If ya wanna grow, ya gotta molt

Ah! Home sweet home!

New home, new brand

Like a hermit crab, I’d just outgrown the old shell, and this looked like a likely replacement. A little roomier, a little easier to protect myself in, a little more suitable in several ways.

I’ve been growing, and not just as a blogger and as a… whatever it is that we are.

Define your terms, Mister!

The primary friend and rival of my youth — Tyler was his name — decided to confide in me when we were fifteen years old and had only known each other for a few days. He got this serious look on his face that only a fifteen-year-old buck can muster, and said, “I’m a witch”. He began to describe experiences and phenomena I was slightly more familiar with, or had a context for, because my mother and her best friend (sort of my aunt) were Rosicrucians who discussed these matters with me often. At that time I might have described him as a “mystic” (the word AMORC prefers for people with deeper psychic development and spiritual aspirations). But he came from a fairly straight-laced WASP-y family, so he didn’t have the vocabulary or the context for his experiences. “Witch” was the word he plucked out of the 20th-century language.

It’s a perennial puzzle. What do you call people like us? I’m fairly comfortable with the designation “magician” for a certain mode I function in, but I’m still aware that it comes with baggage. Sorcerer has its advantages, but also has some unfortunate associations. None of this is new. It’s a topic that gets chewed over on the magic blogs at regular intervals.

I only mention this as background for why I got attracted to the word “seething”, a term I’ve appropriated for the title of this blog. The first time I ever saw the word in an occult context was when I was 18 in the late seventies, in the Enochian calls: “…and make me a strong seething, for I am of Him that lives forever.” I had no idea what the word meant used this way, but it appealed to me. Seethe is such a wonderful Anglo-Saxon word, meaning to boil, and to move like-, or have the qualities of something boiling.

I’m well aware of the fact that the term is specifically associated with Nordic magic and witchcraft, but I’m taking a little syncretic poetic licence here. As I understand it,* the association between the verb seething (i.e. bubbling and boiling) and the particular way Odin’s children went about practicing hocuspocus has to do with the sort of worked-up liminal state the practitioners got into to attain visions: boiling and seething.

Know these symptoms!

I imagine it to be like the head I was in when the orange microdot kicked in at the Fleetwood Mac concert all those decades ago, and from my seat up in peanut heaven the crowd on the floor became a seething mass of humanity on a Völkerwanderung through time and space, and the music began telling me the story of our race’s fate to be driven from place to place and… well, you get the picture.

It’s like the state of mind you’re in when you dream that you’ve managed to sneak into the castle of the white dragon, and as you are spying on that magnificent humanoid lizard with the opalescent scales holding council in his throne room, a guard grabs you from behind, and you snap awake, heart pounding, gasping for breath… and feeling deliciously alive!

It’s like that feeling that the setting is right, the incense well chosen, the symbols appropriate, your incantation resonant, and you’re sure you’ve gotten someone’s attention and they are listening.

If you know these experiences, then you have seethed; you are a seething.

Got that three-piece in camo?

And what about the suits? Well, my life changed dramatically a little less than a year ago. Until that point, I assumed I was stuck in a dead-end job in one of the biggest
corporate networks in the world. And then I was informed that one of the partners wanted a meeting with me. Expecting the worst, I showed up for the meeting dressed to kill, and was totally unprepared for the news that I’d been promoted. Now I have a team of five working under me. I’ve been abroad to give training twice since, and I am scheduled to go to at least three countries to give training this year.

It must have been the Jupiter magic. It must have been.

But now I’m a (business) card-carrying suit, with a Blackberry, a management coach, expense accounts, endless rounds of meetings, plans to formulate and execute, and
occasional sleepless nights worrying about how the fuck I’m going to deliver what I’ve committed myself to. And I’m a seething. And I use my seething to get things done in
the business world. Ergo: I’m a Seething Among the Suits.

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…”.**

——————————————————————

*Don’t bother to correct me if I’m wrong, because I’m afraid your explanation will be boring and tendentiously partisan, and I just made a disclaimer about syncretic poetic licence, didn’t I?

**Yes, I know this is a misquote.

Encountering a Dark Church Sorcerer

The urge (the call!) to go to church after work was overwhelming. It’s been a few months since I’ve felt that longing. There was a stretch of weeks in the deep of winter that I dropped by the church every night on the way home (a story I’ll have to relate here sometime, but not now).

But I haven’t had time lately. My life has been really wrapped up in work: leaving for the office just a little earlier than usual every morning, coming home just a little later than customary. The financial year ends at the end of June. Lots of paperwork and meetings to finish off the year. Annual evaluations.

This year’s evaluation was particularly hairy. My old boss got kicked up the ladder to the global network, so I’m being handed over to another partner. I got reviewed sitting in a room with both of them; two high-powered partners. I’d had a good year. I had all sorts of accomplishments documented, and I had all sorts of good feedback in my report. My career developed more in one year than it had in the last eight. But I still wasn’t taking chances. That morning I’d done a ritual called “The Prayer of the Perfected Self” (from Jason Miller’s book “The Sorcerer’s Secrets”) to freshen up my magnetism. I had a Financial Hand charm in my right pocket, a Jupiter talisman in my left, and a Maxorial talisman in my breast pocket. And I’d done the Kundalini yoga Eagle pose for several minutes before coming to the appointment, to charge up my aura. Should I be surprised the evaluation went well? That my old boss used the words “fantastic job” several times?

But living life in the teeth-gritting zone takes its toll after a while. And by mid afternoon today, a voice was telling me to go to “my” church after work to pray and gather strength. The urge was powerful. So I heeded it.

“My” church is the Teresa of Avila church on Nagymező street, about a ten-minute walk from my office. I’d include photos or links to photos, but it would be counterproductive. I’ve tried to take pictures on several occasions, and despite knowing a thing or two about photography, they just didn’t come anywhere near the sublime beauty of its interior. I’ve even noticed that professional photographers can’t capture its beauty. So you just have to take my word for it: it’s beautiful.

There’s a vivid two-meter tall oil painting of Saint Teresa behind the altar. She’s being visited by the angel, and he’s holding the arrow in his hand that he’s about to plunge into her heart; a mystical vision of divine ecstasy that holds a revered place in Catholic mystical literature. (Teresa lived on the edge. The Spanish Inquisition was never sure whether they should burn her or be in awe of her.) The East, South and North walls of the church (of course the entrance is in the West) are adorned with marble columns topped by triangular pediments of classical proportions. In the center of the nave a dome rises into heaven. There have been evenings I have sat and stared up into the space of that dome, quietly repeating The Lord’s Prayer over and over again, and felt God’s presence under the vault. 


And it’s not St Teresa’s church for nothin’. I was born Catholic, and I’ve never been in a Catholic church that feels like this one. This is a mystical church. It attracts some interesting creatures.


For instance, there’s a gypsy girl who’s in there mornings and evenings. She’s always alone, she looks to be about 16, and she’s a fierce prayer. There are several rows of simple benches at the back of the church behind the proper pews. That’s where she goes. She kneels on the marble floor and prostrates herself across the bench. Then she does the round of the saints. She’ll wrap her arms around the legs of each statue and lay her head at its feet, occasionally turning to kiss the feet. Whenever I do see her face, it bears an unmistakable look of religious ecstasy.


There have been times I’ve caught myself thinking she was a bit off the deep end, and then I considered how much time I spend in the church praying and doing magic. Kind of like Churchill’s definition of an alcoholic: someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do.


But despite the fact that there are some heavy mystic types frequenting this church, I’d always assumed I was the only one doing sorcery here.


I have a routine. When I enter the church (after putting both of my phones in silent mode!), I turn left and go straight for the bank of votive candles for the dead. The framework that holds the candles is massive wrought iron, and has the feeling of something that’s been there forever. Behind it is a grating and a little chapel for the Infant of Prague. I pay for a candle (I know some people would freak about giving money to the Roman Catholic Church, but I consider it a fair exchange for being able to tap into the energies of the church egregore), and then get out my portable vial of St Cyprian oil (homemade from Conjureman Ali’s recipe) to dress the candle, and sometimes put a cross of oil on my forehead.


After lighting the candle I call to my dead, naming them out loud as their images come to me, asking them to aid me and guide me, finishing off the list by calling to St Cyprian while knocking on a wood frame nine times. (In a big old church you can get away with these things if you’re discrete). After this I’ll cross myself with holy water, go into the church, and either just pray, or do magical experiments (mostly scrying spirits).


This evening, I had just called Saint Cyprian when an unusual man came into the church and made a beeline for the votive candles. The sinewy, wiry dude was carrying a large paper bag with handles and he had a smell of tobacco smoke and sweat, plus other signs of being lower class, which at first made me think “seasonal construction worker” and then briefly “homeless man”. Then I noticed his perfectly new turquoise canvas deck shoes. But as he put a very nominal fee for a candle in the plate for used wooden matches (which is OK, the listed “price” for a votive candle is, as Captain Barbossa would say, “more like guidelines”), I noted that he had peculiar tatoos, such as mandalas on the backs of his hands. And his hair was sort of punk: shaved in random patches that at first made me think he was getting radiation treatments. He looked as old as me, but I decided he was probably rather younger but aged by a hard life.


After he lit his candle, he licked the thumb and index finger of his left hand, took hold of the head of the match, held it upside down, and allowed the entire match to be consumed by the flame. This caught my attention because it was something my magical mentor used to do, after which he’d declare, “a well-spent match!” Then the guy pulled something out of the paper bag at his feet. It was a brown paper cup — probably from KFC, since I think I saw the Colonel on the side — that had had a band of twine wound around the base and the rim. 


And then after patiently waiting for several minutes, much to my surprise, he picked up his burning candle and began pouring wax on the bands of twine. What was he up to? There was only a certain amount of time I could pretend I was still standing there praying. So I went into the church (mass had been in progress this whole time) and strategically placed myself in one of the back benches where I could keep an eye on this guy. He was obviously doing something sorcerous, or bizarrely folk-religious. And what blew me away was that, as opposed to my efforts to fly under the radar, this dude was brazenly crafting something right there by the candles to the dead, during mass.


Again, I have to emphasize that I had been fairly certain I was the only one of my ilk at this church. And I’ll add to this that, for various reasons, I don’t seek out magical contacts in Hungary. I am active in AMORC, and I talk about mystical things with fellow parents I know from the Waldorf school, and I even have a dreamwork group in my office, but I mostly keep my magical activities to my immediate family. 


But this guy had me curious. What was he up to? He would pour some wax, then put the candle down, then peel wax off the cup and drop it. I watched him from a distance, and almost resolved to go ask him what he was doing, when a man came into the church who I think is one of the deacons. The deacon briefly said something to the sorcerer, and he quickly put his magic cup in his bag and left.


Now my curiosity had the best of me. I grabbed my computer bag and briefcase, and was out the door. I decided that, despite detecting signals saying this might not be the sort of man I want to know, I was still going to ask him what he’d been doing. Let’s call it “professional interest”. 


But he was nowhere to be seen in the square in front of the church. So I did a sweep, widershins, around the church. Guy was gone. Not a trace.


Who was he? What was he doing? Was he just a deranged homeless person with religious compulsions? Was he consciously doing sorcery? Had Cyprian brought him to me to show me something? 


Much to contemplate. Maybe I’ll slip by the church on my way to work tomorrow morning.
  

It’s time for a fast

I am about to eat my last meal for the next four days. It’s not as drastic as it might sound to you. I’ve done this many times before.

Four-day fasts were a regular part of life in my early thirties. For a few years I did them almost every quarter. At the time, my girlfriend (now my wife and the mother of five of my children) often fasted  with me, which lent a certain moral support. Other times I would just drop out of social life and spend four days by myself, hanging out in my apartment and taking daily walks in the park on Margret Island. It’s amazing how quiet the inner dialogue can get in the later days of a fast.

For people who’ve never done it before, it seems like it would be torture. But it’s not, at least not the way you would think it is. My first couple of fasts I suffered from awful headaches and weakness, but reading up on the proper techniques mostly eliminated those complications. The main trick is to empty your bowels. Anywhere else I might shy away from the gory details, but this is a magic blog, and anyone reading this should be able to deal with the nitty-gritty without flinching. You can empty your colon either with an enema or by purging with a dose of Epsom salts dissolved in warm water. I can’t abide by the taste of Epsom salts, and I don’t really like the idea of taking them internally, so I go the enema route. Once you get over the initial squeamishness and learn how to use the equipment, the process is not much more hassle than, say, giving yourself a pedicure. And anytime during the fast that you feel a headache coming on, or you’re just not feeling well, an enema clears it right up. The other trick is drinking diluted vegetable juice and not fruit juice during the fast. It maintains the proper pH in your system. Becoming too acidic doesn’t feel good.

Once your colon is empty, oddly, you have no more sensation of hunger. The idea of food is appealing, in an abstract sort of way, but you no longer have the physical craving. Your digestive system then goes into reverse: rather than absorbing nutrients, the entire length of your intestines begins shedding waste materials and toxins (which is why the occasional enema helps, when they begin accumulating). Actually, every part of your body begins shedding waste and toxins. You need to scrub your skin when you shower and scrape your tongue at bedtime and in the morning.

But that’s just the physical part. Then there’s the mental and spiritual part. People, admittedly, are different. People who don’t really concern themselves with spiritual matters don’t really seem to notice much. They can go through life in an ordinary way during a fast. My mother-in-law, for instance, who learned about fasting from my wife and me, is a veteran faster. She can carry on like normal during a fast.

Not me. I get very introverted. I’ve tried fasting and going to work, but I just spent the entire day thinking “I can’t wait to go home and think about other things.” It’s not pleasant. And not very spiritual. I learned my lesson. After trying that once or twice I didn’t try again. Fasting and work don’t mix in my life. I need a minimum of solitude when I fast.

Because of my professional life and having kids, the opportunity to fast got rare, and my wife has been breastfeeding for the better part of the last 16 years. You can’t fast and breastfeed because the toxins come out in the milk. So, it’s been at least ten years since my last fast.

But my body’s been calling for it for months. I knew I’d have to take advantage of the first waning moon during the first decent warm spell of spring. And here I am.

If you go by Uncle Al’s definition of magic, fasting is an effective piece of magic. It brings on change in accordance with will, very effectively. I always feels healthier and more clear-minded after a fast, and I always manage to sort things out that I’d been having troubles getting straight in my head. And I manage to reach some very deep states of consciousness.

I have big hopes for this fast. If you want to follow my random thoughts as I come unmoored from ordinary consciousness for the next few days, I’ll be tweeting it at “at” TheoHuffman.        

On art as prophecy, art as magic

Just say the word…

I once changed people’s lives with the stroke of a pen. No, not like a dictator ordering an execution or promoting one of his cronies to cabinet minister. And not like a CEO signing a billion-dollar deal.

No, I did it by telling a tale. And, although my experience was of a much humbler magnitude than the dictator’s or the the big-time CEO’s, the power it demonstrated to me could be scaled up to those levels by a clever and — more importantly — creative mage.

I’d nearly forgotten about this bizarre but potent life lesson until my memory got tweaked by Gordon’s recent posting about the relationship between art and The Art.That essay served as a palm-slap to my forehead, pointing out that I have failed to incorporate into my magical tool bag one of the most impressive phenomena I have ever experienced. What happened, and what should I have learned from it? That is a tale in and of itself.

In the early 80s, I was a married college student at a large university in Appalachia. My wife, who had learned costuming while earning her degree in technical theater, took a fancy to the SCA. She started a group at the university, and promptly became head honcho. I could get totally detoured by describing the… er… colorful characters this brought into our lives, and the convoluted politics of such an organization, but that would be beside the point.

A play within a play

All the context you need its that the group decided to hold an event (a “feast” as these things were called) in the autumn of ’81 that would be called “The Arabian Nights Feast”. It was to be held at a massive lodge of rough-hewn timber, surrounded by several log cabins, located off a one-lane road in a state park. Since I had amateur theater experience, I was asked to write and put on a play at the event. I suggested it could be based on one of the Arabian Nights Tales. The idea was received enthusiastically.

I searched through Arabian Nights Tales and the one that resonated with me was “Noureddin and the Fair Princess” (I read a slightly different version than I’ve linked, and I had to adapt it “freely” as they say in movie biz).

The feast by the mountain lodge was as decadent as one might imagine. There was much jousting and drinking. And folks were smoking petunias and sneaking off into the forest for becostumed trysts featuring flirtatious dialogue in pseudo-Elizabethan English. Once the rowdy crowd was herded indoors after dark for dinner and a play, the atmosphere was electric.

Now, part of my style of directing is to constantly exhort the players that “theater is ritual”, and to remind them that what they see in their imaginations becomes real to the audience through suggestion and telepathy. And so the play was a sort of ritual.

“All the world’s a stage…”

All hell broke loose shortly after the play. The woman who played the fair princess had been mercilessly flirting with me since the first rehearsal, and my wife’s spies had reported this back to her. The wife became convinced I was going to have an affair. She seized her perceived rival by her long black tresses and swung her around like a bull whip. There were other ugly scenes between various people before the night was over. And within days my wife and I were split up for good.

Over a period of months, several of the events in the play manifested in real life. The most striking of them being what became of the young fellow who played Noureddin. In the play he stole the princess who had been meant for the king. Within weeks after the play he took up with my ex, and eventually became her next husband.

The uncanny parallels between what happened in the play, and what manifested in real life actually made me a bit nervous about writing for a short while after that. I was convinced that the way things played out had been strongly affect by the creation and performance of the play.

Imagination, or remote viewing?

Years later, in the spring of ’88, I was living across the continent in a remote hamlet in California’s Sacramento Valley. I woke up one morning with a complete short story in my head: the whole thing from start to finish, with all the details. It sprang from a minimal scence I had conceived about five years earlier, in which a star in the sky observed a mortal man and fell in love with him. At the time I played with this short passage a little, making several attempts at developing it in different direction with a few paragraphs, but eventually threw it onto the trash heap of unused story fragments.

That morning I sat down at the keyboard (of my Apple IIc clone) and didn’t stop typing until I’d finished the story that afternoon. In my story the star incarnates on the earth by making herself a body from the mud on the banks of the Monogahela river, and then seeks out the object of her desires, who is celebrating in a bar up the street. In the story the bar is called “The Dipper”, which is a reference to Harriet Tubman. The bar it was modelled on was “The Underground Railroad“. If you know your Tubman lore, you’ll get the connection. The man pursued by the star is a yoga teacher (who some people swore glowed in a dim room) celebrating with friends and students before moving to Pittsburgh to open a new studio. She finds him, dances with him in a fashion that becomes legendary (and makes for bizarre police reports) and then lures him outside to have sex in an ally. Passersby see a flash of light, and the man is never seen again.

I stuck the story on the shelf until a friend from back home came to visit me in California three years later. I tossed him the manuscript one morning and asked him to read it. At one point I noticed he’d gone pale and was staring at the page with his mouth hanging open.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t know what happened, do you?”

“Happened?”

“With Marsha.”

“No.”

He then told me about the disappearance of Marsha “Mudd” Ferber. A missing-person case that remains unsolved to this day.

Marsha was the owner of the Underground Railroad, a well-known venue on the east coast music circuit that had hosted the likes of  The Dead Kennedys and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was a hotbed of alternative culture. Timothy Leary gave a talk there.

Many hours of my college life were spent in that bar. The place had (has!) an egregore, and I was (am) part of it.

It turns out that around the time I was writing the story, Marsha went missing one morning. A total mystery. She left her car and all personal effects behind. She just disappeared.

The part of my imagination that forms stories was obviously in contact with transpersonal phenomena that brought me knowledge of things I did not know on the material plane.

One more example comes to mind.

“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping…” 

At the end of my senior year of undergraduate school, I enrolled in the English department’s fiction-writing workshop. Toward the end of the semester I submitted a partial story that violated most of the guidelines the professor had set for us, but I submitted it because it felt “inspired.”

This fragment was a scene in which a student falls asleep at his desk in his garret apartment while reading Ovid, and wakes to find Jupiter, dressed in black leather like a biker, seated in the overstuffed chair waiting to speak with the student.

I was surprised when the professor, despite the story not meeting the criteria he had set for the class, handed the story out, and even more surprised at the eager reception it got from the class. It had a certain something to it. The class begged me to finish the story, which didn’t happen because I got wrapped up in final exams and graduating.

The remainder of the story that I didn’t write but had already conceived involved Jupiter explaining to the student that the gods depended on the agency of humans for their proper manifestation in this world. Jupiter sends the student to steal a rare book from the university library to save it from being lost. If the book gets lost,  so does a vital link to an important aspect of the Jupiter cult.

Fast forward to spring of 2011. I received an invitation to join a group of magicians in a 21st century Jupiter cult. Several of the members of this cult are doing interesting research in the various manifestation of Jupiter in antiquity, involving searches through old tomes of Greek and Mesopotamian texts. This group has been a major influence in my life over the last year. I’m convinced this “inspired” story was prophetic.

What do I do with this realization?

When I have contemplated these instances of transpersonal bleed-over into my creative writing, it’s been clear to me that the first example — the reality-bending play — is in a different category than the two clairvoyant short stories. But not entirely. Where does perceiving the future end and affecting the future start?

Despite saying at the beginning of this essay that I changed lives with my scribblings, I’m not saying that my play was an act of magic. What happened was unintentional (though I suspect I subconsciously chose the material and designed the performance to end my miserable marriage). But Gordon’s, Grant Morrison’s, and Alan Moore’s observations about art and magic made me think, “Wait a minute! I’ve experienced this!”

And despite the fact that I’ve been learning classic tech in recent years such as designing talismans, calling grimoire spirits, and mixing up herbs, Gordon made me realize that I have been neglecting one of my strongest suits. I’m a narrative specialist. I studied literature, I was an amateur actor, and I’ve even published a few short stories. I make a living from the written word. Considering that I’ve experienced my narratives connecting to the future and to occurrences beyond my physical perceptions, it only makes sense to re-explore my passion for creating stories and acting them out so I can harness the reality-shaping power of narrative and make it one more tool in my magical toolbox. If such dramatic changes can be brought about by accident, I’d like to see what I can do on purpose.

The tricky thing is that there’s no grimoire to teach you how to do this. You’re on your own if you want to follow this path. But I’m determined to experiment with this. Any results will be reported in this blog.     

Waitin’ for that Other Shoe

OK! OK! OK! I know I promised to start telling stories several weeks ago and then failed to post another word ever since. That’s whatcha call irony. After a long period of feeling like I didn’t really have anything I wanted to write about, now that I have interesting things going on in my magical and mundanes lives, I don’t have any time to write about it.

Take this moment. I’m stealing time and feeling guilty about it, because the PowerPoint slides for the workshop I’m teaching (not magic, business writing) in Zagreb on Friday aren’t quite done yet. But this is a place my magic has brought me. A year ago I wouldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams that the firm would be sending me to sister firms in the network to sort out their business prose. This is potentially the start of something big. If I nail this assignment (and there’s no reason I shouldn’t, since I have a reputation as a killer presenter in my firm; ain’t glamour great!), there’s no reason I won’t soon be taking the act on the road again to, say, Bucharest, or Bratislava, and eventually even to Kazakhstan or… wherever.

And that’s just one of the balls in the air in Scribbler’s current juggling act.

So, it may take a little longer to get around to chronincalling the adventures of the last several months than I thought it would. But in the meantime, I’m biz. And life is interesting. Stressful at times, but very full.

Saturday in Zagreb I will have to myself. And there’s an old cathedral I plan to visit. Crystal ball and St Cyprian oil are already packed.

Contribute to the Arbatel Link Digest!

Many people come to this blog every day doing Arbatel research. It occurred to me that people scouring the Internet for Arbatel material might have some juicy juicy links I didn’t manage to find during the several days I spent massaging the search engines diligently. I don’t think there are a lot of strays out there, because I was thorough.

If this is the case, if you have found an interesting Arbatel link that I haven’t mentioned in my Link Digest, please donate it to the Digest. Either write it into the comments, or send it to the email address in my profile.

I am offering a premium. I’m offering you some connectivity. If you donate a link, I will credit you with the donation in the Digest listing, including a link to your blog or business. My blog gets enough traffic that you’d get some hits from it. Deal?

      

Not an Apology

Or: the story teller returns!

I got over myself a long time ago. I don’t suffer from delusions that people thrash about rending their garments in grief and suffering when they check their feed readers and discover that I STILL haven’t posted new material on my blog. There are PLENTY of good magic blogs out there to take up the slack. God knows, I have a devil of a time even KEEPING UP with all the magic blogs I’ve decided to follow. And I haven’t even subscribed to any new ones for at least half a year.

What can I say? I just didn’t feel like I had much to tell. And whenever I did, there just wasn’t time because of work or family.

So I’m not about to apologize for not regularly publishing since… what… last spring? Wow. That’s quite a hiatus. Suffice it to say lots of water has flowed under ye olde bridge. Lots of water.

But! Now I have some tales to tell. And the writing bug has bit again! Hard. So… prepare yourselves. I am about to bend your ears with narratives of: Scribbler being unexpectedly kicked up the ladder into management; Scribbler using his sorcerous ways in the corporate workplace; Scribbler getting heavily involved with a magical Catholic saint; Scribbler dabbling in entheogens; Scribbler spending much time lurking about awesome Catholic churches and talking with above-mentioned saint… and much, much more!

Stay tuned.

Arabatel Resource Digest Becomes Search-Engine Magnet!

You don’t have to take it from me. Go ahead: Google the term “Arbatel”, and my Everything Arbatel link digest is number three on the hit list. Just goes to show you how many people there are out there (from all over the world, as my blog stats show me) who are scouring through the scant information on the Internet, trying to learn about the Arbatel of Magic.

My blog stats register a steady “thwack-thwack-thwack” of daily hits to this page. And there’s a reason for it. You won’t find this much Arbatel-related information anywhere else on the web. And you don’t have to take my word for that, either. Go search! You’ll see.

By Jove! I think I’ve got it!

I am working with a group of magicians on manifesting the Jupiter vibrations in our world. The international group came into being, began working, and started manifesting like… like… well, like a bolt out of the blue. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Sky Father seems to like our style, and he’s showering inspiration on us.

Everyone involved performs a Jupiter rite in their own respective sanctums on the day and hour of Jupiter, and we communicate over the digital aether concerning results and plans.

So this morning I wake up psyched, thinking: It’s Jupiter day! Yes!

Although I dress fairly nicely for work anyway — since I work in that sort of office, and this is Mitteleuropa after all — I decided to be a little more elegant today, and put on my finely striped blue and white shirt with my blue blazer and a pair of pleated grey wool slacks. Feeling very noble, indeed.

As I walked to the bus stop, I drank in the beautiful blue dome of the sky and contemplated how blue became associated with the king of the gods, and how kings have used the symbolism to resonate with that (think: ermine-trimmed blue velvet cape trailing behind the sovereign).

On the bus I was reading a book (Rufus Opus’s Talisman Maintenance, as a matter of fact) on my Android phone when I suddenly noticed we’d arrived at the stop where I transfer to the Metro. I quickly stuffed my phone in my pocket and bolted out the door before it closed. I heard a voice calling to me from a bus window, “Sir! Sir!” Once he saw he had my attention, he tossed the black leatherette pouch in which I keep my phone at my feet. I waved and thanked him as the bus sped off, and there was a genuine moment of connection as our eyes met. Amazing. Considering the usual demographic of Budapest bus riders, I was surprised it didn’t just get pocketed. The man was moved to be of service to me.

I walked across the square on which the main downtown office of Citibank is located, and frowned, as I usually do, at the fact that there isn’t an unpaved surface with 50 meters of the bank’s front entrance. Since that’s where I do my banking, I’ve always wondered how I can get some sort of dirt associated with the bank to use in financial spells, but I’m still stumped. So, there I was momentarily standing and contemplating the bank when my eyes wandered over to an employee entrance of the same building and I caught sight of the way the stylized numeral above the door looked like a Jupiter symbol. Dang! I had to take a picture of that.

The Gate of Jupiter?
Is it a mere “coincidence” that hours later I read that Frater RO had published an ebook last night called Gate of Jupiter? Hmmmm.
Walking further, I passed through a colonnade that I have traversed many times, but only now did the wrought-iron railings between the columns catch my eye. 
Agrippa was here
“Bloody hell!” I thought, “If this keeps up, I’m likely to break my neck falling over a Leda and the Swan sculpture, and have my eyes pecked out by eagles.” I jest of course. I was exceedingly pleased.
When the synchronicities are hitting this fast and hard, you know you’re right on target.