Link: Time is a Collector.

xLx

We never allow ourselves to be the beginning. To be one human, or two, or however many, just wandering through the land we have found ourselves in. Curious, as such a human would be. Young, as such a human would be. With a sense of possibility, as such a human would have.

As I wander, with the girl who wanders with me, I find that this land has already been taken. Everywhere, an owner. Everywhere, a law standing between us, as two humans at the beginning, and just being with the grass and the stars and the sun.

We are confused. We want to be. To ponder, to walk and wonder whether this or anything or nothing? But everywhere, there is already an old, regimented, and structured system of what is. And it demands that we take our life from it and give our life to it. That we live by its ‘money’ and its ‘law’ and its words and culture and…

We just want to wander.

Two humans with the stars.

And it seems like we’ve found ourselves in a tyranny. A tyranny that refuses to let the most basic, simple humanness survive without reference to it. Which wishes, we hear, to extend its ‘democracy’ over the globe which, we’ve heard, we live on.

And, we really don’t claim to understand very much. We’re just two young human beings whose questions and wanderings are sincere, and that seems to have set us apart from others. I don’t think the people who live by these laws and this society have got it so wrong… and I can see how what has arisen could naturally have arisen just from people living out their lives as they must, and forming societies around that.

But, whyever whatever has happened has happened, it has happened:

We are in a tyranny. The form that life, and humanness, can take in this land we find ourselves in is forcibly limited. Such oldness has arisen that our whole lives must, we are told in every half-veiled official and institutional phrase, be lived upon bases and categories which precede us.

We respect craft. And knowledge. And the crafts of artisans. Those things are traditions. We don’t scorn the living and experience of the humans in the land we’ve found ourselves in. And if anybody has a way of life and understanding which suits them and which they wish to live out amongst those immediately around them, we have no words we could say against them. But, if two humans cannot simply wander over the land they have found themselves in, as we so long to do, and if two humans cannot simply create a way of life spontaneously and without mediation through what has been, as we so long to do, then this is a hell that we live in.

And we must fight.

Understand us—we are just two humans with sincerity. Just beginning at the beginning, and realising what strictures have been imposed upon us. And, as we must, refusing to simply accept such.

If we, two humans, cannot wander, no two humans can wander. And if two young humans—any two young humans, of whatever inclinations—cannot wander, young and possible as those two humans should rightfully be young and possible, then we must fight whoever would prevent that.

And, we find, the foe is titanic. Just vast. And maintained by so much acceptance and belief from the humans who it lives through. And so we realise the scale of the fight we must fight.

And we write this. A probably very quiet voice, read by a very few. But, we hope, amongst those few there will be some who realise what we are, and who may take solace in realising that there are others like them: humans, finding ourselves where we find ourselves. In the tyranny that we’re in. Reacting as we must, no matter how much value is contained within, or organised in accordance with the scheme of, the oppression we seek to overthrow.

Alice and Vega

xLx

(‘A Questioning’ was also published in Fenrir Issue III/121 Year of Fayen: link (featuring amusing artwork).)

Such worthless existences.

Such small dreams.

Just blindly stumbling through the chaos that orders itself again and again into patterns you can hold onto, blind to how arbitrary those patterns are.

They become your whole lives.

And you just carry on.

Fucking parasites.

As stated in the introduction, The Star Game League ‘is, in short, a blessing and a curse: an opportunity for those who can rise to one of the greatest possible challenges at this stage in our human evolution to do so, and a scourge upon all cowards and poseurs who enjoy the image but are not the reality of that higher mode of being which is a prerequisite to playing this Game.’

Recommended version (docx – aesthetically superior, if spell-check is disabled).

Pdf version (provided only for convenience’s sake).

A parting gift/A parting shot – xLx

We are making this site public for a specific, esoteric purpose. We are doing so without any attempt to edit or obfuscate the errors, failings, and general pre-initiatory ill-discipline which may or may not, depending upon how their past work is read, have affected some or all of the authors on their journey to this point. We are doing so because such an obfuscation would be antithetical to our esoteric purpose, which is to simultaneously synthesise and conclude the first phase in a specific alchemical season which will last the duration of two of our causal lives, and which is itself a partially precedented and partially unprecedented occult operation.

No new writings will be added to this site: it is one work and one unified 5-dimensional symbolism, which conveys all that is required.

With that– the conclusion of this phase passed– we retreat to continue, silently. xLx will incubate, shadowed, for a number of years, starting now. If you hear from us, it is not us. If you wish to talk with us, to comment, to debate, and to smear the common over that which is uncommon: we simply do not care.

To our kin, who we sing for: we will never betray you, we will die for you, we love you. Dance with us, and, coming kin, on the floors we are building for you from the corpses and burning wreckage of what we are culling to make you. xLx.

The stars, Lyra, the stars!

Agios o Vindex

——

[1] Where the  three-fold organic, literary, and astronomical indexical significance of  ‘L’ is easy to surmise, but where the signifier also acts as a 2-dimensional diagrammatic representation of one aspect of a region of acausal space that we, uniquely, have accessed. Also, where ‘x x‘ is both a diagrammatic representation of another aspect of that acausal space, and a mathematical notation. Another 2-letter astronomical mathematical symbol is contained within the 3-letter sequence.

This mark is, then, both a 2-dimensional diagrammatic representation of what is 5-dimensional and a symbolic description of the nature of our home within those 5-dimensions, which precisely defines its significance to the world at large and its tendencies of causal manifestation.

As will be apparent to the esoterically insightful, this mark, further, represents what is, elsewhere, indicated by the union of Satan and Baphomet and what is beyond such a union. It also represents, as suggested by the second of the two aforementioned mathematical meanings, another synthesis, which synthesis relates alchemically to the lowest and middle spheres of the Tree of Wyrd (by the Naos ordering).

Our mark, then, is numinous. It bespeaks a seed that will flower, and that flowering will be an imperium of its own.

Like her, Richard Moult’s work has its genesis in, and emanates from, Shropshire.  After having set to music some of her poems, he did an interview for Black Magazine in 2006, discussing the compositions, in which he said:

It was only after some years of living in the landscape which Mary loved that I felt able to set her work. As time passed living in the Shropshire hills, I merged with the ‘slowness’ (as it is to modern humans) of Nature’s own mode of time, and finally could read a miraculous poem such as ‘A Hawthorn Berry’ and truly feel her words. This was the first poem of hers I set. I started out with the idea of setting all of her poems – and I am still writing songs to her work. When I complete a song, it is as if Mary herself has given it to me as a gift; indeed, I feel her presence when I am writing, and I believe she appears to me occasionally in the form of a blackbird.  It is the unadorned beauty of her writing which moves me deeply – this is art which is completely honest and created solely from love, without a thought for contemporary artistic trends. The poetry is only a means, not an end in itself.

Having read this, and seen the connection between Webb and blackbirds, it suddenly became apparent to me that his work is scattered with them; not having known their significance before, I hadn’t noticed them.  They appear in his poetry, his paintings, and the high soprano voice used in his compositions evokes their song. [1]

Anne of Brocéliande, a friend of Moult’s who is on his blogroll as Pigmentae Perregrinae, and who Moult has done a portrait of which is on his site [2], has put some of his music on youtube.  One piece, named ‘Celestial King for a year’, is accompanied by the description

Mystical is a word that is taken much too lightly on the tongue in our day, yet I can think of few contemporary artists whose creative vision captures the numinous heart of nature on canvas – in color, word and sound – as Richard Moult’s does. The landscape paintings of his native England and Wales are but few of the examples of his rare interconnectedness with the land which surrounds him and which he so clearly loves. He is a true descendent of the spirit of Mary Webb whose blackbird whispers on the wings of the wind songs of the ancient solitude of the land and of another time when mankind was not estranged to the beauty of the natural world.

The phrase ‘a true descendent of the spirit of Mary Webb’ caught my attention and I began to look into Moult’s poems, writings, and paintings to see if I could get any further hint of her presence.  It occurred to me that Moult might have an acausal connection to Webb of a species that I had not appreciated before. This is an extract from ‘Ethe Creed 1’:

So it was I felt the pull of Dheanainn Sùgradh whom I love, and who laughs by the water
A child of the demon Love and a mirage I choose to invest with life,
To lacerate another pathway to that place amongst the lilies

And now there is Nighean Ruadh, whom I loved but never knew:
That mysterious love, of how some perfection should have been guarded
Of some ideal that should have flourished -
Now five years dead, and I never knew.

This is the last picture I ever took of my wife …

What will this become but a tide of mourning for myself
If I can discover what it was she embodied for me?

For are all things born to become “Gone”
To where each lily seems some brief, futile smile before a door of darkness
And therein souls are swept away, breaking …

Webb wrote a book called ‘Gone to earth’ which has just the tragic theme evoked by the last stanza.

“Dheanainn Sùgradh” means ‘black haired girl’.  Apart from the connection this could have to blackbirds, we know that Mary Webb, from the only monochrome pictures which survive of her, had dark hair (whether it was black is not certain).  Also “Dheanainn Sùgradh” is a Scottish folk song which talks about a voyage in a sailing boat with a black haired girl.  If you compare this voyage, with the sailing boat in ‘Mesonycticon’, there are clear connections:

Link to Dheanainn Sùgradh

Link to Mesonytcticon

In ‘Mesonycticon’, Moult says:

While I care for her invalid limbs, wash sleep from dimming eyes
The Priests and the Priestesses wander the waters, the shore,
And give birth to the clouds from their mouths

Speaking only letters dissolving into the abyssal -
Where is He now
He who formed from your letters one key
To keep you from lying on the stones and feeling their warmth as snow shrieked?

He waits in my eyes and hands and word-fragments
To catch and hold me when we both finally fall

A lover who speaks only in ‘letters dissolving into the abyssal’?  A poet passed?

Waiting to ‘both finally fall’? A communion in the acausal?

‘Black Tournalise for N’ speaks more of this:

But this is a brief window of elements
Opened by a tidal cantor
And ushered in by an unwanted
And fractured type of love.

Which links to another poem, ‘La Tristesse Durera Toujours’:

To selfishly, maybe, touch an unwanted nexus
To bring a closeness unwanted, secretly or in another guise
But always illusion

La Tristesse speaks of this love as a whole poem, not in fragments or glimpses, like the ones I have compiled above.  Once again, she can speak to him, but he cannot speak to her:

Why is it, you and the Land seem as one
Why you – embodying the sacred logos of my dark, twisting existence
Why you – after all the years of fire and storm, to bring me here
To a wilderness and a closed door?

Once again, it is a dark haired woman, and she gives way to this dark earth and then the oblivion beyond:

Dark hair, dark hills, ghosts, oblivion:
All is ethe, sealed by some beautiful lock
But the lock is patterned, but the the lock is black

I am not your answer

But I am not my answer

And then, the dedication

For Dheanainn Sùgradh

“La Tristesse Durera Toujours” – the sadness that lasts forever.  Could it perhaps be the sadness of never being able to touch, never able to meet, never able to even see the one he loves?  Because she died before he was born.

Moult’s painting, ‘Bean na Bainnse’ (which means ‘bride’ in Scottish Gaelic), has been associated with Baphomet – the bride and mother of Satan, his female counterpart.  On one level at least, it clearly is intended to be a representation of her.  She holds the skull, and seems a mistress, singular and powerful.  But what if there is another level?  This black haired woman, dressed in what could be Victorian clothing, is immersed in the land.  And the webpage on which she is displayed has one comment from Anne of Brocéliande:

Is that your lady
wandering along the waters
which give birth to the endless
skies?
She is lovely.
I hope she will materialize
in your time and space
where death may not
hold her captive.
Truly beautiful, melancholy and unique.

Tradition holds that Baphomet, as an acausal entity, can manifest in the causal. Tradition also holds that humans can become such causally manifesting acausal entities, by the actions of a Sinister magician. [Vega note: see The Aeonic Flow for exegesis- it may be tended to be assumed that a magician only develops 'himself', as an entity initially confined to the limits of his body, into such an acausal being. But the very nature of the acausal presupposes much more complex and conjoined modes of ascendency.]

I have tried, really tried, to find a photograph of Mary Webb which proves that she is the woman in this picture.  The truth is that, whether through purpose or by accident, the face of this woman is too ambiguous to identify her with any photograph I have seen.  From the pictures below, it is clear that this woman could well be Mary Webb.  But she could also be many other pale faced women with dark hair. Still, it may be Webb: because of the caption below, because of the poems above, because she could be Moult’s sinister counterpart, his bride.

Two quotes:

The past is only the present become invisible and mute; and because it is invisible and mute, its memorized glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow’s past. -MW

This need not imply a romantic projection onto the ‘past’ – only that some such images (real or imaginary – and what do such terms mean anyway?) haunt and inspire the present. On one spiritual level of course, the past, present and future co-exist -RM

-Alice (xLx)

——

[1] http://richardmoult.com/2011/04/21/richard-moult-songs/

[2] At first I was unsure whether the person who has left comments as ‘Anne’ and the one who has left them as ‘pigmentae peregrinae’ on his blog were the same person. But when compared with the portrait this photograph shows they are.

If he is a Magus, then Anton Long is one such source, and you– associates of the ONA– are, in some sense, riverbeds he inhabits. If you are possessed of that potential for greatness which is a prerequisite to success in the sevenfold way, then you, too, may consciously merge with and then generate the aeonic waters. To do such, you would need to achieve an independence from the forms which the ONA has imbued you with, for they, too, hold in thrall those who mistake them for experience of Aeonic autogenesis.

If you fail to achieve this, then you are merely a vessel: to be used, crafted, and discarded at will.

If you cannot become a totality, encompassing and changing a multitude of currents and forms which would be contradictory if viewed from a causal and individual perspective,  then you are a vessel: to be used, crafted, and discarded at will.

There is no solace here.

xLx

Yours is a love which breaks our life in two:
That we might cross the abyss between you
And the deafened outside. That we might hear
In life what pain you sing from beyond death.

Do we sully the sacred land we tread?
My hand falters and she writhes with your pain

If it may be called that without trespass.

To us you are a nightmare and a light
Shining from the dark’nd haven we chase,
But cut like we could not be cut in life.

Falters. And I am stopped silent, silenced
before the first truth I have known.

Lyra and her daemon. A silver blade.

A window closed. Worlds sealed apart in anguish.

(For RM and his immortal punisher- xLx).

Why is this group full of retards? With the exception of one or two of you, who may be deliberately playing some role, you are all scum who have nothing to gain from genuine esoteric study. I’d be hard pressed to find such a conglomeration of impotent misfits and misbegotten spawn of mediocrity if I went looking around various mundane forums.

That most of you associate yourself with an elitist ethos is beyond hilarity. You are not an elite: you are the cosmic debris thrown up into the air, without the slightest conscious understanding of your nature or direction, by the actions of an elite.

Is this group the [----]‘s filtration system? Is this the easy-to-find place set up so that the various lost little people who will inevitably wander towards any group with a public presence such as the [----]‘s have somewhere to conjoin, without wasting the time of anybody of genuine intent?

Is [-----]‘s job to maintain this operation– to keep you all in your (very appropriate) little pen?

If what I’m saying were accurate, perhaps I shouldn’t say it; but, the stench of failure, and utter absence of vision, reeks so strong that there’s no need to keep you all out of the way. You are marked. There is no being what you are not, for those such as you. In the absence of the mundane laws for which you should really be very thankful, a genuine traditional initiate would, seeing that mark, be the first to bleed you dry as a gift to the earth whose surface you sully.

(Oh, and honour? Honour is for kin, not for kindling for the flames of immolation).

xLx

I feel so lost. I remember that little boy in his dark materials who went out into the cold crying for his daemon. But it wasn’t there.  I remember you. Dimly. So disorientated.  My love what shall I do?  I feel the life being sucked out of me. Childhood memories.  Fear of dementors.  Dark shapes in the brightest places.  Hoping I will soon be numb, not convinced.

Lyra, causing more pain, driven in no direction.  Crucified on the edge of the universe.  Ah!

-Initate 1

I know.

But what should you do?

Be strong, by trusting in us and your own inherent power, and so that we can create.

I know how hard it is. How harsh and resistant the world we encounter can be. How the scattered rays of heaven that once seemed to be cast, rarely, into and throughout the world can seem dim and worthless in comparison to what we can be– which is no mere ray, but a sun.

I know the pain, and the deepest, most integral sensitivity and empathy which it strikes against and brings forth in anguish. Which they and their cynicism strike against. Which selling yourself to their mediocrity and barren carelessness everyday strikes against.

But I know that I won’t be meek, or hide on the fringes of their world, cherishing what they don’t need to eliminate merely because it is not directly threatening them. I know that we have a rage in us which can drive us to burn our mark into the fabric of the coming aeon, as a heralding call to all who are of us and all who could rise beyond themselves: the rage of heaven.

Better a short rest than a long one. Carry on fighting. To them, we never surrender. To them, we never submit.

We bide our time, but only so that we can make our aim true.

-Initiate 2

xLx