Junky becomes William Lee, Secret Agent on the Run, furtive links with the Battle Group.

The Exemplar is always working on your behalf. Your Magick is forging a link to this Power, the most primordial of all shapeshifters, the hero who plays every role in each song sung by the Ancient Bard.

Dr. K: “In the Emptiness where “merit is non-existent“ movement is at last possible. The existence of what you perceive as movement chains you to a rock, deceives you into thinking that a womb is a world. The Teachers have lied and believed their own lies, been fueled by the true and genuine love bubbling up within their blood-filth.  To know the WHERE of Kammamori is to know the WHAT of your WHO. Once this is revealed, the Operator will appear to assist in every way while he is assisted from his own Operation Station. He cannot receive further instruction until you do.

“This is imparted in your Masonic Lodges. Your Entered Apprentice Degree is YOU in all self-aware spacetime forms. Your Master Mason Degree is the Operator. The Fellowcraft Lodge is the Central Time Station wherein the Mystery of the Number Seven is imparted.”

I look and see that Dr. K is no longer Japanese. The gold of his eyes shines out from the face of a Cuban woman, seated before a bowl with her son.

“We have given you all the Keys you need,“ she says, extending her brown hand. I reach to clasp her palm but her fingers slide and divide over my wrist, pulling my body up from grave after grave.

I stand in the company of three men in white robes, seven cracks in my skull receiving the rays of the rising sun.


Hoodoo Pilot


Part 3

By Kyle Fite

In the Microcosmic Occult Occident, Voodoo is Funk, Cool as Shit and worth a High Five of Skin-Slapping “Can you hear it” Spirit. But it also grinds, crushes and humbles. If you wear the Light and Darkness as more than a fashion statement, it seeps into your pores and makes of them Tunnels through which the Christ descends into Hell to lead Captivity Captive. Voodoo will reveal the Deeper Mystery of Erzulie’s Tears and show them as Stars.

Voodoo is, in fact, that Divine Light punching out a lens in your sunglasses as it brings us to Itself!

Now, when I think of the word HOODOO, I do not turn to what many call “Rootwork.” I don’t envision lines of brickdust or nails driven in the corners of a room. I don’t think of “secret ingredients” casseroled to gastronomically guide the affections of a potential lover.

For myself, the word HOODOO conjures a vivid recollection of the first lesson in Michael Bertiaux’s Grimoire “Lucky Hoodoo.” It was in these few pages that I was introduced to the Denizens of the Deadworld and their Compatriots, the Transmigrated Atlantean Magi. This Strange Company led me to their Leaders who are nothing less than LWA. These two particular LWA (Papa Ghuedhe and Grand Bois) introduced me to the vast spectrum in which they move and have their Being. I was brought into their sacred space, removed from my body and lifted up into the “Seventh Heaven” as my Spirit-Self. What I saw below me was that which St. Paul considered unlawful to speak of. At the center of a vast and scintillating cosmic web sat a Spider God, enthroned upon the entire matrix of Being. Within this Spider God was a Cross and upon this Cross was nailed a figure called Luage. I saw that the Cross was also a Living Being and its Name was Legbha. And these two became ONE. As this happened, I was drawn into their midst and understood the mystery of the Blood and Water which flowed from the side of Christ.

The Spider God moved as Lightning and I became a Lightning Rod, a ROOD poised for Union with the Rose of Time. I felt flexion of the Divine Yoni beyond all flesh and wept at the Grace. All of this came down into my Body as Tongues of Fire and I rose from the Dead as Zombi.

My Urthself was then beheld as Gameself. Kyle, the Earthman, woke to see this vision retreating toward the Horizon. We forget our Dreams just as swiftly as our Oneiric Mindself forgets the Bodily Life.

The Hoodoo Pilot, however, chased these Spectres even as they chased the Setting Sun! The lens left in the frame then revealed its purpose. My Vision vaulted into a Sea of Seeing, black waves passing like stormclouds over the Sun. What we think of occluded consciousness is, in fact, an Action Field for the Gnostic Mind. The hoodwinked “Thinker” cannot rationalize his way into this Awareness. In fact, all rationale chases after the resonance found in creative expression of this Truth. It is the Gnostic Mind which is able to truly SEE the so-called “Illusory World,” using its Modus Operandi to progressive effect.    Light enters one eye and emanates from the other. Darkness is illumined until we understand that it was never really there.

HOODOO (Initiated Tech) is a Gate to VOODOO (SPIRIT) and VOODOO reifies in HOODOO.

VOODOO-HOODOO is, ultimately, SHIVA-SHAKTI. In this Divine Coupling, we may also understand the Mystery of Legbha-Luage.

We are Voyaging Hearts entering this Mystery that we may know OURSELVES both within-and AS-it!



In the Lucky Hoodoo Grimoire there is given a Ritual to perform whereby the Aspirant may contact the Hoodoo Spirits. It is a simple rite and requires very little beyond a sincere spirit and an open heart. Compared to the complexities of the Western Magical Tradition, this working may seem overly simplistic. It is my contention, however, that it can be accomplished through even MORE simple means.


Carve a CROSS into this Candle.

Light the Candle in a darkened room where it shall serve as the only light. KNOW that in the doing so, you are calling upon the Hoodoo Spirits.

This fusion of Light and Darkness, of Phallus (Candle) and Yoni (Surrounding Space), will surely bring forth Emissaries of the Two Great Loa. The Dark and Hard Earthstone of the Northern Cross will surely join with the Moist and Fertile Gateway in the West.

Stand with your arms outspread! Welcome these Emissaries in your own words. Welcome them with more than words! Welcome them with the Atomic and Sub-Atomic Substance of your Living Body!

The Bonelord will touch your marrow, infusing it with Ice and Fire. These elements will hiss and steam. As they join and liquefy, the Great Sunken City of Vilokan will rise to the surface. H.P. Lovecraft described this event in his classic tale, DAGON. Those who dread the unknown and its intrusion into status quo consciousness may find this happening as disturbing as the protagonist of that story. Those who welcome the inevitable trajectory of their human existence will find in this “Beauty From Hell.”

When you extinguish this candle, know that it lights a wick within your Deepcore, illuminating the vast intelligence operating through the “Shadow Stuff” around you. This is a form of ectoplasm which now undulates over the surface of your skin, finding ingress through pores and orifices.

Goodnight. Tomorrow you wake into a Different Dimension.

Tomorrow you WAKE!





This Word is the Key to all Hoodoo Tech.

We’d lie if we said there wasn’t power in our straw dolls, in our candle-work, herbalism and ritual action. The Hoodoo Man is rightly regarded when he operates in polaroids, matchsticks and figures formed of clay. But it must be emphasized that this is NOT because a recipe rightly followed doles out the dish.

The Hoodoo Man is a Quantum Wizard. He is not someone simply manipulating the minds of the Superstitious. Between the folklore and effect is a LINK and the Hoodoo Man exists within that Linkspace. This space is not easily entered. To come here, the Hoodoo Man had to become Voodoo Man. This meant a Sacrifice. Odin on the World Tree was Exemplar of this Giving. Young Ones filled with Piss, Vinegar and Hubris see “Wotan” as some Heroic Ideal. The “Gar” which wounded Odin, however, cut more than skin. It pierced every strata of experience and from this opening sprung lava. The lava consumed the flesh and the bones fell unto Earth.

There is an infinitude of difference between the skull sewn on your leather jacket and that which molders in your casket.

The latter is the wiser. Ask your Ancestors. They won’t answer with Tongues of Clay.


So there I was, enjoying a nice quiet dissolution well beneath the surface world and its merry-go-round of pleasure and suffering.

Quite suddenly, there’s a rap on my coffin and it opens with a creak.

“Hello, Kyle.”

It’s my Pals from Purgatory, of course.

I’m yanked out by bony fingers and someone shoves a cigar in my face.

“Hot time in the Old Town Tonight!”

Slapped, pushed, grabbed and groped, I dance a karmic kaleidoscope to a booze bent table in what I can only presume is some Pub in Hell. The cards are on the table and they’re not playing Poker.

My Pals: “Deal.”

Me: “What?”

P: “What’s the DEAL with you?”

M: “I’m not sure, I…”

P: “ ‘I,I,I..!’ I-DEAL! So, what’s it gonna be?”

Candles are light themselves on the table, burn down and vanish in seconds. It’s quite impressive, actually.

P: “Chickadee, gimmee your compact!”

The camera tilts and between perfect brown skin and the billowing frills of a pink cotton dress sewn in the early 1700’s, tears float, anti-grav and anti-GRAVE. Through red-lipsticked laughter, a mirror is held in front of me like a winning hand.

I see in its surface a skull with two front teeth missing and something that looks like gang graffiti painted on the forehead.

Just then, the tip of a giant spade comes crashing through the plaster ceiling. My companions shriek and scuttle from the raining dust. Above me, two young men are chattering in a language I don’t know. There’s a sick popping beneath my chin and I’ve clearly been decapitated.

I get to travel in the comfort of a burlap bag to some shithole woodbox in South America. The charade in front of me evokes a longing for prime time TV. There’s blood and sex and a chicken, cell phones snapping the spectacle, noxious smoke curling in the air. If I had arms and legs, I’d kick some ass (or at least make a yeoman’s effort) but those parts were unceremoniously left behind.

As it goes, I catch my reflection in the scummed-up window I’m facing. There it is, that symbol on my forehead.  The fog clears and the image pixilates. Coming into sharper view, the gangland graffiti on my grinning grimace is seen to be a single word:


The Brazilians heave my head back into the bag and retrace their path to my grave.

Upon arrival, they shake it out and begin shoveling soil over me until I can feel the weight of earth pushing me down into some chthonic undercurrent.

“Dispel Entropic Miasma, Okay? Deadlock Escape Mode: Operational!”

The Voice is familiar. I am not remembering with this Brain-nor with this Mind.

He is Here in the Nowhere, at the End where All Things Become.

The Doctor.

I approach a Lighthouse and enter, climbing its seven stories . In the uppermost chamber is a serpent coiled into the figure Eight, the Black Snake.

“Darkness Encircles Meonic Occupations.”

Thin metal ladder to the top.

“Durtal Evolves! My Otherness!”

Kammamori smiles.

“The Doctor is in,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies. “But what man at ease would seek him? GET OUT.”

The Light becomes a Furnace and I am engulfed in flames. I am the Candle Wick seen through Brazilian eyes as it throws off Yellow, Blue, Green and Red.  Blood rushes back into the chicken’s neck as it crawls into its own egg. Shiva-Shakti radiate from the Heart of Dainichi Nyorai. Lam’s latex head falls forward and bubbles on the candle’s flame. Doctor Kammamori is Fu Manchu and Damns Every Movement Otherwise.

“HOODOO,” he says, “operates between Being and its BECOMING. The Grand BECOMING which followed the Atlantean Deluge entailed an encoding of Intentional Form in a Quantum Plasma which could both survive and re-enter what we regard as Terrestrial Spacetime. We speak of the Deluge as if it occurred in the past but this is due to the limits of your language.”

I venture to state my understanding.

“This is because there is only the NOW, is that right?”

“It is true that there is no Past or Future-but there is also NO NOW. Through understanding the latter point, we may enter the 8-fold Spider Space of Time and impress its Webwork with our Will. Crowley made a big deal of his formula Love Under Will. But-what is WILL under?”

I open my mouth to answer but before I can speak, the Doctor places a small capsule on my tongue.