Warlock Diaries #2

Dancefloor magic, love spells, ancestral contact, etc.

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OK, let’s get into it. Because I’m studying quite a few forms of devotion, magic and general cosmic gibberish, I’m using my Substack as something of an ongoing Book of Shadows. I recently met my 51 year-old self (who was hot); apparently he will be working on a comprehensive “Grimoire of Light.” For now, I’m still in my Wartortle stage of development, so this will be the metaphorical wall at which I toss the spaghetti. You get it.

LOVE SPELLS
My recent and unexpected heart-opening (and subsequent crushing!) revealed to me that I want love, and — in my own way — I’m ready for it. As someone who usually considers themselves DAMAGED GOODS, I’ve long assumed that a relationship would come after processing the terror, dread, nausea and shame which pumps through my veins, delivered through childhood exposure to total fucking insanity.

Fuck that. Anyone who is in it to win it must accept that I’m a crazy bitch (one who is also in recovery and committed to brutally honest accountability), because, as of about five minutes ago, I accept that this is who I am.

So anyways, back to the magic. You know that I’m obsessed with the astrologer Caroline W. Casey and her smoky, Kathleen Turner narrations. In her audiobook, she recommends a Venus ritual, to be done on Friday (Aphrodite’s day). Here’s how it goes:

Buy a sweet roll. Take a piece of paper and write all that you desire in your beloved. Then, stuff the paper, and a five-cent coin, inside the bread, and light a candle on it. As the wick burns, do something lovely and beautiful with yourself. Once it’s melted, take the roll, and throw it in a river or pond. Then, recite these words, to be said facing the four directions every day thereafter:

I am the presence
bringing into my life my beloved
who is freeand willing to be my mate and partner
and I am so inspired
that I find the courage to stay and the wisdom to endure
with an open heart.

Not to make everything about Batman Returns, but the fundamental rules apply: mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it, but even deadlier if you mean it.

In English: don’t ask for it if you can’t handle the consequences. When I went to GAZE, one of my favorite parties, I could sense that every cat in town was suddenly in heat for me — all except the one I wanted. Like that Buffy episode, from season two. It was fun at first, frisky, then feral. I’ll say this: the spell didn’t solve my codependency, or instantly mend my heart, but reciting it every day means that I will show up for what comes, that I’ll fulfill my side of the contract, and the rest is in Venus’s hands.

SIGILS ON THE DANCEFLOOR
You can read Grant Morrison’s free PDF guide to sigil magic here, or invest in a proper education through Gordon White’s excellent book The Chaos Protocols. Sigils are words of invocation, transformed into visual art, which is then focused on, charged, activated and released. You write each invocation from the vantage point of your future self: “I can afford to live alone,” “I live in X neighborhood” are some of mine I’m playing with. Then, you cross out all the vowels, and made a pattern or symbol out of the remaining consonants. To be clear: if I am making these, then they really require no artistic talent.

It’s recommended that you be in a meditative state or under the influence of psychedelics when charging a sigil. But of course, I’ve had the most fun firing these suckers off under a disco ball, with Madonna slamming and sweat dripping down my back. Here’s my current system: I sketch out a sigil in my notebook, then paint a larger version to have around the house, followed by an index-card-sized mini I can take in my pocket, along with Mentos and some cash, for when I hit the party.

I do my best meditating while dancing, so when I know I am connecting with the music, I pull the card out, inspect it, close my eyes, and let the sigils take form, as if they are…inflating in my imagination. I feel the figures pulsing and growing, like balloons…or other things which become engorged. When the sigil feels like it’s going to burst, I command all my will, and…let’s just go for it: I Lydia Tár it, back to 2D form, toss the card to the floor, and recite Gordon White’s words of release: Doesn’t matter; need not be.

Sigils, when properly activated, always work. The key is specificity in what you write, and releasing them at a moment of orgasmic purity. Once the sigil is activated, it’s out of your hands. Your work is done.

FEASTS
This isn’t interesting, but I’ve always resisted altar work. It just felt a little “girl in Bushwick with bad tattoos buying crystals on Amazon.” Apparently, altar devotion has been in business for thousands of years, which means there are endless playful ways to take this seriously, and get over myself.

For me, I’ve most enjoyed feasting the gods. If I’m praying or rejoicing, I will now set up my collages, recite the Orphic Hymns to whichever gods I’m invoking, and offer them some delicious pastries, alcohol, coins and fruit. You can look up offerings to specific gods. These tend to work most poetically on new moons, full moons, and at Friday night candle lightings for Shabbat.

Last night, I did my first-ever ancestral feast, calling on my father’s bloodline to help me find a home here in Tel Aviv. In terms of volume, this Ashkenazi assemblage made Mulan’s elders look like Quakers. They were quick to inform me that the Moscato I opened for them was cheap (it was), that they would prefer a nice red wine next time, and that if I’m going to feast them, it better be a feast, and not some nibbles of rugalach from around the corner (and that’s tea!).

But it was a beautiful meal we shared, and they were very helpful. They told me that I had to start involving my mother’s bloodline; no matter what troubles with that part of the family I’d had in this life, they had just as much interest in my safety, wholeness and happiness, and deserved love and respect from me. It gave me a peek beyond my anger, to the other side of forgiveness, to accepting all of who I am and the forces which have kept me alive, fed and cared for up until this point.

I got my apartment instructions and I’m ready to go. I would note, with feasting, what Gordon White advises: when the ritual is done, take the food out and leave it at a crossroads. You don’t want any other hungry forces coming into your house to pick at the leftovers.

FIRE ELEMENT
As I’ve mentioned, I’m doing Kat Hunt’s revelatory, life-changing Arc, and one of my assignments was to begin training with my future self, to ask him (or them) to serve as my medicine provider. Anyways, 51 year-old me is so hot that he can pull off a sleeveless tunic; his office is in the mountains with a creek flowing through it.

He had a lot to say and not a lot of time, but essentially: to get the “history of pain” out of my body, I’m going to have to bring the trauma to a boil, and cook it. I’m going to be initiating my own psychic-somatic-nervous system fever, which we can then treat afterwards. So I’m supposed to be cooking spicy foods, mastering the breath of fire, and letting my rage come to a boil.

In exchange for his wisdom, he needs me to serve as his research assistant, and study acupuncture, Ayurveda, chakras and other modalities I’m not fully proficient in. I welcome any recommendations for readings, courses or beyond. I have a lot to learn…