The text was taken from an About Me submission I made to SILKMILK MagiZain:
The most powerful tomes appear like holograms before your inner eye. You can find only fragments of this inner wisdom in a bookstore. The pages are Time, and the turning of these pages are experience. It is a reflection of the workings of the cosmos and of the beating earth divested from their material bindings that shares secrets of which you may never speak.
Yet this experience of eternity does not last forever. We step away from the light, and bumble in the darkness. This is a liberation, not having things set, having that freedom to fuck up. We try things, we struggle, we play, we experiment. And often we DO speak about our connection to what makes everything work. These of course are lies, and and we share them like pop songs on a psychic radio.
Welcome to my station.
Who am I? A child with graying hair, with flaws like deep canyons, and in some of them flourish magnificent flora and fauna. I am a swarm of paradoxical conversations, swelling with inopportune desires. I wish I could turn into a female at whim, or else a whale song. And this paper currency, what is this madness? Hawks visit me, a spirit threw rocks at me because I came to exorcise it, and I have been visited by a flying spacecraft. I surround myself with magical partners who inspires me like the blinking cursor of a computer called The Big Bang. I practice mysterious traditions that bring together the snake and the apple and show the Son of Earth unfolding wings with a thousand peacock eyes.
Herein I will tell fictions of tin soldiers embedded in trees like video camera golems, of trance walk meditations where you may walk over the threads of the Loom of Fate, and of a book of pacts whose potency can be measured in the DNA of its pages, for blood does bind.
I am not making up that I have made it all up.
It’s all license plate divination while on the road, ordering spells from a Celestial Distributor who frequently misships. It’s a burroughsian cut-up of misfit mysticism and real-life pragmatism: Hepatameron circles for lost Angels of love, witchcraft rites in the city park, millennia old Papyrus Greek Magicae recitations to stay awake for an exam, Bhakti to Shiva in a rock band’s practice garage, daemonic invocations to fatten your wallet, playing card Quabala mashups, – cultural magical appropriation gone wild. So many tributaries but the water is All.
And we can always return … Blind ourselves with light, sing the song of silence, divest our attachments and invest in the timeless essence of spirit, the breath, and become wise to its effect in the everlasting dance.
Until then, let’s have a magical kiki! I hope you enjoy the site, and I appreciate your visit.