“Self truth results from the unification of Will, Desire and Belief forced into one thing. By this effectiveness the soul draws near and casts its omniscience over us by inspiration.” (15)
The Logomachy of Zos – Austin Osman Spare
Curses and hexes are one of many dangerous types of craft-work in the repertoire of a practitioner of the Left Hand Path. Our Goat God whispers from the shadows to those of us inclined to listen… those of us with the will to use the darker arts. There always exists the possibility of persecution or attacks from the ignorant, the self-righteous, and society’s sheep; therefore it is prudent to have weapons at one’s disposal. From time to time I will post interesting curses and hexes, but you will not receive admonitions to “not use them” or “this is only for educational purposes.” You will need to make your own decisions on use and appropriateness. I am a realist in many respects and understand there are some individuals that cannot be reasoned with, cannot be negotiated with, and will single-mindedly seek to do you harm. My two cents is you should crush them. They are beneath you and not worthy of pity. You will hear me say in posts from time to time that the gods did not give the wolf teeth with the expectation that it not use them in defense of self, or the pack. This is a philosophical truism that holds much water in my opinion.
Bottle Curse of the Flies
Note, this curse is most effective when the weather is warm; therefore it is best suited to late spring, summer, and early fall. I prefer to do the casting during the witching hours and by candlelight.
1. Procure a medium sized bottle. The cork will not be required for this working. I prefer cobalt blue bottles myself, although a clear bottle that will allow you to see the contents can be very agreeable under the right circumstances.
2. Place a photograph of your intended target into the bottle, or nail clippings, hair, or a piece of clothing they have been in contact with. These items maintain a spiritual connection to the person whom they belonged to and will create a thread whereby the curse can find them and deliver its full effect.
3. Place a piece of raw meat inside the bottle.
Write the following on a piece of paper, and when complete read the incantation over the bottle. Focus the will and convey your intent as you weave and bind this spell. Slip the piece of paper into the bottle with the meat.
By candle light, deep in night,
this spell I craft full of spite.
Rot in soul, rot in flesh,
You will hunger, you will thirst, nothing will refresh.
Pain and fire, on swift wings come,
Buzzing death, like demons drums.
So I will it, So mote it be!
Place the uncorked bottle in a shady and out of the way place near your target’s home. Anywhere within about a ¼ of a mile should be sufficient. Avoid places where passersby may smell the odor. As maggots hatch in the rotting meat they will grow into flies and will carry the curse to your intended target repeatedly.
Hate is a very strong emotion, and it tends to last long, persevering when the currents and flow of other emotions have begun to ebb. Emotion is a fundamental tool in our craft used to empower and focus the will and intent of our workings. The more passionate our emotions, the more likely we are to experience positive outcomes with our spells and incantations. Caution must be exercised with hatred though, but this does not mean it should be shunned or avoided. Like all other emotions, it is a tool, and when used properly can be honed into a state of razor sharpness. Hatred in offensive magic can be the difference between a curse with the punch of a derringer, or the impact of a howitzer. Hate is very powerful indeed… but it often exacts a toll or price.
If you harbor hate long enough, if you feed it enough, it can control you versus you controlling it. Unchecked it can become a supernova of destructive power, but it can also burn you out, consuming all that you are from within, and devouring all those around you. If required, use it wisely.
“Ordinary morality is only for ordinary people.”
― Aleister Crowley, The Confessions of Aleister Crowley : An Autohagiography
Autohagiography (plural Autohagiographies)
An autobiography of a saint.
(pejorative) An autobiography that flatters the subject. (10)
I wish I had more time to work on my Autohagiography… Shouldn’t all practitioners of Witchcraft have one?
Everyone has a memory of when they first experienced what death was. It is rarely a good time worth re-living. Often times it will leave scars that must be accommodated and dealt with later in life, and sometimes they never go away. The Low Road is something we all must walk someday, and the closer we come to understanding what death is, the less fear and anxiety we will feel. Death is part of a cycle, and is not truly “an end.”
At the age of forty-two I still remember my first realization of what death is… its taste, its smell, the feel of its skeletal hands on my soul. I was just turning fourteen, and I was feeling like I was on my way to becoming a man. We all do at that age, pushing our boundaries, testing our environment, beginning to shape who we will be as a person. My father took me downtown to the Woolworth store to buy my first hunting rifle. Hunting was always a big part of my family’s male persona. I can remember the myriad times as a child when I yearned for the day when I could join my father, grandfather, and their friends on the yearly hunt. They always seemed to look forward to it, talking about past hunts and the prospects for success in the upcoming one. I think they thought of it as a way of getting away from the stresses of everyday life, and I wanted to be part of that. As we neared the sporting goods section, I could barely contain my excitement. I stood next to my father trying to copy the way his critical eye looked over the rifles hanging in their racks behind the counter. He pointed at one and said “Let me see that Winchester.” Before I knew it, he was placing a lever action .30.30 into my hands and was asking me if it felt comfortable and if I liked it. I remember I had a big grin on my face and my cheeks were warm and flushed as I shook my head up and down saying in a low voice, “yes, yes, this is perfect.”
My next memory was sitting on a tree stump in the middle of the forest with the wind blowing ice-cold rain into my face. The snow in the higher elevations would be pushing the herds lower. The cold water was beading and running down the shiny black barrel of my new rifle onto my numb fingers. I had been sitting there for most of the day, patiently awaiting the deer that my father promised me would walk across the dirt logging road that I was watching. My mind wandered. I was thinking about how warm home was going to be, how good dinner was going to taste, and trying to decide what television show I was going to watch… I almost missed the movement of something out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t dare move a muscle on the off chance that it wasn’t just another bird. I waited… Silent as wraiths a group of moving figures began walking into my line of sight. I instantly forgot the cold and misery of the rain. Time seemed to stop. I began scanning the small group of deer, only my eyes moving; looking for the buck I knew had to be there. I was in luck. Out of about nine does and fawns there was a forked horn male. My heart felt like it had dropped into my stomach as they stopped a mere 10 yards from me in the middle of the narrow dirt road. They were so close I could see the eyelashes on one of the does. They were looking around themselves nervously, snorting. They must have caught a whiff of my scent, or perhaps sensed there was a predator close by. I felt a large sense of relief as they began to slowly cross the road without running into the forest. The buck was less than 10 feet from me when I raised my rifle. Instantly they all took off in all directions, but my focus and attention was placed squarely on the buck. Everything else was a blur. It was just me and him. Nothing else existed in that moment in time. He started climbing the steep bank, trying desperately to make his way into the safety of the trees, red dirt flying into the air, cut out of the bank with his sharp hooves. My rifle was up to about hip level and pointed at him, but I realized I would not have time to bring it up to my shoulder. I jerked the trigger, knowing I was supposed to squeeze it. The sound concussion from the discharge was deafening and the acrid sulfur smell of gunpowder assaulted my nostrils. I watched the rear legs of the buck drop from beneath it and it began rolling down the bank, kicking in all directions. Before I could fully realize what I was doing I had ejected the spent casing, reloaded, fired, ejected a spent casing, and fired again… all from the hip. The deer was lying still. Silence enveloped the forest. The last wisps of gun smoke was blowing away into the trees. The coppery smell of blood permeated the area.
I never thought I would feel the way I did at that moment. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nausea hit me in small waves. I thought that I would feel good about this, feel strong, feel like a boy should feel when he had taken a deer in the hunt and passed the threshold into manhood. All I felt though was sorrow. I had taken away something that could never be returned. I sat back down on the stump and leaned my rifle against a tree.
At the age of fourteen I think I first began to realize that children are totally oblivious to what death is. After I pulled that trigger and ended the life of that deer I half expected in some part of my mind for it to get up and say “nice shot” and run off into the trees…just like our childhood games of cops and robbers, or soldier versus soldier. Until that moment I did not realize there are no “do-overs” in real life. I did not understand that in war soldiers get shot with real bullets and they do not get up to play again. I did not realize that to be part of a hunt is not just a social endeavor… it is the potential to become death incarnate. At the age of fourteen reality hit me in the face like a bucket of cold mountain water. I had discovered what death is.
As my father walked up the trail toward my hunting stand he saw me sitting on the stump. He glanced to the base of the bank and saw the crumpled body of the deer. I saw a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He sat down next me and did not say a word for what seemed like an eternity. I was glad he did not say anything, but was equally glad that he was there with me.
The Sluagh in Irish and Scottish myth are the spirits of the restless dead, a host of evil vagabond spirits roaming the land in the form of a flock of black birds. They are the ghosts of evil men and women self-bound to the surface world, intent on causing sorrow and despair. They are most often seen flying from the west, and they seem drawn to households where the dying are taking their last breaths. Legends state they come to take possession of the souls of the dying before they can set foot on The Low Road, therefore it is common to find windows on the western sides of a home being shut and barred when there is an individual on their death bed. The Sluagh carry their unfortunate victims with them, often for ages, torturing them and dispensing all manner of misery… until they can make an escape or The Host tires of them and releases them to find their way belatedly to The Low Road.
So, when you see that cloud of black birds in the distance and their shrill cries make the hair on the back of your neck stand on-end, and the goose flesh crawl up your arms… be cautious. It may not be a flock of birds.
There are many traditions or paths within witchcraft and pagan worship. This begs the two-part question of: What is a tradition, and does it support any important purpose? Although I will expand upon this analysis further, I must preface it by saying one does not need to find an established tradition to take up, or seek one to be initiated into. Building your own, the process of seeking the little kernels of truth you will use as mortar to hold in place the building stones of the religious cathedral of your own tradition… this holds much more satisfaction than being handed the truth of others on a silver platter. Invariably, if you find a tradition that resonates with you, there will be aspects that bother you or that you do not agree with. You’ll either be stuck with it, or end up leaving to begin your search anew.
A tradition is a framework of practices, rituals, beliefs, and myths. Some have argued the purpose of a tradition is to enable these important components of religion to be passed from one generation to the next, thereby ensuring a continuity. I think this over simplifies it, but it is an important truism that has validity. I think the more important part they play though is to create structure, order, and form whereby the mysteries can be supported and built upon. Without this support they will fall into a jumbled mess of confusion. This is the larger purpose of a tradition in my un-humble opinion… order and structure. This also reminds me of a famous quote, which can be aptly applied here:
“There are parts of a ship which taken by themselves would sink. The engine would sink. The propeller would sink. But when the parts of a ship are built together, they float. So with the events of my life. Some have been tragic. Some have been happy. But when they are built together, they form a craft that floats and is going places. And I am comforted. ”
-Ralph W. Sockman
Our glorious religion of witchcraft has many parts, many components, many concepts and geographical sources that are not compatible with each other, and without the structure of a tradition to bring the compatible parts together into a coherent whole and hold them in place, they will sink individually to the bottom of the abyss and do nobody any good… Just remember, you have the ability to create that structure yourself.
“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it.
Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many.
Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books.
Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders.
Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations.
But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason
and is conductive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”
When death comes, awareness expands and the laws of our physical world no longer apply. The soul parts from its husk and will feel the pull of Morrigan’s cauldron deep in the underworld, beckoning for it to begin the long journey on The Low Road, the highway upon which all souls must travel to reach her realm. Sometimes though, unfinished business, or strong attachments to loved ones and places, or extreme hatred can compel a soul to remain for a time. If not bound to our world by one of these things, the soul will walk The Low Road for nine nights, watched over by Cernunnos until it reaches the gates of The Underworld and the embrace of Morrigan. Caution must be exercised though while on this journey, for to stray from the way presents many dangers. The shadowy byways and side paths are often frequented by Lesser Powers, some of which are entities with naught but malevolence and evil intent. To stray represents a very real risk… and great peril to the unfortunate soul who does not stay upon the path.
In The Underworld, the cauldron waits patiently, a crucible containing all that was, and all that will be. The womb of existence. In time all mortal creatures must return to it. The soul must then make a choice, and sometimes this choice is easy and quick, yet for others it can be difficult and lengthy. The soul can enter the cauldron and wash away their previous life, the memories, the pain, and allow their rebirth to take place somewhere on our surface world… to live again and experience existence anew. Or the soul can choose to transcend into godhood, if it has gained the knowledge, captured the light, and learned the mysteries that the Great Goat God had whispered to them in life. He provided the spark, which we have the power to blow into a bright cinder and fan into a black flame.
Lyrics to a song by Faith And The Muse, a talented group with several pagan themed albums. Listen to it please. For me the song cracked open a small window into that place where my soul dwells… and I could feel heat and darkness seeping out. It made me giggle.
In kairos hour I bequeath
Confusion of my sole belief
Consider: am I god in mortal shell
Yet shine no brighter than myself
Invaded by life’s patriarch
Who conquered me through hatred’s art
With fists of all unspoken sin
Agrip’d my angered heart within
And blood unknowing humble flows
Deity’s miscarried ghost
For here my innate children prey
Un-nursed and unhealed wounds betray
A swollen rage: my numen’s breath
Of fire yet demotic sense
Rejects its own humanity
I give thee name
Yet keep the blame
That is my one possession
Wherein lies the lesson (9)
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