Category Archives: Hoodoo

Chewing the Cud

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Coin Errors appear in a wide variety. We’ve written previously that the aims of the Numisgnostic are not necessarily those of the Numismatic. We’re not evaluating the topography of a coin based on how much it might be worth in the collector’s market. Rather, each coin has been imbued in its Spacetime voyage with an energetic history, a history witnessed by-and worn into-the surface of the coin.

Because we actively work with coins according to their content as such, we are not merely collectors. The “rarest” coin in the world may sit in a vault and serve no other purpose than gratifying its owner for having acquired something which seems significant. On the other hand, coins of power may pass from pocket to pocket without ever having that power tapped, directed or bringing about effect in the world.

The key is understanding how to identify, act upon and direct content.

From a practical standpoint (and real magic is ultimately a practical matter), imagine how significant our million dollar rarity seems to us when we’re gasping through crushed lungs on an interstate smash-up.

On the flip (pun possibly intended), imagine the value of a coin functioning as an active and operative talisman, serving as payment on a ferry between dimensions, delivering us from “Stuck” to “Onward.”

Despite our expressly magical approach to coinage, Numisgnosis is not hardly sneering at recognized mint errors in the “field.” There is simply an added level of interpretation, a different approach to designations of “significance.”

In the Corrosion Corp (which is the Numisgnostic Field Division), the real factor of significance is YOU. Of course, YOU are much more than you may be aware of. Ergo, the work with coins will follow after exercises intended to illuminate this fact. Going beyond this, you will be able to discern in each and every coin you find a content worthy of Alchemy on the spot.

It just so happens that some of these coins WILL contain coveted “mint errors” and these will be read and applied from a standpoint differing from that in the “marketplace.”

While working through rolls of coinage at Space Hoodoo HQ, we discovered an amazing CUD. This is, in essence, the result of a die breakage at the mint whereby the hot metal pools up onto the surface of a coin and creates a disfigured disc. The less than perfect coin escapes into circulation and we find it.

Now, the die is the set form. This doesn’t imply some horrible or imprisoning script we can only hope to escape from. We might regard the die as imprinting something akin to the Qabala’s Tree of Life. A Structural Form which represents a Totality of Being.
The CUD creates a COMMENTARY. It’s akin to an arrow shot into a Map of the Tree, marking the Zone most critical to your ongoing Pilgrimage. If one understands the Mandala (which is what a coin really IS), one can understand (and make use of) the marking!

When the Die breaks, a portal opens into neighboring realms. You can avail yourself of the opportunity and jump through.

Is this decision wise or foolish?

If you understand the Mandala, you will be able to see what the CUD signifies. Even if one lacks knowledge of a Mandalic Framework, any CUD will trigger a response from the Deep Mind.

The fact that a CUD error has reached you indicates that its passage through time and space has not been obstructed. Therefore, the CUD occurred specifically for YOU.
For the Numisgnostic, then, there will be no deliberation as to whether or not one should leap through this portal. What we’re looking at here is the Golden Opportunity.

Of course, our encountering a Mandala Access Point (M.A.P.) via the CUD points toward the same underlying principle manifesting through the innumerable surface scars borne by each and every coin. This leads us to the exercise of wherein a roll of 50 coins is obtained and the Numisgnostic is able to use each and every one as a Talismanic M.A.P.. There is no “sorting and searching” for something “of value.” Rather, each coin is assessed in relation to the Mandala.

The Mandala is not something which can simply be studied and learned. If this were the case, assessing any deviation from the Die would simply be a matter of intellect. It would be akin to reading a cipher.

To truly read the Mandala, one must understand what it is. This entails a type of feedback from the Formless into Form. Elements are understood energetically. This requires continuous practice.

Agents in the Corrosion Corp have gone through their “boot camp.” From this, they have brought their skill-set to the battlefield. Post-skirmish, the C.C. Agent applies this Coin Work to every aspect of navigating the Universe.


THE PORTAL PENNY: Corrosion Corp Mission One


Numisgnosis is a Path and, as such, one must discover an Access Point whereby to begin. On this particular journey, we will describe a very simple means to locating and entering the Gateway.

The First Task:

Find a Penny.

This is the Price of Entry. It’s the First Task. But-as common an object as the ubiquitous penny might seem-it must be found in a certain way. Perhaps we ought say:

It must find YOU.

There is an old and oft-quoted adage in occult circles which states “When the student is ready, the master appears.” Ere the unveiling of the “master,” all a student can do is get ready, preparing themselves for the encounter. The master may have walked past them on the street a hundred times but they remain ignorant of this. Thus we find, in Masonic Ritual, for example, the emphasis on being “Duly and Truly Prepared” for what is to come. If consciousness is not aware, receptive and adaptable, what the master has to offer will follow after the proverb of “pearls before swine.”

Of course, it is part of the master’s job to help the student increase those qualities listed above. Ergo, our preparedness is not looking toward some ultimate level of attainment but rather a workable state of being whereby good seed may fall into fertile soil.

In this opening phase of Numisgnostic Initiation, we might envision the “master” as described by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche who, when questioned as to who he regarded as true and living master, replied:

“Situations are my Guru.”

We might thereby imagine the Master with a Million Faces in a Billion Places. The goal is to first begin seeing these Faces, growing into initiatory interaction and ultimately knowing ourselves as one with that we have sought after.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves here. The first thing to do is to locate the Gate into the World, which is to say THE PROCESS, where these-and other-realizations and power-ups may be discovered. The realizations are themselves Initiations and might be viewed along the lines of successive stages of Illumination as detailed in certain Buddhist Schools. Each stage of Illumination has a corresponding Siddhi (or Magical Power). Often, the Siddhi is sought after with little regard for the Illumination to which it corresponds. In my own experience, it is the Illumination which produces power as an effect. One is suddenly aware of new ability but all preconceptions as to how this might look (or be applied) are transformed by the change in consciousness. The manifestation of any Siddhi almost becomes an afterthought.

Both Illumination and the Manifestation of Siddhis WILL result from the practice of Numisgnosis.

Step One:

Find a Penny.

Upon determining to complete this Task, you should KNOW that there is a PARTICULAR PENNY in your geographic locale which is already YOURS. This is NOT to be found in your pocket change or by purchasing a roll of 50 copper coins in a neatly packaged roll from the bank. Your Penny is “Out There” and will appear, according to your attentiveness and intuition, as an object in your physical environment. It shouldn’t take long to locate. You need simply to relax and bear in mind that this coin is seeking YOU even as you are seeking IT. It may appear in a parking lot, a restroom, an aisle at the grocery store. But it WILL appear. And when it does, it marks the MOMENT in which you take the first substantial step into the Numisgnostic World.

This particular coin is what we will call the PORTAL PENNY. As soon as you see it, you will have established contact with another realm. By picking it up and coming into physical contact with it, you step on through the Gate.

As indicated previously, we aren’t looking for a Numismatic “find” but a Numisgnostic Connection. Your Penny may not be worth a farthing to any other Soul on the planet but to YOU it will be invaluable. This small bit of metal contains an infinitude of information as well as the energy signatures attendant thereunto. The moment when you meet each other is a powerful and dynamic Alchemical phase, the Opening of The Operation. The coin’s content is condensed in that moment. All the energy signatures become vivified along the lines of a horoscope, delineating detailed experience into categorical abstractions which represent powerhouses available for new direction. You see, the coin lacks volition and needs you to provide it. YOU have this volition on a deep (and-for most people-subconscious) level. The coin’s karmic code prods and stimulates this volition by resonating with the energy signatures within your Being.

In essence, the finding of your Portal Penny is a Magical Meeting wherein a Partnership is formed.

Now, many people will spot a wayward coin each day and their lives will go on, “business as usual.” What makes YOUR find different is the inward opening to the Event. Before walking off into the World, you, at the very least, entertain the notion of the Portal Penny to such a degree that its discovery will serve as a field for the implementation of the above-described process.

Otherwise, you’ll just be another flash in the pan spotting a flash in the parking lot.

Although I’ve worked with Numisgnosis for some time, I decided to re-implement this Initial Task for myself in conjunction with writing this text. It just so happened that I was in the company of an individual whose name happens to be Penny. While accompanying her to an Optometry appointment, I spotted my coin on the office floor. How perfect and wonderful. In a clinic for the correction and improvement of sight, I found a magical mirror. I couldn’t have orchestrated this if I tried. But it just came through.

We should never “force a find” nor impose expectation on the experience. If we yearn for “bells and whistles,” we may miss a whispering from that Still Small Voice Within.

Once discovered, the coin is to be regarded as a sacred object and handled accordingly. It will ultimately be placed into a coin flip but if one is without this, it should be wrapped in a clean piece of cloth and kept safe until one’s Numisgnostic Altar is constructed. If intuition dictates, this Penny may be carried on one’s person in a safe and secure fashion.

Such acquisition automatically enters and enrolls one in the Corrosion Corp. Further directives will follow…



For some time now, the content of the forthcoming book SING THE CORROSION has been developed in bits and pieces alongside continuous Numisgnostic experiment and practice. Rather than wait until some final offering is assembled in its entirety, we’ve decided to blog the book via as a type of exercise.

The idea is simple: write and release one entry per day. This blends up the vision of a complete and coherent text with the unpredictable nature of a journal or logbook, scrawled out on the go and driven down unforeseen by-ways.

The inspiration behind Corrosion was never to write a “definitive” book but to generate something akin to how Burroughs described Naked Lunch when he observed that most novels were written from the standpoint that all the main characters were dead. Past tense. By contrast, he described Naked Lunch as a book which is HAPPENING, in the NOW, right where WE are.

To be truly magical in nature, a book needs to link into the unique and unfolding experiences of the reader, meeting them where they are and providing feedback as the landscape of consciousness continues to change. The reader is an adventurer and the book is a companion on the path, one which can offer fresh guidance, from familiar passages, as new territory is entered and challenges confronted.

Numisgnosis is a Type of Sub-Path, adaptable to any number of scenarios according to the wit, intuition and ingenium of the Numisgnostic. It’s a type of Shamanism or Hoodoo. The focus in Numisgnosis is not, however, on “Mastery” but momentum. And it is accessible to anyone who is willing to jump in.

The price of admission?

A single penny-and then the Game begins.



Magus of the Spirits, an Analog to the Master of the Masonic Lodge

The METAMORPHIC TAROT OF THE SPIRITS was originally conceived of as “The Lucky Hoodoo Tarot,” a visual venture into traditional Tarot structure through the lens of Michael Bertiaux’s Lucky Hoodoo lessons (from his Voudon-Gnostic Workbook). The foundation of this work was fairly simple. In these early lessons we learn of the Hoodoo “team” composed of the Spirits of the transmigrated Atlanteans Magi (the Hoo) and the Spirits of the Dead (the Doo). These entities occupy, respectively, the Western and Northern sectors of the Magical Circle of Lucky Hoodoo. As we move on in both study and practice, the Circle “rounds out” and we have all four quadrants inhabited and governed by the Major Players in the Voudon Pantheon. These arenas of Life and Being naturally gravitate toward expression through the 4 suits of the Tarot and their elemental correspondences.


SAMEDHI GATE-Arcana 13 of the MTS

The 22 Greater Arcana, with their baseline archetypes, effortlessly lend themselves to expression through the forms of Voudon symbol and vision (similar to the African embrace and transmutation of Catholic Iconography). This approach to the System of Tarot has already been utilized with great power and beauty in Salllie Ann Glassman’s New Orleans Voodoo Tarot deck.

With the Metamorphic Tarot, I sought to develop the images as an exploration, what Bertiaux would call “research.” The creation of the deck was not after the manner of simply illustrating a particular interpretation of the cards as neatly hung onto a preestablished system. Rather, I looked into the basic energy field of each Arcana and sought to work within these as types of “Gnostic Spaces” wherein the Spirits belonging to particular zones in the Vuduverse might manifest through form. The cards, then, became a vehicle for a type of mediumship.


THE MASTER THE LION-One of the vital links to the Ti Bon Ange which we encounter in the Monastery of the Seven Rays

Although this deck is ready to function as an oracular device, the emergence of the images was, itself, oracular. Thus, the Metamorphic Tarot exists as a collection of “research notes” in the form of a minature gallery, the conclusions of which are to be determined by the reader in communion with his or her own Spirit contacts. My personal commentary on the cards (in the accompanying booklet) is that of the “researcher” but cannot be an authoritative explanation of their esoteric content which is accessed through the forms and not defined by them.


The Wheel of Fortune manifests in the MTS as the Circle of Lucky Hoodoo

We are now able to take preorders for this deck and its accompanying booklet which is signed by the author and will include its tipped on color plate front cover. Order will be shipped from the US. Previously, we experienced many frustrating delays in shipments when mailing from Canada and are very happy to say that this shall be no more!

Each deck is hand cut and assembled. Book and cards are offered for $64 + post. If interested in purchase, please contact us at



We enter Time at the Spiral Gate.

As inquiries and requests for The HOODOO PILOT BARDO TAROT have continued to come rolling in to Space Hoodoo HQ, I have decided to rewrite the original booklet which accompanied the first run of the deck. Initially, I offered a short introduction to the Tarot, followed by a series of comments and quips on each one of these idiosyncratic cards. I use the term “idiosyncratic” because the symbols and images employed in creating this deck were quite eclectic and personal. In my own treating of the Tarot Keys, I have depicted an extremely diverse array of themes. We find in this Magical Gallery an Egyptian Priestess, the Nordic God Odin, an old school crystal radio and a tower built from coffee cups.


It’s a bit of a mix.

For myself, this mix comes together without any problem. This is because the Tarot is really a “skeleton” upon which we cultivate a “new skin” whereby it may walk, talk and serve as a Traveling Companion on our personal path through this world (and others).

This is one of the primary uses of the Tarot, to open what we call M.A.P.s (or Mandala Access Points). As a whole, the Tarot offers a depiction of reality in its many facets, fitting the diversified components into a harmonious unified structure. For those who have worked with the Tarot in conjunction with the Qabalistic Tree of Life, this is apparent. The Tree lays out a schematic of our World from the mundane realm of bodily life and sense impressions (Malkuth, the “Kingdom”) to the heights of transcendental and supernal glory (Kether, the “Crown”). Any card drawn can be located on this map and help us to orient our inner compass thereby.


However, each card also connects into our life condition as a type of “perfection in potentia.” The symbolic framework of each image is related to in a very personal way as we discern its connection to whatever we happen to be dealing with and what we may BECOME by means of that process.

Thus the interplay between the Personal and Universal, Individual and Cosmic, is an absolutely vital aspect of making the Tarot “work” in ANY fashion.


Wittgenstien once remarked that the whole purpose of Philosophy is to discover connections. Hence, Philosophy wasn’t something reserved for those who would read endless volumes of heady books and argue with others over the correct way to assess life, the universe and everything. To be a Philosopher meant being engaged with an active examination of life itself. It doesn’t matter whether your views might later be overturned. That’s the whole POINT. To keep pushing in deeper, to keep swimming out into the stars with change and transmutation expressing a dynamic process of development.
After writing the book meant to put all Philosophical questions to rest forever, Wittgenstein was challenged by a friend who, making a simple “naughty gesture,” poked a hole through his airtight approach. All wrapped up and good to go? Not anymore. And so he went back to work, endlessly attacking the new problem, discovering new connections, questioning more than postulating.


In fact, I find this to be one of the most powerful things about Wittgenstein’s philosophy. He presents more questions than answers. Where some present a point of view meant to seat people in a room where they can spend the rest of their lives, Wittgenstein was picking the locks on doors leading into unexplored vistas.

For some, being a Philosopher means erecting a castle. For Ludwig Wittgenstein, it meant GETTING ON THE TRAIN.
Think of the Tarot like THIS. You are a Philosopher and the Tarot is your Train. And you’re going to ride with interesting passengers.


With this thought in mind, we relaunch the HOODOO PILOT BARDO TAROT. I wished to write more extensively on each card, describing what it’s loaded with, why its content was important to me and why I fit it into the Tarot Structure as I did. It’s my feeling that in doing so, this deck will serve as more than a “variation on a theme.” It can indicate considerations which forge the connections of which Wittgenstein wrote. The idea is not to turn up images which have been mastered by the intellect but to open gates whereby the Mind & Heart, known as one thing, can look with new eyes at M.A.P. location, fueling up for movement.

Just as THE Tarot is a Living Organic Verity, given expression in endless symbols, so it is that Mandalas depict RELATIONSHIPS which are always in motion and never static. This requires motion, Thelemic “GO-ING,” if you will (no pun intended), a coming into a direct knowing of the Balance and Symmetry therein shown.


Part Portable Gallery, Magical Autobiography and Divination System, we offer this deck for $55 + post. If interested in purchasing this pack, please contact us at Each deck is made to order, cut by hand and will be shipped with its accompanying book.

We will continue to post Tarot updates on this blog and also at


“Ultimately, being lost in the Labyrinth is the same thing as being on the Royal Road…the real purpose of any Tarot is not to poke at and predict a possible future but to present a Form-Vehicle whereby we function as Co-Creators with the Cosmic Mind, fashioning from Illusion a Work of Amazing Artistry.”

-Kyle Fite, The Hoodoo Pilot Bardo Tarot (original booklet)



Spirit Window of the Eastern Gate (without Sigil)

For sometime now, I have felt indebted, beyond requisite offerings, to the Spirits of Lucky Hoodoo for their continued Presence in my Life and Work. I knew there was a project of some sort which I would set about alongside them, not as “pay back” but as a cooperative labor which would serve the extension of the Hoodoo Empire in Spacetime.

As Sovereign Grand Master of the OTOA-LCN, I have, of course, worked with numerous students of this highly organic system of Spiritism but, as Rev. Michael Bertiaux has, himself, been quick to emphasize, the Path of Lucky Hoodoo is both real and operative outside of any group or magical order which might wish to contain it. OTOA-LCN, therefore, serves as a “Magical Machine” in the field of Hoodoo Research but never holds the “secrets” from those working outside of its Sanctuaries. This simply cannot be done for it is the Spirits Themselves who reveal their Mysteries through Mediumistic Communion.


Spirit Window of the Southern Gate (detail)

What CAN be done, however, is active contribution to the growing body of material being created, conjured and conveyed through ongoing magical practice in this arena. Some of our findings must remain private only because they are wholly personal. Others might be fruitfully shared with the larger community in the same fashion that one might contribute to any journal of research. There are opportunities for exciting exchange in the “marketplace” with an eye toward enhancing our own ontological experience.


LEGBHA-LUAGE (without Sigil)

Initially, I had anticipated some sort of written endeavor, branching off from the Introductory material given by Rev. Bertiaux at the opening of his magnificent Voudon-Gnostic Workbook. This was never envisioned as any sort of “improvement” on the work of the Master but rather an elaboration in which I could give expression to my own individual exploration and extensions of Hoodoo Working in an esoteric vein.

From this desire (and also to address some particular problems expressed to me by students of the LH Grimoire), I began penning the “Becoming Hoodoo” series with the intent of examining the not always apparent connections between the raw and amoral sorcery of elemental Hoodoo magic and the high ideals of Seven Ray Monastery Gnosticism.


Spirit Window of the Northern Gate (without Sigil)

These essays were produced piecemeal and anthologized via a number of small occult publications. As I was asked about these by many who were unable to purchase the books in which they appeared, I have put up most of the written material here on my blog that they might be enjoyed by all.

After arriving in British Columbia this past autumn, it became clear that there was further work to do along these lines and it would be during travel over the waters of Kootenay Bay that the Hoodoo rose up to delineate the next phase of this work.
It began simply enough with a series of drawings intended to be used on my own altarspace. From this bout of sketching, directions came in as to how this simple series of images could unfold into an ongoing work of use to others who were, likewise, connecting with the Spirits in their own homes and lives. From this impress I have designed, painted and assembled the LUCKY HOODOO SPIRIT WINDOWS which are meant to be actively used in conjunction with the LH Altarspace of the VGW.

The four Spirit Windows may certainly be enjoyed on their own merit as art pieces, although the intent behind them is for active use in esoteric work. In writing up a commentary on the use of these images, I found that I had returned to the “Becoming Hoodoo” project with a stand-alone entry in which I could continue sharing from my personal vision of the Hoodooverse. I moved rapidly from a pamphlet to a paper and the result is the small volume entitled SPIRIT WINDOWS.
In writing this first of a new series of booklets in the Voudon-Gnostic tradition, I’ve continued to take the approach which has developed in the Becoming Hoodoo papers, blending information, personal anecdote and vision. These booklets will also contain commentary by Michael Bertiaux selected, respectfully and with blessing, from many private communications over the years.


Resurrection (from the LH Tarot-forthcoming)

We are presently offering these images for purchase as part of a SPIRIT WINDOW package which consists of the following:

1) The four Spirit Window images (each plate sigilized by hand and mounted on heavy stock)
2) The Spirit Windows Book of Commentary & Instruction with tipped on and signed color plate of LEGBHA-LUAGE
3) One LH SPIRIT CONTACT COIN sealed in its own handpainted COINFLIP
4) One bag of handmade LH incense used in the consecration of the above items (also intended to be applied in conjunction with Hoodoo Ritual).

The SPIRIT WINDOWS package is offered at $55 + shipping. This is a LIMITED SERIES of TWENTY FOUR packages only and will not be reproduced after these are gone.

If interested in obtaining and working with these, please contact us at

Wishing you all Blessings of the Spirits on your Soulquest!


Dry Bones Dance (from the LH Tarot-forthcoming)



The “Tiki Cultus” is very Adamic in Nature. Tiki was the first Man and his adventures, as such, follow closely after the mishaps attending the Clay Creation of the Book of Genesis. However, unlike the well-known Adam, Tiki has become an emblem of Protection, a Guardian Spirit at various important Gateways and Thresholds. His ferocity contains the bite and bitterness of the human “set-up” via creation: a Being thrown into the World of Spacetime with its enticements and suffering. On the flip side, Tiki carries the Wisdom and Power rippling at the Dawn of Consciousness, a direct connection to the Divine Influx back of the Human Game. He is, therefore, well suited to serve as Protector of Sacred Sites and Forbidden Places.


To encounter Tiki is to come face to face with the Essence of own’s Core Self. We are reminded of Indiana Jones, who understood that “The Penitent Man is humble before God.” We do not impose our seemingly sophisticated selfhood onto Tiki. We recognize Tiki within ourselves and, thereby, pass the Gate.


Space Hoodoo HQ offers our latest Greeting Card collection, the TIKI SERIES, for $20 + post. This set includes 5 greeting cards with tipped on color plates, each one hand signed and suitable for framing.


Please contact us at if interested in purchasing a set of these cards. Larger orders will be discounted. We hope you-and those you write to-will enjoy these Guardian Spirits as they appear in the post to deliver Goodwill and a Smile!



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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.