This is part 6 of a series. Here are Part 1 & Part 2 &Part 3 & Part 4 & Part 5

hiatus (n.)

1560s, \”break or opening in a material object,\” from Latin hiatus \”opening, aperture, rupture, gap,\” from past participle stem of hiare \”to gape, stand open\” (see yawn (v.)). Sense of \”gap or interruption in events, etc.\” is first recorded 1610s.

Ginunngagap – the yawning primal void. On either side of this lay the primordial realms of Fire and Ice, and when they met and interacted, the giant Ymir was formed. Norse myth tells us that it is from his slain corpse that the worlds were built. A triad of brothers killed him, cut him up, remixed him and arranged things into the worlds we know.

Last week, this series went on hiatus. I was having an empty brain day – couldn’t summon enough words to make them worthwhile your reading, so I went and did something else I worked on other projects and then gave myself the rest of the day as an ‘input’ day, rather than an ‘output’ day. I don’t believe in writers block; you can always do something, even if it’s not what you originally planned.

I didn’t consciously plan the hiatus, but, as it turns out, it gave me exactly what I needed. Rather than scurry back to my original notes and attempt to wring some filler out of them for you, I followed my instinct.

Well, I say instinct, and yet what I really mean is my ‘demon.’ There’s a quote from the esteemed Science Fiction writer, Roger Zelazny, which I posted on Facebook the other day:

“Occasionally, there arises a writing situation where you see an alternative to what you are doing, a mad, wild gamble of a way for handling something, which may leave you looking stupid, ridiculous or brilliant -you just don\’t know which. You can play it safe there, too, and proceed along the route you\’d mapped out for yourself. Or you can trust your personal demon who delivered that crazy idea in the first place.

Trust your demon.”

And here, dear readers, is where we are beginning to notice a pattern, aren’t we? Recall from Part 4, that a genius is really a tutelary spirit. Recall that “The bones is yours, dad! They come from you!”

Creativity takes work – it is rarely a matter of sitting around for ideas to come. Anybody who says that is not a creator, they are merely a passive channel, unreliable at best and unpredictable and corrupt at worst. Such folks as these who partake in occult pursuits are often subject to what Mr. White of Runesoup refers to as “extradimensional trolling.”

From a storytelling standpoint, this makes for boring stories that make no sense at all, leaping from point to point.

Trusting your demon is like trusting a friend or sibling. You only trust them because you’ve built a relationship up – you know each other, and you trust them to be themselves, and that’s something you’re fine with. But knowing them is key above everything else, in engaging in the back and forth which builds connection – in the communication.

Remember the rabbit in the hat? Remember how important it was to keep talking – to not edit? At base level, that exercise was about becoming comfortable with creating on the fly without restriction, and yet there was also another purpose.

When you learn about your body and your voice, when you begin to use that toolbox, you begin to learn and gain knowledge of yourself without the pesky censorship of society.

Slowly, you are beginning to learn that the default modes of communication are often reflexive, and that with deliberate and careful observation and practice, you achieve more nuance and depth. You can communicate and convey different internal states to the world, and change your own. All this is a pre-requisite for communication with your ‘demon’ or genius.

(Note that these terms are fluid and I’m deliberately keeping them vague, because I’m certainly not silly enough to offer definitions.)

Your ceremonial magicians will no doubt be muttering about the Knowledge & Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. Those with more of a yen for the Greek Magical Papyri will no doubt be muttering about various daimones or supernatural assistants.

Within the context of this series though, I am referring to the quality/faculty/entity with which one may develop a relationship, so that one is capable of turning everything and anything to use.

This demon is precisely why one may confidently allow a hiatus, and be sure that, while seeming to be empty, such a disruption may, in fact, be pregnant with creative potency. To do that though, one must be thoroughly and literally obsessed by one’s demon. Quite literally, one becomes a child of the ‘god’ – those with grounding in the Graeco-Roman schools of magic will no doubt see the parallels with the underlying roots of esoteric Christianity and other tradition, but that’s quite enough comparative theology for now!

It is not a path for everyone – it’s not particularly ‘safe’ either, being as you can’t ever stop doing it, and if you try, things have a tendency to go awry. But it is something that a creative person will recognise, every artist, writer, musician and actor and countless other folk. One might even say that it was ultimately left-hand path in nature, but that’s neither here nor there.

By developing this communication skill, this recognition and method of riding and coexisting always with that inspirational force, everything becomes source material and the division between the two ceases to matter.

Remember that question from the end of the last post – “What will you do right Now?”

That is possibly the second most important question I’ll ever ask you. We’ll get to the first, in a moment.

Being aware of what’s going on is highly important in life in general, but specifically in storytelling and sorcery. You need to know your audience, and to be able to watch and tailor your story to them. You need to know where you are and what kind of action is appropriate there.

The difficulty arises when, unfortunately, you can’t possibly have all the information you need. For most, a best-guess or a prediction based on previous similar experiences will do.

But we’re not most people. We understand that the map is not the territory, and that the medium is the message. We understand the world whispers a twilight languages writes books on iron-grey skies and weaves tapestries out of rain. We understand that the light of sun and moon provides pathways to other places, and that nothing is ever still.

Which brings us to that most important of questions: “What’s happening Now?”

Some of you may know some mindfulness techniques – the act of remaining present and observing what is occurring, without judgement. They’re highly useful, and I recommend them. Just observing what’s going on, without drifting off into what it means, or associated memory, helps deal with a great many things.

We can’t escape the Now, not really, although we try through mental chicanery. Recognising that, and engaging with experience as-is, will very often change the quality of the experience completely.

As an example, next time you have a pain, instead of ignoring it or wishing it would go away – focus on it completely and utterly. Within thirty seconds, you will notice that the sensation begins to change. By continuing to focus on that ‘new’ sensation, you will notice that it too will begin to shift in nature. Now, rather than interrogating the change, bring your focus back to the original area and keep it there.

In no time at all, you will notice just how significant a shift mere focused attention may engender.

However, this is actually not the most interesting product of that important question – because in fact, due to the quirk of biology we possess, what we experience as the Now has already actually occurred a split second earlier.

Everything we do, we have already done!

I have already begun the necessary process which produces the words I hear in my head which I am typing now before I am even aware of it. Decisions about which word to use are made without my conscious input:

‘I’, is at best, an echo or an after-image, a residual impression. Consequently, to use the example of pain – the pain, when it it shifts or ends, does so before we realise it!

Now, what does this nervous system quirk have to do with us? After all, the lag is usually less than a second, surely?

This is true – but given how quickly decisions are reached before we act, that gap might be said to be nigh infinite. Suppose then, that we argue that our conscious awareness arranges experience in such a way as to create a narrative to justify the decisions and actions taken in that void?

Suppose then equally, that that narrative is created on the near edge of that abyss – and that we react according to that narrative.

So then, there is a chain of action stretching on and on, with our awareness merely along for the ride? If that’s the case, why bother with the exercises I have given you in previous posts? Quite simply this:

It’s a feedback loop – yes, there is lag, a nigh infinite yawning space that disrupts our idea of cohesion and flow between events. However, by mindfully bringing these processes into awareness, they become fine-tuned – think of martial arts drills and repetition.

This means that the actions and decisions taken in that dark space become more refined, more useful to our idea of narrative. Subjectively, change happens more rapidly – thats to say more occurs in a shorter time.

Work solidly and completely for five minutes on one thing alone, with one thought, one goal, and you will achieve more than thinking about 3 connected thoughts in 15 minutes. Equally, the more occurs, the more we can tweak – one suddenly finds more resources and potential paths.

So, finally, circling back to storytelling, what to do? Why, nothing short of total utter commitment to every word, every syllable and letter. Make its transmission inevitable, as inevitable as the rest of your existence.

Join me next week when we’ll see just exactly what this means for us as storytellers and seekers of esoteric knowledge.

Due to some circumstances beyond my control, there\’s no Bare Bones post this week. Fear not though, the extra time means that I can make next week;s even better.

See you on Wednesday.

This is part 5 of a series. Here are Part 1 & Part 2 &Part 3 & Part 4

It’s Wednesday. Wodensdaeg. Mittwoch. Midweek. And I have a story to tell you, on this most in-between of the 7 days of the week. It’s a story I referred to way back in Part 2 – a story that is told to the seeker of esoteric knowledge by the fellow who is merely a storyteller.

And here’s a little secret – in case you didn’t know; for merely means solely, purely, absolutely and only. Yet think about how you hear it – as a put down, or at best a deprecation.

“You’re only a child. You wouldn’t understand.” Or: “I’m only a simple man/woman/cat/dog. Don’t mind me.”

Don’t mind me. What a phrase that is – don’t pay attention to me, don’t remember me, I don’t want to take up your time.

As if one is less than any other number. As if one dollar, one pound, one euro is less than ten. Now, you might be thinking, well, yes, one is less than ten – what the devil are you talking about, you beardy madman?

And in one sense, you’d of course be quite right, and yet in another sense not. The ten is made up of ten ones after all – without the one, there can be no many. Without the first step, there can be no journey, and without the first word there can be no tale.

In a sense then, a story is like a tree – it grows from a seed, which brings us back to the seeker and the storyteller, for the tale starts like this:

And so the storyteller took a drink, looked the seeker dead in the eye, and allowed a small smile to cross his lips. The seeker met his gaze with bold curiosity, waiting for a word. Moments passed, and yet no word came, so the seeker waited still more.

Despite the noise of the inn, it was as if silence wrapped itself around them. The seeker found themselves stirring inside. How dare this fellow be so oblique, so cryptic – how dare he promise a story to prove his powers, and yet withhold any attempt to do so?

“Well?” the seeker demanded, “Speak then! Tell your tale, storyteller. Show me your wisdom.”

Still the other did not speak, hiding behind that smile. The seeker began to grow more and more frustrated, resolving to leave that place in which they were. The storyteller was obviously a charlatan. So, they stood and made to leave, all the time aware of that cool gaze.

Yet, as they were about to turn upon their heel, the storyteller spoke, softly:

“A tree, then.”

The seeker froze, turning back to the storyteller, unsure of what the other had said.

“Pardon?”

“A tree. It begins with a tree – first and always.”

“What?”

The storyteller said nothing by way of reply, merely gesturing to the seeker’s seat. When the other had seated themselves, and made ready to listen:

“There is a tree,” he said, “With roots that stretch down into the deepest worlds, and up to the highest heavens. Its branches spread out beyond the sky, widening out into the spaces between the very stars themselves. Buried below the tree’s trunk, there is a treasure, the likes of which no mortal man has ever seen. There, in that dark earth, waiting to quicken to life, lies the secret to all things.”

Here, he paused, and the silence lengthened, seconds ticking by into minutes.

“And?” said the seeker impatiently.

“And do you not seek esoteric knowledge?”

“I do.”

“And do you not wish to test the truth of my skills?”

“I do.”

“Then, if these are so, how will you discover what lies buried in the earth?”

“What do you mean? It is you who tells me the secret lies there. I have only your word that this is so.”

“Only my word, indeed. And do you not think, as a storyteller, that my trade, my skill is is in words?”

“A skill with words does not prove anything – you may lie well, and it all come to nothing.”

“Do you come for me for truth, lies, or esoteric wisdom?”

“What game is this?” demanded the seeker, half-rising.

The storyteller grinned. “The only game in town. Answer the question, leave or stay – it makes no difference to me. I am only a storyteller. This is my practice, as I have told you, as he who yoked himself to the sun had his. Whether you believe me or not, I tell you truly that I taught him all that you have heard of him.”

Were the seeker someone else, they might have left then, and yet, something, though they knew yet not what, had drawn them here and now to that place.

“Say on then,” they said. “For I am ever driven by the search, the need to know and understand.”

“Just so – yet how would you answer my questions? How will you discover what lies buried in the earth? Do you come to me for truth, lies, or esoteric wisdom?”

And you, what would you do if you were the seeker? Think about it – how would you answer those questions? They are key to the fusion of storytelling and sorcery, key to putting flesh on the dry bones which I am laying out even now. How would you behave if you were them?

How will you approach teaching that doesn’t look like teaching, and yet it is? Because all teaching does is allow you room to learn, and if you’re here reading this and the others in the series, then it’s perfectly obvious that you do indeed wish to learn, isn’t it?

I’ve given you exercises to get used to the raw format, the source material as it were. I’ve given you things to play with – with your body and your voice, and ways of noticing things that you might not have noticed before you began this.

A storyteller can take anything and weave it into a story – remember the rabbit and the hat? A sorcerer can do the necessary with next to no tools at all. They have the toolkit already, as you do.

In certain ceremonial magic circles, making tools and talismans is an essential part of the practice – you can’t go summoning angels or demons without your magical weapons or your temple-space. These things must be done first, before you even begin the business of the grimoires or Enochiana.

And you know what? I totally agree with that. Working from scratch is vital. Absolutely vital.

But you’ve probably noticed that I’m not a ceremonial magician – just a storyteller. Ultimately, everything you need to work comes from you – the tools are just extensions of that. That doesn’t mean that you are everything – on the contrary you are a very small piece of the puzzle, albeit an essential one.

And here’s the heart of it – working from scratch is vital, because that’s the only thing you have. A storyteller can tell themselves a story all they like, but ultimately, the magic happens when you let it out into the wild – when you connect beyond yourself.

All you can do is speak your words, sing your songs, write your lines – what happens after that happens in the privacy of someone else’s skull. As I’ve said before, it’s like throwing spaghetti at the wall to see if it sticks. The same applies in magic – you are still at the mercy of the wider kosmos.

It’s Wednesday. Wodensdaeg. Mittwoch. Midweek. And I have a story to tell you, on this most in-between of the 7 days of the week.

I know you’ve read that line before, heard the words before. I know because I wrote them, because I am only a storyteller. What I don’t know is vast, infinite in nature. I don’t know who you are, or what your last thought was, or what you said last, and to whom.

I don’t know what gods you honour, if any at all. I don’t know who you love, or who you hate. I don’t know how you vote, or what kind of sex you like.

And yet, I’m here with you now, writing these words, sending them out across the web, across the net, a voice speaking from out of the void. Because it needs doing, because it’s Wednesday and I am who and what I am. For no other reason than that.

Consider that for a second, would you?

Consider the seeker and the storyteller, and the day and the time and that I neither know who you are, and nor do I care. Consider the fact that there are things and people moving and being in the worlds that you know nothing of, and that they may live and die and laugh and love without ever knowing you exist.

It’s Wednesday. Wodensdaeg. Mittwoch. Midweek. And I have a story to tell you, on this most in-between of the 7 days of the week.

Imagine the smile of exhilaration – the way the emotion rises in your body, grips you in the chest and belly; how it tightens your throat and pulls your lips back as your heart begins to pound.

Can I get a Hallelujah?

Can I get a Hell Yes?

Can I get a Fuck Yeah?!

Of course I can. And even now, as you’re reading, maybe you’re wondering why the words make you remember, even lightly, as you’re parsing, as you’re recalling what they mean?

Imagine the grinning glee of it, the sheer unleashing of furious joy felt throughout everything you are. Because it’s not anything as pale as happiness, is it? It’s not as ordinary as contentment, it’s something else.

Go on, check out that emotion, that forked road of thought and memory that leads you there. Experience it fully – and really, since you’ve come this far, it’s pretty damn easy to open that door and let it in:

You’re all alone in the night, rising high above the land, as high as the rising sense of wonder and awe that comes ever on. And at your back, amidst the howling wind that blows through you, crisp and sharp and clear, you can hear a tree’s voice, groaning its song out to the wild.

It’s Wednesday. Wodensdaeg. Mittwoch. Midweek. And I have a story to tell you, on this most in-between of the 7 days of the week.

And you smile that smile. The one without words, the one that has no need of explanation. You know the one.

Because you are the beginning and the end. The creator and destroyer of worlds, the dreamer and maker and the shaper. The one with teeth and tongue, with sword and pen and word and blood.

Quickly now, before it passes, as it must – what will you do, right NOW?

This is part 4 of a series. Here are Part 1 & Part 2 &Part 3

Last week I promised I’d teach you how to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and I will, but first, here’s a question:

Are we having fun yet? Have you been playing with the exercises I’ve suggested, embracing them just for fun?

Because that’s the essence of learning, right there. It’s the essence behind the scientific method, which forms the bedrock of your entire world. It’s the essence behind any true intellectual and physical pursuit – the spirit of playful enquiry, the inquisitive eye of the child. Children are like sponges – they pick things up without even us noticing, take their cues from us and their environment.

Think about it – in a few short years, they learn a fluency with language and motion which, if they really thought about it, would astonish anyone. They go from squalling babes to beings that can use communication to make their wishes known. They learn to walk, to ride a bike, to use a pen and paintbrush; they constantly ask questions, curious, hungry to know about what catches their interest.

Then we stick them in school, and teach them that they need the right answer to gain praise – that not knowing is a bad thing – instead of the thing that inspires curiosity.

We’ve all had problems, difficulties even, in getting to grips with something – unless you’re lucky enough to be a genius, in which case I’ll come back to you! We’ve all struggled, thought we were ‘never going to get it’, and yet with hard work, we managed it.

Learning can be hard work, when you’re not a sponge. When you’re not capable of just sucking it in, soaking it up, absorbing everything, then things can get frustrating, right?

Except, you were a child, weren’t you? We all were. At one time, we were those sponges, we learnt like lightning. So what happened to that faculty of learning? We call kids innocent and carefree, right?

Both of those words boil down to a single concept:

To be free from sorrow, guilt or grief.

To be free from caring what happens.

Magicians talk about ‘lust of result’. You become so fixated on obtaining a particular thing that your operation at best falls over and doesn’t work, and at worst, burns your house down, so to speak.

(And sometimes literally – just ask a friend of mine about that.)

Children play for play’s sake. At the beginning, they learn for learning’s sake. They don’t do it to get good grades, to get good jobs and fat pay-cheques. So I’ll ask again – when did it stop being that way, for you?

If it never did, then congratulations, because you will find these ideas even easier to click with than the rest of us. And note that I said even easier there, because they are very easily clicked with and understood by you, even if you don’t realise it yet, for one simple reason.

That reason is really undeniable – because you’re still you. Because you still remember being a child, and because you know that at one point you didn’t know how to read, and now you do. Now you’re reading this, and there was a time when you didn’t know how – and you didn’t quite know how awesome the things you are still – as we speak – discovering by the written word would be, right?

Think about the how it felt as a child, to play, and how absorbing it was. Think about how you may get absorbed in books, films, tv, music – or even something so simple as washing the dishes. You are still capable of absorption, are you not?

Still capable of being that sponge, because you can still play. So keep that in mind, as we go on, because it’s important and we’re not quite geniuses yet.

Now, since this series is on Practical Storytelling & Sorcery, let’s ask ourselves, first and foremost, what kind of genius would be involved in that?

What kind of genius is that particular genius – the storytelling sorcerer who instinctively knows how to make those bare bones connect together, to breathe life where there was none before, to make them dance? The kind of being who is capable of spinning their tales, weaving their spells and changing worlds, minds and souls?

Do you remember Orpheus? The poet and musician who improved on a technology invented by a god? Do you not wonder what spirit moved him, what his voice sounded like as he delivered his charms?

How would it feel, to hear that song, to be charmed and ensorcelled by it – to be carried off, transported to another way of being?

A genius is capable of something wonderful – something amazing which places them in a class of their own.

So here’s where we get our hands dirty with the guts of language again – because well, just look:

genius (n.)

late 14c., \”tutelary god (classical or pagan),\” from Latin genius \”guardian deity or spirit which watches over each person from birth; spirit, incarnation, wit, talent;\” also \”prophetic skill,\” originally \”generative power,\” from root of gignere \”beget, produce\” (see kin), from PIE root *gen- \”produce.\” Sense of \”characteristic disposition\” is from 1580s. Meaning \”person of natural intelligence or talent\” and that of \”natural ability\” are first recorded 1640s.

Watches over from birth, indeed!

“The bones is yours, dad. They came from you!” – Part 2

Gordon has a lovely piece up on Twilight Language. You should read it all, but I’m sure he won’t mind me quoting a few lines:

‘In twilight language, the medium is the message. The sheer act of communication, of transmission, is what is important. Taken individually, or even taken by somebody else, the symbols are incomprehensible. If synchronicity is when the universe notices you noticing it, twilight language is how it says “hello, there!” immediately after.’

Children are adept at learning languages – they play with sounds, they babble, and they laugh. You did it, I did it. Everyone did it. In a sense, that play, that primordial experimentation, is the ur-tongue. That’s the pre-Adamic state – antediluvian innocence before we’re told we were naked, and should cover the hell up for morality’s sake.

Think about it – how many young children have you seen running about in your life, naked and uncaring. Maybe at the beach or or the swimming pool or somewhere, yes?

Which brings us to pulling rabbits out of hats, because I promised.

Previously, we’ve examined embodied concepts, and how that relates to the voice. You’ve made funny noises and played with funny postures, paying attention to how they feel. Now we get into the really interesting bits.

In order to pull a rabbit out of a hat, there must be a hat, a rabbit, and a you. The magic is in pulling a rabbit from an empty hat. Something from nothing, yes?

So, imagine yourself to be a magician, or even an ordinary person who has come across a magic hat. Really imagine it – see the brim and the fabric and the colour and the texture. Then, bow to the audience if you feel like it, and put your hand in the hat. Then, describe to your audience, imaginary or otherwise, how it feels to have suddenly found the rabbit in a hat.

Describe its warmth, the texture of its fur, the weight of it – and do this out loud and don’t stop. No matter what comes into your mind about this rabbit, you have to say it. You have to speak it into existence.

DON’T EDIT. KEEP TALKING.

Describe it as if you were the only one to know this rabbit exists, until you can feel it there beneath your hand, continually describing this damn rabbit and what it’s doing.

Then, when you’re ready, still talking, still describing, draw the rabbit out of the hat and put it beside the hat. Keep talking, keep speaking, keep describing whatever that rabbit does, in as much detail as you can.

It doesn’t matter if the rabbit pees on the table, or pulls out a carrot and says “What’s Up Doc?”, you have to keep talking – one word in front of another, no matter how ridiculous. Once again:

DON’T EDIT. KEEP TALKING.

If you stop talking, the rabbit ceases to be, and you’ll have to start all over again. Poor rabbit – you can stop talking whenever you like, but it depends on you to exist!

The key is, as ever, to keep talking. If you do this exercise several times, you’’l begin to notice certain things – they vary from person to person, but can include things like the words losing their meaning, or becoming aware of the underlying rhythm of your voice, or the rabbit acting differently than you expected – perhaps acting in unexpected ways, maybe even un-rabbit-like ways!

Once you’re enjoying exploring this, try something new – have that magic hat there, but begin describing the hat, putting your hand in etc, one word after the other as before. But instead of reaching for a rabbit, you’re going to pull something else out, and even you don’t know what it is!

Start from first principles – One thing, then the next, then the next. Don’t think about it, just feel it, just describe it. Again:

DON’T EDIT. KEEP TALKING.

The key with these exercises is to get used to speaking out loud, to disengaging the critical faculty here.

It doesn’t matter if you pull out multiple objects one after the other – you are like the magic hat. You can create anything. You’re like a child, just playing for the sake of it.

Again, it doesn’t matter what you produce, solely that you get used to the act of creation. To just letting go and seeing what happens, babbling happily on like a child, mucking around with raw clay and voice and breath.

Above all, the medium is the message as it were – none of this means anything. It simply is.

And it’s that isness, that raw essence, which is the material on which we work.

So we’ve touched on play, on learning, and the raw technical exercises I’ve outlined. By now you’ve probably noticed the metaphors and loops which will be propelling us on into next weeks post.

Maybe you’re beginning to feel the connections? Or maybe you’re what’s happened to our seeker and the storyteller whom we left back in Part 2?

Never fear – either way, I’ll see you next week.

On Wednesday.

This is part 3 of a series. Here are Part 1 & Part 2

How many of you tried out last week’s exercise, I wonder? How many of you really played around with the embodied sense of emotion, as I suggested? This isn’t a random question, or me wishing for more comments on the blog – quite to the contrary. It’s an interesting point that many people spend a lot of time intellectualising, in reading things like this, and not actually ‘getting around to it’.

Obviously life can be hectic, and things get busy – that’s understood. But there’s a difference between knowing intellectually and what, for consistency’s sake I’ll call ‘bone knowledge’.

The kind of thing that leads to such comments as “I could feel it in my bones.” Substitute bones for ‘water’ or ‘gut’ if you like, and yet, given the overall theme of this series, I’m sure you’ll understand why I use bones. Bones outlast flesh, outlast many things, and above are are a vital reminder of the constant change of the universe. They’re a memento mori – a reminder of your mortality. You don’t have all the time in the world, your alloted span is really rather short, as far as things go – and no matter how you might wish it otherwise. However you might wish to escape, that fact, you can’t really.

What I’m telling you is this – your body is the premier tool for both storytelling and sorcery. Sometimes, often in fact, props and tools are available to you, but your body is pretty much always there – you’re never going to be caught without your hands (unless you’ve lost them in an accident, in which case…this just got awkward to mention) but either way I am sure you get my drift. It is the one toolbox you always carry with you, no matter what.

Even if you’re of the stripe that believes you vacate your body completely during magical operations, there’s still the body to vacate in the first place. For this reason, the body is the central premise of any kind of of storytelling or sorcery, even simply as a vehicle interfaced with whatever whatever brand of consciousness theory you subscribe to. Even if such things are non-local in some quantum weirdness sense, experience shows that the meatsuit is pretty damn good at what it does, and is certainly better than nothing!

Which ties into use of the voice.

If you’ve played with the exercise in the last post, you’ll be aware just how much your body affects thought and action, as well as vice versa. The same thing applies to the voice as well. Below, I’ve listed the seven vowels of the Ancient Greek Alphabet to help you get to grips with things:

ALPHA – Ah
EPSILON – Eh
ETA – Ey/Ay
IOTA – Eee
OMICRON – O as in Hot
UPSILON – Oooo
OMEGA – Oh-(MEGA)

The pronunciation guide is rough, and you don’t have to say the word, just experiment with the tones of chanting the vowel, one by one, from ALPHA to OMEGA, and then back up again.

IMPORTANT NOTE: NEVER STRAIN. NEVER. YOUR VOICE IS AN INSTRUMENT. If you get a dry throat, or any soreness, STOP, drink some water, and rest.

Do this three times more, up and down, and as you’re doing so, notice which ones feel more potent to you. Which one resonates best for you. Notice whereabouts in your body that resonance occurs, and then focusing your attention on that area, do the same sequence again and notice what happens.

Each body and voice is individual – what’s comfortable for one, might not be comfortable for all. In general, I like to divide the body up into three – Head, Heart and Gut.

Head also includes the upper portions of the throat, while Heart includes most of the upper torso, with Gut including lower abdomen, genitals and legs (if you’re standing). Note that there is some overlap – think of your body being composed of three circles one on top of the other, overlapping slightly

Play with it again – try all seven in the Head area, and notice how it feels. Then do the Heart & Gut in turn. Notice the differences involved in sensation, and similarities. After a surprisingly short time, you’ll find that your voice actually uses your whole body, and with that use, you might begin to notice certain kinds of emotions, sensations or thoughts beginning to arise.

With work like this, it’s always good to have a notebook, and an attitude of experimentation. There’s no right answer at the moment, just exploration of your voice and body. It doesn’t matter how silly the thoughts or emotions arising are, make a note of them. Nothing is irrelevant – you’re learning to use the toolbox you were given at birth.

A NOTE ON BREATHING: Before beginning vocal work, I like to take some time to take some deep breaths and focus on my breathing before starting. I breathe in through my nose, and out of my mouth, with a hold of 3 count – so that works out like this:

Exhale for a count of three – Hold for three -Inhale for three – Hold for three – Exhale for three.

I usually perform three or nine cycles of that before beginning work, and after finishing as well. I find it helps to remind your body of its rhythms.

Now, I use the Greek vowel-tones because they have more nuance than the standard English five, and nuance is important when conveying information. You may have noticed that there are seven of them, and perhaps you know that there were seven planets acknowledged by the Ancient Greeks. These went as follows:

Sun
Moon
Mercury
Venus
Mars
Jupiter
Saturn

Now, as astute people, you will note that the names of these heavenly bodies have a variety of provenances, and there doesn’t seem to be a Greek in sight. That’s OK, you can blame the Romans for that. All of them, mythologically speaking have Greek equivalents.

Sun – Helios (later Apollo)
Moon – Selene
Mercury – Hermes
Venus – Aphrodite
Mars – Ares
Jupiter – Zeus
Saturn – Kronos

7 planets, 7 deities, and 7 vowels. Lucky 7. Crowley’s book of Qabbalistic correspondences was named Liber 777, did you know that?

The Ancient Greeks have some of the best known stories on the planet, some of the best known poets too. Homer, Sappho, Orpheus, Pherecydes of Leros, and his namesake in Sydos. So many years long dead, that they’re all mythical. All stories.

Do you know about Orpheus? They say he could charm the very rocks and trees themselves, and he descended into the underworld to claim his wife. It’s to his hymns we turn then, in this next stage – written at least six centuries before Christ.

You can find translations of them here, but I’ll reproduce the one to Hermes below, it being a Wednesday and all:

[27] XXVII. TO MERCURY [HERMES]

The Fumigation from Frankincense.

Hermes, draw near, and to my pray\’r incline, angel of Jove [Zeus], and Maia\’s son divine;
Studious of contests, ruler of mankind, with heart almighty, and a prudent mind.
Celestial messenger, of various skill, whose pow\’rful arts could watchful Argus kill:
With winged feet, \’tis thine thro\’ air to course, O friend of man, and prophet of discourse:
Great life-supporter, to rejoice is thine, in arts gymnastic, and in fraud divine:
With pow\’r endu\’d all language to explain, of care the loos\’ner, and the source of gain.
Whose hand contains of blameless peace the rod, Corucian, blessed, profitable God;
Of various speech, whose aid in works we find, and in necessities to mortals kind:
Dire weapon of the tongue, which men revere, be present, Hermes, and thy suppliant hear;
Assist my works, conclude my life with peace, give graceful speech, and me memory\’s increase.

The above is a call to Hermes, who the Romans called Mercury – it is a recounting of his mythic deeds and qualities. It calls to burn Frankincense, which has been found to be mildly psychoactive.

Now, consider the connections we have outlined above. Read the hymn, not for the strange language or formal translation but the imagery itself. Consider the vowels and the planets and the god.

Now read it again, out loud, using your knowledge of your voice’s resonance and your body.

Read it from the Head. See what happens, and how it feels.

Read it from the Heart, and do the same.

Then read it from the Gut.

I’m certain you’ll notice a difference – a difference in sensation, and that you’ll be able to feel which version fits you, the hymn, your voice and body.

And when you do, try and follow that sensation and experience it fully. See what happens to your posture, your sense of self. Experiment again, and you’ll soon learn the associations your body has with the language of the hymn and the way it feels right to you to speak it.

The right way to express Hermes, from your bones on out. You’ll be surprised by the results, I guarantee – if you actually perform the experiments I’ve outlined in this series, that is.

Next week, we’ll tie all this together with storytelling, and I’ll tell you how to pull a rabbit out of a hat!

PS – If you’re feeling keen, try these techniques with the other hymns corresponding to the gods. Note down what you get – it’ll be useful later, trust me.

“The bones is yours, dad. They came from you!”

Watch that, please. It contains a secret for you. I’ll come back to it in later pieces. For now, just watch and absorb it. Let it seep beneath the skin of your mind, settle amidst its semantic sediment. There, amongst your jumble of impressions and compressed perceptions which form the bedrock of your sense of self, let it sit like a seed.

And like a seed, it’ll begin to quietly germinate; send out questing shoots to twine about what’s already there.

If you’ve read the previous post in this series, then you know this is meant to be a practical way of using storytelling in magical and spiritual work. You already know that this is bare bones; the necessary framework which, when combined with inspiration will enable you to raise an army of ideas which you can press into service to enrich yourself and empower your work. You know that this is being done this because it needs doing, and because people are asking.

But, if you haven’t read that, then please do, because the posts are connected, like the hip bone’s connected to the leg bone. Without reading them all, following may become more difficult than it has to be, and that’s contrary to what you want – quite naturally.

Unnecessary difficulty is something we’ll be dealing with when we begin talking about transformation later on, so for now let’s confine ourselves to saying that difficulty and difference, while looking similar, are not obviously connected.

Note that suspiciously behaving obviously there, and note it well, because it’ll be important to us, both now and later. It may even haunt us, a little.

Right now, obviously, we need to talk about about storytelling, before the magical bit. We need to discuss how to tell stories, and the best way for me to do this is to show you, because contrary to popular belief storytelling isn’t an intellectual thing. This may seem airy-fairy at first, and yet there’s a reason bones are involved. Stories need spines, need frames, need reasons to go on, just like you.

And unlike you, they’re immortal, so killing them is…not easy…

Consider then, a seeker of esoteric knowledge. The kind of person who wanders the earth because of the whispers in their mind; driven by something insatiable which stirs in their breast, something unquiet nests in their gut. That kind of person is the person who visits the sadhus and the yogis, who disturbs hermits with their restless questions, and petitions taoist immortals for their secrets.

That kind of person who calls up angels and demons and commands them to give them wisdom, who strides into Buddha’s grove and begins digging under the bodhi tree.

They travel far and wide to learn the secrets of the mind and soul, the mysteries of meditation. Until, one day they encounter, upon a mountain close to the roof of world, an ascetic. This ascetic is rangy and ropey; sinew and tendon and leathern skin all wind-chapped and burnt by the cold of the highest places.

The seeker comes and seats themselves before the ascetic. “Teach me,” they say. “For I must know all you know.”

The ascetic shrugs. “I am no teacher. I cannot teach, for I have divested myself of all but my practice. Go where you will.”

“Tell me of your practice?”

“I cannot. My practice is all there is.”

“It is said that you can change bodies at will. That you learnt the art from an evil sorcerer who lived only so long as he did not leave the charnel ground. That you may travel faster than the winds.”

“These are stories,” says the ascetic. “And my practice is all there is.”

Imagine the seeker’s consternation! Would you pursue that further? Would you continue to press, as the seeker did, or would you go elsewhere, I wonder? Press the seeker did – yet always the response was the same.

All night the seeker waited, until at last the sun rose and, cold, tired and hungry, they realised with a start that the ascetic had vanished! Where he had been, a pile of rose petals lay.

Yet, as the sun fell warm upon the seeker’s face, they could not help but think that that they had been taught something, even if they had not realised it yet. Carefully, they climbed down the mountain, and by the time they reached its base, evening was drawing in. Seeking shelter at a nearby inn, they enquired of the innkeeper as to the ascetic’s disappearance. The innkeeper pointed over to a nearby table, where sat a man of indeterminate age.

“The storyteller’ll know,” he said. So over went the seeker, and asked the fellow about the ascetic’s fate.

“Ah, that one’s easy,” said the storyteller. “For he was a yogi, trained in the art of yoking his own body as you would yoke oxen to a plough, or a horse to a chariot. He hitched himself to the rising sun, and left the earth behind.”

“How do you know this?” asked the seeker. “I asked him of his practice and he would not tell me anything.”

“Not would not,” said the storyteller. “Could not. There was no room in him for anything but his practice.”

Surprised, the seeker replied. “How do you know this? Did you know him before he took up his practice?”

The storyteller gave a crooked smile. “Yes, though that is not why I know what has happened. I know that because I taught him thus.”

Well, you can imagine the seeker’s astonishment, can’t you?

“You?” the seeker asked in disbelief. “But you are a mere storyteller! He was a master yogi!”

“Precisely so.” The fellow’s grin grew wider. “A mere storyteller, as he was a mere yogi.”

The seeker thought for a moment. “So, it is you who taught him to yoke himself to the sun?”

The storyteller smiled still further. “Buy me a drink, and I will answer you truly, traveller.”

So over to the bar went that seeker, and bought a drink for himself and the storyteller. As it was placed before him, the other said:

“How is it that I have beer to wet my throat, though I have spent no coin?”

“Why, you promised to tell me truly of the yogi, in return for a drink.”

“Just so. Something for nothing. It is you who wished to know – it is your desire which I have manipulated, your body I have moved with simple words.”

The seeker stared at him. “You have tricked me then! You know nothing of the yogi?”

“I did not trick you. I merely showed you what you wanted, and how to get it. You did the rest. I am a mere storyteller, as he was a mere yogi. This is all that I am, as his practice was all there was for him. I taught him many things: I taught him how to change bodies at will. I taught him how to move faster than the very winds themselves.”

“But he said they were just stories.”

“Just so,” replied the storyteller. “And yet, did he not vanish? Was he not a master yogi? Did he not discover that mastery from my stories?”

“So you claim, but I have seen no proof. You could be lying or making things up.”

The storyteller laughed. “I am a storyteller, there is nothing else but that. And as for proof, well, allow me to tell you a story…”

And don’t worry, you’ll get your proof, as sure as that seeker will, for we shall be revisiting those two throughout the series. But for now, let’s consider the simple matter of that free beer, shall we?

The storyteller did something we do every day, he asked for something. Just like our seeker, he wants a particular thing – he has a goal and uses communication to bring the seeker into a situation where their goal and his are the same. To do that, he has to create the conditions for it to occur, has to create a route for the seeker to reach the same place that he occupies – or to use another metaphor, he has to make sure they are on the same page.

To extend the metaphor further, in order for the two of them to be on the same page of the script, there must be a script. Here, the storyteller has taken the other party’s communication, his words, his questions and curiosity, and folded them into the script, so that quite naturally, the seeker follows along. They’ve been very carefully led into the world that the storyteller has created.

And, you might ask, does the storyteller do that? Quite simply, he uses his knowledge and experience, and conveys – perhaps we might even say transmits – that impression using using every faculty he has. This is where the physicality comes in, and you can gain some insight as to how from performing a simple exercise:

For ease, the emotion I use here is anger, because it’s the most easily accessible strong emotion for most – but you can use almost any strong emotion for this experiment.

Think of a time you were experienced that strong emotion. Remember where you were, who you were with, what time of day it was – was it day or night? Were you alone, in public or private?

Really imagine it as clearly as you can – the things you saw, the things you heard, and more importantly what you were feeling in your body at the time.

Slowly, surely, you’ll begin to notice things as you do this, as you’re evoking those feelings. Your body may begin to tense up in a particular way, your breathing shifts, and you can even move about a bit to see how moving feels in that state.

Once you’re sure you’ve noticed how the memory affects your body, let the memory go – relax, do something else, banish or whatever.

A short time later, begin by mimicking the body posture you had earlier in the experiment, and – here’s the important bit – don’t use the memory at all. Instead, focus solely on the body and its sensations. If you find your mind drifting, that’s fine, just bring yourself back to that body, as if your attention was a flashlight playing over your skin, shining through muscle and bone. As you do this, remind yourself that you’ve done this posture before, that you know how to experience this. Because you do.

Note: If you’re using anger and find yourself getting frustrated by your mind moving, by all means use a different emotion like say, lust or joy. To be honest though, that’s actually a sign the exercise is working.

Try this with a variety of ‘embodied emotions’. If you’re really curious, take notes of how your thoughts behave in different moods, and how people react to any given embodiment. Play around, have some fun – notice how some embodied emotions are easier to evoke than others, notice how easily other people’s presence and mood can alter the length of the embodiment. Notice what embodiments you enjoy, and what you’d rather not do – what feels best for you.

Above all, don’t worry if the embodiments last varying times – a few seconds is as good as an hour. The key is to begin to deliberately explore your individual body responses.

So yes, play with it – leave a comment or two if you like. This ties in to the next post, which will deal with the other vitally important part of storytelling and magic – the voice.

Until next week – have fun, OK?

This isn’t for you. This isn’t for you, if you dream of wealth and power. This isn’t for you if you want to experience a transcendent reality that will allow you to escape your woes and live in bliss. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, all right?

Because I what I am going to talk about now is dirty. It’s black and hard and cold and inescapable. It’ll break and remake you into something different. Something that not everyone is going to like, because it will bring change to the way you think and feel. It will drive you to crave a kind of absolute being, to do it or die. I’m saying this now, up front, so you can’t tell me I gave you any false promises, that I didn’t warn you about this road.

Are we clear? Are we clear that this is something to pursue without mercy, without flinching? Are we clear that you will gain strength and wisdom from sources others regard as nothing more than useless waste? Do you understand that what I’m going to share with you?

Maybe you do, or maybe you merely want to. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me is sharing this, in giving you the bare bones of it, because it is needful to do so. Because there is more to the world than is permitted by our culture. Because somewhere, in the night, in the wilderness, in the desert of their lives, someone is crying out. Someone needs this, even these fragments. Maybe it’s you. Maybe not.

Nevertheless, this must be done.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!  This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life.  I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.\”

So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone.  I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, son of man, and say to it, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, breath, from the four winds and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’”  So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army. – Ezekiel 37:4-9

Imagine, for a moment, that you can do this. That you can stir life where there was none before, put meat on bones and give people new lives.

Imagine you knew some Art, some skill of taking the divine breath, the animating spirit, and giving it to things. Or perhaps imagine, as you breathe, as you take the breath into your lungs, that you are but one part of the vast web of life which connects all things. Imagine that you could manipulate that breath, that force, could wield it like a weapon, to harm or heal?

Imagine if that Art, that use of breath was the very thing that drove both poets and kings, heroes and monsters. That shaped dreams and laid low your enemies, summoned spirits and brought you to the tables of the gods themselves? Perhaps even an Art which inspired every inventive, creative, curious act that the species had ever performed?

Inspiration. Yes. Just that – and the Art is the use of the same, the use of that principle which makes cells divide, makes hearts beat and stars burn. The principle that drives your lungs like bellows fanning the flame of your existence. And what an Art it is, that allows you to modulate your breath and body, to sing songs and tell stories!

To speak and place your thoughts, your emotions, your pictures in someone else’s mind, irrespective of distance. If they sense this Art, you may touch them!

That’s the poetic part – the shimmering vision conjured into being for you. It may seem airy-fairy, but if you’ve ever been caught by the wind, you know what I mean. You know that the wind knifes and burns, carries the cold in to steal your breath. You know how you want to hurry to shelter, to get out of its grip, to be shielded against its howling fury.

Maybe some of you have experienced a tornado, or even a hurricane or blizzard. What could you do, except hunker down and wait for it to pass?

“I said now, no hidin\’ place
When the water start boilin\’, no hidin\’ place
World catch on fire, no hidin\’ place
Down here, no hidin\’ place
Yeah, I went to the rock to hide my face
But the rock cried out no, no, no, no hidin\’ place down here.”

Nothing to do, but pray, to hope for the best, that your life wouldn’t be torn apart by forces you could never, ever hope to control. Forces that were here, long before any creature crawled out of the ocean. Forces against which the strongest nations, the richest 1% were as helpless as the poorest homeless person. So it’s not about how powerful you are, or how weak. How rich, or poor.

All those are part of the bulwarks of culture, the walls of the house we erect against the storm, or the creeping knowledge that we’re all going to end up as dust and void eventually.

And what of that Art? The Art that can take anything and use it to make you thrive. The Art that is afragile, that takes the inescapable and thrives on it?

Me, I call that blackest sorcery there is. The kind that will get you what you need, in situations where others are totally, utterly lost. Where they have no frame of reference because they’re not in Kansas any more, and they turn to you, because you can open doors and make things happen.

You can guide them in the dark, because you gave up trying to see like them years ago. Because you rely on a different sense, that faculty of Art which allows you to increase your influence, to manipulate circumstances in your favour, and the favour of those you care about.

The Art that understands that though you may think you need to go There & Back Again, you don’t and indeed, you can’t.

There is no escape.

So, this is the introduction to a series of posts which lay out the bare bones of that Art, to the basic skills you’ll need, and things you’ll need to think about, if you want to incorporate and use storytelling in your magic/spiritual work. It’s the bare bones because it needs doing and I haven’t seen any other magicians other than Alan Moore & Grant Morrison touch this with a damn barge pole, and even then not practically. When I am told that people want more than these posts, I shall share more – though not necessarily for free.

I say that because there is value to this, and because I can teach this stuff. But I have to be asked – them’s the rules.

See you on Wednesday for the next post.

This is Hanging Town on a good day. Lovely, isn\’t it?

Gods go walking, whatever the weather, around here.

It\’s raining, and the sky is slate grey. People hury past the window, busy with their Saturday errands, hunched against the rain. They\’re lucky it\’s not snow – spring has poked its head up, then hit the snooze button and rolled over. I\’m drinking coffee in a cafe whose walls are lined with books. The townsfolk flow like the rain in the gutters, past the museum, slipping down this street to bypass the market crowd.

Earlier, I\’d passed the used book-stall, the hog-roast, and the stall that serves samosas and bhajis as well as a subtly spicy curry for under a fiver, run by a smiling Muslim woman and her husband. Past the smokehouse stall with its fish and meat preserves, local and organic. I\’d watched the snake of people by the cash machine, waiting for their chunks of currency from mechanical mouths.

Upstairs, in the cafe, there\’s a children\’s play area. Right now, there\’s a children\’s party going on, and the faint strains of \”Happy Birthday To You.\” filter down the stairs. An old friend\’s daughter is up there, golden-haired with the same name as the Lady of the Brisings Necklace, she who gets first pick of the battle-fallen.

Nine years back, I remember sitting in his flat, high as a kite, psilocybin whispers calling from the teapot. It\’s an ordinary china thing, chipped spout, stained in the right places. My mug is empty, and my head is full of the negotiations between several kinds of intelligence. I remember three streams, though gods know how many there really were, as fungi meets Hoffman\’s problem child, with me in the middle.

Past the handshake stage now, we are. Now there\’s a conclave, a conspiracy; memory unfolds like a magic carpet, surrounds me in all directions. Time becomes space.

It\’s such a rich weave, that carpet. So many threads, all bound together, it\’s pile of infinite depth, a Mandelbrot masterpiece. I watch figures through the wall, limned in mauve, going up and down a staircase that doesn\’t exist in the early years of the 21st Century. Later, I find out that the bathroom on the other side of the wall was crafted out of servants quarters, with the back stairs being there to serve the needs of the 19th Century owners. But like I said, those stairs don\’t exist any more.

Nine years is a long time, in your early twenties, but really, it\’s just off to one side. Two hundred years is a little way past the wars, which are themselves further up from the massive weighty presence of the Castle which sits upon the hill. One wing a Roman Fort, the other a Crown property, and another a working prison, at least until a couple of years ago.

Popes and Cardinals cluster together under white smoke, poison and power, burrowed into the old, half built dreams of Roman expansion, ruined and sacked in potentia by the Goths who wander blithely through streets stained with the blood of long forgotten Senators, stone still vibrating from years of passing Triumphs.

Cock your head and close one eye, and maybe you\’ll see it. All of it spread out – the All-At-Once. The Dreaming. The Storytime, whatever you want to call it.

It\’s a Saturday and gods go walking, whatever the weather, around here. It\’s a Monday and I\’m writing this with AC/DC in the headphones. Somewhen, a drought is ending and Gordon\’s found the route, the road to get there. He\’s scribbled a map that could mean anything to anyone else, unfolding a piece of paper, sigilising \’X\’ marks the spot, marking out the landmarks that\’ll show him how to get there.

It\’s the nineties and a Scotsman is thinking about shaving his head, walking to Varanasi and having sex with an old woman who\’s a twenties flapper, and absolutely coincidentally, an incarnation of Kali. He\’s thinking about Kathmandu and the alien abduction experience which lies next to John Lennon in the bed with Yoko. Ganesh holds up his hand and the mouse runs over your feet as old broken-tusk quietly demolishes the obstacles. Batman leaps from the rooftops to avoid the cataclysmic powers of the New X-Men

In a pub in London, Austin Spare sketches a working-class lad from Newcastle as he smokes his way past the half-way point of a pack of Silk Cut. Over in a corner, a man from Northampton is thoughtfully munching on a sandwich, wondering how a man who looks like Sting managed to find him and tell him the secret of magic.

Down in Hastings, a dying old man reaches out a hand to touch the stone wall of the chamber in which his wife\’s voice is dictating the Book of the Law. His other hand writes a letter to a man who works at JPL by the name of Parsons, who lives on the dark side of the moon. Meanwhile, Parsons\’ partner hammers on a typewriter with Tom Cruise and John Travolta signing his cheques.

It\’s a Saturday and gods go walking, whatever the weather, around here. It\’s a Monday and I\’m writing this with AC/DC in the headphones. Are they headlining this personal gig, or is System Of A Down the band to end all bands? After all, they\’re playing too, commanded by algorithim as the stream runs.

Round and round go the particles in their merry-go-round, and the Higgs Boson keeps screaming out its presence. \”Look to the left, you bastards!\” Niels Bohr shrugs apologetically at it, then carries on his conversation with Einstein, whose hair keeps changing length and obscuring his vision at inconvenient times. Wolfgang Pauli walks into a thousand labs and disrupts a million experiments and Young curses his name as the universe dances, behaving like a coquette, showing a bit of particle, then a bit of cheeky wave, to keep the running dogs of physics salivating.

Newton and Galileo are having a picnic beneath the stars, on a blanket lent to them by Agrippa.  Old Heinrich is mocking Weyer for trying to fit the howling spirits of the Goetia into the court model. They are, he explains, with Dr. John Dee nodding vigorously in agreement, far more messy than that, despite the old relationship they have with the machine-messengers of Yetzirah.

Walk a little on, and you\’ll find Ghede cracking dirty jokes with Hecate down at the crossroads. The place is chock full of offerings, groaning with plenty. Tobacco smoke and rum, incense and spilt semen. The air is smoky from coprse candles, vibrating with buried witches and criminals all, laughing in their graves.

Pale Christ with face the colour of night leads his  black Galilean warband of shape-shifting Kundalini adepts through Africa, burning enough Frankinscense to smoke an aeon of priests. Mitocondrial Eve nudges her Neanderthal brother-in-law as they pass by, but the dutiful father is too busy watching his offspring school the Atlantean priest at backgammon while the Neighbours fuck Nimrod right up.

\”Build a tower,\” they laugh. \”YHVH will shit a brick when he sees it.\”

There\’s more than enough bricks to go around – a billion unbuilt pyramids long abandoned by Ethiopian Pharaohs, since they\’re dancing with the Exu and the crew, all sipping the bourbon Marie Laveau brought them.

And in the muddy banks of the Milky Way, an ibis dips its head, eye shining like the moon.  It\’s a Saturday and gods go walking, whatever the weather, around here. It\’s a Monday and I\’m writing this with AC/DC in the headphones. System Of A Down too, along with some Finnish industrial of dubious provenance. It\’s a Friday and there\’s a hailstorm on the edges of the moors that stings the skin, gauntlet of ice thrown down by the gods. The black pylon of Set nestles close, clothing a Victorian Jubilee folly, and we smile and laugh, as clear skies rest amidst the storm, the ancestral shade of Fr. Aossic smiling out of the skull as we share a beer.

Listen then – for this is not about time, but space. About location and association, not time or aeon. They say narrative binds time, puts things in order. But that misses the point – it\’s merely a  matter of navigation. It\’s easy to pay lip service to the idea that the map is not the territory, but the truth of it is that the territory isn\’t even the territory!

Whisper it close and sing the songlines, and tell the tales that are looking after country. Do that and you have a territory, a place to be – an origin from which to begin. Maybe you can call it Turangawaewae – the place where you stand tall? Sing the songs then, tell the tales, and you carry it with you, in your blood. In your people\’s blood, their works and dreams.

You have no people, I hear you say. I have no roots, no gods, no ancestors, no songs to sing. I am a stranger in a strange land, an alien land which has no rules. Look to your left. Look to your right. Look behind, and ahead.

Stretching in all directions, as far as the eye can see, is the place where you begin. You are from here, and you are from now. You stand amidst the All-At-Once, Your eyes seek out and recognise shapes, sounds and shapes. When you speak of this moment, you will say, I am here, I was here.

And as soon as here becomes here, there becomes there. And vice versa.

Gods go walking, whatever the weather, around here. It\’s raining and the sky is slate grey. Between the busy people the Wanderer wends his way unseen to time-bound eyes, but here in more than flesh and blood. Wotan, Woden, Óðinn – whatever you call him, he stalks the streets, the paved cobble-stones, as surely as Gotland forests or the shores of the fjords.

The All-At-Once, the kosmos of the esoteric vision, of wizard-eyes gives no shits for immanence or transcendence, for above or below. Arguing whether you did something directly or indirectly is pointless. What matters is that it happens, and in the All-At-Once all that matters is navigation.

Which begins, always and ever, with that first step. Because there is only ever one.

Have you ever considered the interesting nature and interplay of health and wealth? Not just because they rhyme, but because of what they are?

Health is important to all of us, because it allows us to live, to continue to exist. What\’s interesting is how we perceive it – whether it be something as simple as bodily maintenance, or trying to get the beautiful body, the top-of-the-line physicality of an attractive celebrity or a world-renowned sports-person.

But there\’s another way, another method of perception, which I\’ll talk about in a bit. Another useful way of regarding health which has been extremely helpful to me recently, in spiritual endeavours and otherwise. Those who\’ve the fortune to know me personally will know I haven\’t been top-of-the-line for the last twelve months or so. I\’ve had a range of issues, from little niggles to fairly serious problems.

Right now, as I write this, I\’m on medication for a fairly unpleasant stomach issue. There\’s been quite a lot of pain, blood-tests, restricted diet, and talk of ultrasound. The doctors are still feeling their way towards a diagnosis, and I honestly don\’t know what\’s causing the problem on a medical level. What\’s more, irritating as this issue is, it\’s not actually my job to know what\’s wrong – that\’s what the doctor is for, but without the pain, I wouldn\’t be aware anything was wrong. I wouldn\’t have gone to the doctor, and I might have missed something important.

Today, we have all manner of pain-killers, drugs and potions to deal with symptoms and enable us to carry on our lives without the body interrupting our busy lives, and that\’s great. It\’s great because science and medicine have enabled us to cure diseases and save countless lives, to correct imbalances and generally increase people\’s quality of life. What\’s not great is perhaps the tendency to create drugs for profit, rather than solving underlying causes.

You know when you have a cold or flu, and you have the sniffles and a temperature? Those symptoms are actually signs of your body fighting valiantly against viral and bacteriological invaders – and sometimes they\’re even ways of fighting off the bugs, like a temperature making the body a hostile environment to the interloper.

Yet we squish or ignore the symptoms, because they\’re unpleasant, inconvenient or awkward. We divorce ourselves from our bodies, instead of listening to them. In conversation with Robert – who incidentally has done some very effective energy and healing work with me and is very good indeed – I realised that communication is paramount, not just when dealing with other people, but with yourself as well.

Learning to read the signs and interpreting them correctly means you can start doing the right thing, and consciously aid your body in healing. Whether that\’s by getting more sleep or avoiding certain food for a while, you can help the natural processes a great deal if you just slow down, listen and take stock.

Of course, these thoughts and that altered perception of health I mentioned earlier, reminded me of a story I once heard – and that\’s somewhat odd, because at first glance, when the story popped up, it was one of those that you don\’t know quite how significant they\’re going to be. One of those that seems to bubble up from nowhere in particular, as if it\’s waiting for the right moment to cross-polinate with whatever\’s in your back-brain, to give you that brief moment of confusion, followed by that click, that a-ha moment which you didn\’t know you needed until now.

So, please, bear with me – .

Now, this story begins with three brothers crossing a desert, somewhere in the Middle-East. It\’s a vast desert, a huge expanse of sand and dunes beneath a cloudless blue sky. It doesn\’t take too much imagination to see the heat haze shimmering over everything, or to acknowledge that when the sun goes down, the scorching sands swiftly become a place of freezing night, as the earth rapidly gives up its heat to the air, surging upward and outward into the edge of space.

Now these three brothers are part of a merchant family, and they have to cross the desert to get to the Silk Road, that artery of trade, full of spices, goods and exotic luxuries. They\’ve done this before, many times, but no one could possibly predict what was to befall them on this particular journey.

Not as they sat at their campfire, drinking coffee beneath the glittering stars which I have spoken of before, not beneath the shining souls of the immortals.

No, neither did it occur as they slept, nor as they woke and untied their mounts. Not as they set out before the sun\’s rising, to travel in the coolest part of the day. Not as each brother kept his own counsel during the journey, did it occur.

Not as the eldest brother, a man with a wife and two children who journeyed far to provide for his family, rode his camel – a stubborn creature that spat and wilfully ignored him until he dug in his heels.

Not as the middle brother rode his beast – a placid creature in every way – while dreaming of the wealth he would amass after the journey, no, not then, not yet did it occur. Nor while the youngest brother travelled on a curious camel, the kind that got his nose into everything and was always wandering off to his own devices. No, not when the youngest dreamed of the far off places he would see along the Silk Road, all the adventures he would have, and all the women he would bed.

No, it occurred one afternoon, as the sun began its climb down from the highest place, preparing for its journey in the dark. There, upon the horizon, the eldest brother saw it – a thickness on the edge of sight, moving like a live thing and rolling like a fog.

Unsurprisingly, for the brothers knew the desert, they recognised this thing as a sandstorm! Hurriedly, they sought shelter as best they could, racing the storm until at last they came to some ruins, broken remnants from another time. Unbeknownst to them, the desert had once been fruitful, and an elder people had dwelt there when the desert had been green and the wells closer to the surface.

As the storm rose, coming ever closer, the mounts of the three brothers began to act fiercely, each according to their nature. The eldest brother\’s camel snarled and spat, headbutting the others aside for the best shelter. The middle-brother\’s mount simply cowered and shrank against the stone, moaning and groaning in fear, while the youngest\’s mount promptly slipped his rope and bolted, trying to outpace the storm.

Now, as anybody with half a brain will tell you, trying something like that is a little foolish, and the camel was soon lost to sight. Soon enough however, even the brothers could not see as the storm descended upon them. It howled about them and blocked out the sun, stinging their faces and setting their eyes to stream.

All was darkness and suffocation, and even the lamentations of the brothers were scattered to the winds. It was all that they could do to breathe, so the prayers they offered up to Allah were silent and from the heart alone. Perhaps that is what saved them, for in the midst of the storm, there emerged a huge Ifrit, drawing aside the storm as a man may draw aside a curtain in his tent.

With burning eyes, this creature of smokeless fire looked upon the three brothers.

“What have we here?” asked the great spirit. “Three sons of Adam, children of dust and breath, cowering outside my door! What is it that you want of me?”

All three were struck dumb by the sight, but it was the middle brother who spoke. “O Ifrit, child of fire as we are of dust, we did not wish to disturb you. We did not know these ruins were your own home, we sought only shelter from the storm.”

The Ifrit laughed, great peals of it booming like thunder, mirth crackling like lightning in the howling gale. “Be at peace little one, for these old stones are not mine. My home is the storm itself, its winds my shelter and resting place. It travels with me wherever I go, just as the tents of men also do. You are not trespassing, though the voices of your hearts roused me from my sleep.”

“Yet awake I am, and you are here, so I am bound by divine law to offer you hospitality, though you could not stand to enter my home, lest you be torn apart. What may I give you, oh men?”

The three brothers looked at each other, hardly daring to believe their luck at disturbing an honourable djinn – for the children of fire come in many kinds, as many as those of men. Then the eldest spoke, asking for wealth to provide for his family. Here, the Ifrit nodded and swore that it would be so.

Next spoke the youngest brother, who begged for adventure and the affections of women more wise and beautiful than the houris of Paradise. Here again, the Ifrit nodded and swore that it would be so.

Finally, the last spoke, the middle brother who dreamt of wealth and fortune, and asked for the same. Here again, for the third time, the Ifrit nodded and swore it would be so.

Then, the mighty spirit stretched forth a hand to the ground, and began to trace letters in the sand. Its burning touch melted and fused the sand as it wrote, mysterious and shining words gleaming in the dark. When it had finished, the Ifrit said simply:

“Here lies what you seek.”

Then it vanished, taking the storm with it. The three brothers were left alone in the silent ruins, beneath a clear night sky that shone with stars. Though they lacked for firewood, the heat from the burning letters was more than enough to keep them warm until sunrise, and as it rose with dawn, the early morning revealed that the letters had not been fire alone. Left behind when the flame finally departed, was the smooth slickness of green glass, etched into the desert floor.

The eldest and the youngest brother were amazed and could not wait to return home. Each of them knew that they could trade on this story for the rest of their lives, but it was not so easy for the middle brother – he could not see how such letters, wonderful though they were, would bring him the riches he had requested from the Ifrit. Knowing that the creature had behaved honourably, he let the others go on their way, and resolved to study the writing until the wealth he had been promised arrived.

And study he did. He studied until his beard was long and all other thoughts save the writing had dwindled away. He meditated on the words, spoke them aloud, arranged and rearranged the letters over and over again. Years went by, and word of this strange hermit who studied the wisdom of the djinn began to spread. Some, who had heard the story from the youngest brother, would come to the ruins in hope that the Ifrit would return and grant them a boon, and others came to study under this master.

All were to be disappointed, for the hermit would smile, nod and then ignore them after the initial greeting. Some would stick it out, but most left soon after, until one day, the hermit was approached by a stranger, young of face but white of beard.

“Begging your pardon, O hermit – I have no wish to disturb you from your meditations, but I have heard tell of these letters and I have a question I must ask.”

The hermit smiled and nodded, and so the other continued. “I know you study these letters given to you by the Ifrit, and so I ask – what do they speak of?”

The hermit closed his eyes, for there was nothing in him but the words, and said:

Once Moses sought out wisdom, and he said to his servant, “I shall not stop until I reach the meeting place of the two seas, even if it takes me eighty years!”

So then, they travelled on, but at a resting spot, the fish they carried for breakfast escaped and swam towards the sea. Later, when they came to wish to eat, they discovered that the fish had escaped. Immediately, Moses exclaimed: “That is the place to which we must go, for the Most High has made it so!”

Swiftly they returned to the place of rest, where they found a Servant of Allah waiting for them, wrapped in green and free from the dust of the road. Moses asked the man “Shall I follow you, so that I may learn your wisdom which you have gained from Allah the All-Merciful?”

The other replied. “No, for we are of a different kind, and you would not bear with me in all that I will do and will not understand.”

Here, Moses said, “If Allah wishes it, then I will be patient and not disobey you!”

The other nodded. “If you are bent on following me, you must ask me no question about anything until I myself mention it, do you understand?”

Moses readily agreed, and the two set forth. Almost immediately, Moses\’ companion drilled a hole in the bottom of the boat in which they were travelling. “What did you do that for? Are you trying to sink us?!” said Moses.

“Did you not say you would bear with me, and not ask questions?”

“I beg your pardon. Please ignore my forgetfulness. Do not be angry with me!”

The two carried on, until they came upon a young man, who Moses\’ companion promptly slew. Outraged, Moses cried out.“Why did you murder him? You have committed a horrible crime – he was an innocent man!”

“Did I not say you could not bear with me?”

“A thousand pardons! If I question you again, please abandon me, for I deserve it.”

On they went, arriving at a city where they asked the inhabitants for food. The people refused to feed the two beggars, and so they were forced to carry on until they reached a broken down well. Moses\’ companion immediately set to reconstructing the well. As he finished, Moses said:

“Why do that without payment? You could have asked for food or coin?”

Moses\’ companion turned to him and said, “Now it it is time for me to leave you. Before I go, I shall explain all those things you did not understand. The boat belonged to some poor fishermen who needed it as their livelihood – what you did not know was that they were soon to encounter an evil pirate king who would steal their vessel and enslave them.

The young man that I killed was a murderer and a thief, yet he was born of righteous parents. I killed him to ease their souls and so that they may now have another son who is righteous. The well I rebuilt because it belongs to two orphans whose father was an honest man, and beneath the well lies their inheritance. I rebuilt it because the All-Merciful has decreed that none shall disturb it, nor take it from them before they come of age.

So you see, that which you could not bear in patience was not done capriciously, but in sole accordance with the will of the All-Merciful.”

Thus the hermit finished his recitation of the words for the stranger with the young face and long white beard. The stranger smiled and said to the hermit:

“It is a good tale that the Ifrit has etched here for you, in words as green as grass, vital and full of life here in the desert. Has not the contemplation of these words sustained you all these years?”

“It has,” affirmed the hermit. “Though I have naught but these words, I survive. I shelter in the ruins when the sandstorms come. I eat locusts and scorpions and all those things that shelter in the shadow of these pillars. The All-Merciful makes water to flow down the stones as the cold night falls, and there is more than enough scrub for a fire if it gets too cold. Even my dreams of wealth have passed away – all that I desire is an understanding of these words. It fills my heart with fire that burns as bright as the immortal stars.”

“And has not your contemplation of these words brought you joy? Though you know not what they mean, have you not sought truly, with as much ardour as the pursuit of any lover?”

“Yes. I have pursued it for years, night and day, with my every waking breath, until there is little time for others. You are the first I have spoken more than a few words to in many years.”

“And when others ask how this is possible, do you not tell them that is impossible to do anything else?”

“I do. I could no more cease this than the sun could cease to rise.”

“Truly then,” said the stranger, smiling and gathering his green cloak about him. “What other needs have you? You who embrace these words with all your heart, which burns brighter than the immortal stars?”

And here, the hermit began to smile. It was a smile of wonder – the kind that a person might feel when things are beginning to fall into place, or the realisation that you are beginning to become aware something important that you didn\’t even know you knew. The kind of smile that starts small, and then begins spreading slowly, surely, across your face – that kind of expanding warmth that fills you up, like watching the sun rise and seeing the beauty of the landscape.

The kind of smile that stretches wide into a grin that\’s so infectious that something begins to bubble up, to well up like a spring of laughter, that laughter you had as a child, innocent and carefree. We all remember it, the laughter that comes from having put aside your burdens and your worries, where anything is possible.

And just like you, the hermit smiles that smile, and begins to laugh, because he now recognised the stranger.

“It is you, the servant of the All-Merciful. You are the guide to the secret knowledge.”

“That is so,” said immortal al-Khidr. “And as I, the Green Man, have drunk the Water of Life, so shall you.”

With that, he handed the hermit a water skin and bade him drink…

So that\’s where we\’ll leave the hermit – about to begin a whole new journey into the unknown, in the company of the immortal, and full of wonder. Now, perhaps you\’re wondering how the story of the brothers and the Ifrit relates to health and wealth?

I\’ll not spoon-feed you, that\’s not my way, and if you\’ve come this far with with me, then you\’ll already understand that, as with most things, the lion\’s share of work is done behind the scenes, operating quietly as you read the story – because like so many things you do every day, the process is virtually automated.

Your conscious mind is perfectly happy to let your body get on with its business, without knowing what\’s going on. Only if there\’s a problem does sensation shift, to draw your attention to whatever issue is there, so that you can work on it.

Now:

Consider for a moment, an immortal wrapped in green – that youthful face and long white beard. Consider that for a second, youth and age in one, brightest green vitality, having drunk from the bubbling spring of laughter, the Water of Life.

Consider what al Khidir said to the hermit, what the Ifrit said stirred him from his tent amidst the storm?

Imagine that green vitality, that fierce viridian in the desert. For the green is what glows, what takes the light of the sun and puts it to use. It might be green glass or the deep strength of the forest, that place beyond the village where unstoppable tree roots crack concrete and recolonise everything.

The endless regenerative power that existed long before agriculture, before we tried to put lines and furrows down to control it.

Consider those roots, deep down in the black earth, those questing tendrils that somehow extract water from the desert. Think on health, as I have done, and join me with that interesting perception I mentioned at the beginning.

You are whole – and that is what health is. Wholeness. This is the goal your body and mind are striving towards – all the interconnected systems functioning together, responding to each other.

Only when you begin to pursue that sense of wholeness as you would a lover – as a hunter and prey are inextricably bound – with total focus and desire, will you begin to recall your wholeness, your own vitality. Things may intrude, may present obstacles to the memory of your wholeness, but like a lover, your mind and body will inevitably return to it.

Don\’t believe me? Then remember what it is like to be in love, to have your heart seized; captured and set free all at once. Soaring above all things, when anything is possible, and yet it returns, faithful as hawk to its Master\’s wrist. Ever and always, your heart returns to the Beloved, who is the centre, the fulcrum about which your existence turns.

And what\’s more, you are as a whirling dervish, spinning into ecstasy. There in the desert you dance to the music of the Heavens, which is mirrored in the blood-music, the pulse of the heart burning like a beacon. There, you join your soul to the very music of the stars.

Inexorably, the realisation dawns that you are vast, as vast as the tallest tree in the forest, whose height touches the roof of the worlds, stretching out into the Beyond to soak up the light of the Hidden Sun, to bathe in the radiation of that most fundamental of gravities.

The tree whose roots are harder than iron and more supple than the softest oiled flesh – those roots that push down deeper than rock and molten fiery metal, twining through bone hollows and criss-crossing the glacial underworlds and fruitful islands of the blessed.

Austin Spare once uttered the famous aphorism:

Live like a tree walking!

And you are that tree, all amidst the green. Which brings us to wealth.

Now, you may consider wealth as numbers in your bank account, or cold hard cash. Perhaps there\’s the glitter of gold, the mineral-shine of precious stones, there in your mind as you think upon wealth.

So as with health, let me assure you that there is a perception waiting to be discovered, if you\’ve a mind to explore:

As health is wholeness, is the vitality of the deepest green and darkest earth and strongest root drinking the Water of Life, so wealth has its own doors and byways. We think of wealth as currency, whether that be coin, cattle or the trade of goods, but soon enough, if we track it methodically, we find that it is is the principle that allows existence.

Conjoined with the vitality of health and wholeness, it is the golden light of the sun that the tree metabolises to live. It is a shining thing yes, a swift thing that moves faster than the speed of normal light. Wealth comes from the same root as Will – the principle of movement and intention.

Have you stretched forth your will lately? Have you horsed its movement, ridden it like the wind, trusting your mount and not being distracted by other things? Have you fused yourself to it in joy?

Pull back a second, and watch. Watch how the horse moves, how it excels in its being. See the shine of its muscles, the ferocious surety of its footsteps as it races, swifter than any other. It does not think – it simply moves in its joy. All its faculties are dedicated to its Being.

Watch the rider fuse with it, so they become as one – like the centaur. Listen to the vastness of it, the whisper in the trees – Chiron, superlative specimen of that race, the healer and teacher who taught Asclepios, who raised heroes like Jason and Achilles. Wonder at the gift of wealth, the way it allows you to do as you will, beyond \’things\’.

Once, long ago, wealth was a way, a quality rather than a quantity. Before currency, before cattle, it was what allowed you to live – whether that be food, water or craftsmanship. Whether it be the tale that will change your life and open new options, or the people who lend you a hand and keep you sane.

Not a thing of earth and disks then, not slow power. No, rather a thing of air and swiftness, of bringing together and making great.

Listen to the hoof-beats on the wind. See the dancers and hear the woven songs. Remember the masked ones, the guisers and the mummers. Remember the beggars and the wise ones, the thieves, charlatans and magi.

We all know the maxim: “Do what thou wilt – Love is the Law, Love under Will.” It circles around us, teasing – profound and subtle one moment, obtuse and opaque the next. I find myself wondering which it is, for you now?

\’Tis better to give than to receive, or so some say. Perhaps they are right, but in my estimation, there is a better way.

“A gift demands a gift.”

Be seeing you.

There\’s a conspiracy afoot; mutterings and deals done by implication and whispering in a secret twilight language. Slips rope around your neck and yokes you to its own purposes, jerks you around like a marrionette. Even if you see the strings, you have very little chance of clambering up to see who\’s doing the pulling.

Unlike Jack.

You know Jack – everyone knows him. Knows how he sold his mother\’s cow for a handful of magic beans. Magic. Beans. How crap is that?

Imagine, you\’re so damn poor that you can\’t eat, can\’t even feed the cow which used to keep you alive. You are irrevocably screwed. This goes beyond stomach sticking to ribs territory

This is the Hunger curling like a beast around your bones, slicing away muscle, sucking you dry so that all you can do is stare hollow-eyed at the way the world seems to shift and twist like a live thing.

It\’s the Hunger that\’s grating your brain into fine powder, leaving thoughts as faint ghosts or hard, serrated knives that stab in you in time with the fanged spikes driven into your gut. It\’s Hunger that breathes mockery and foulness, swells your belly in violation of usual concepts of fullness.

Pain and weakness unending, leaving you stumbling and staggering – complexity becomes impossible as you dehydrate and waste away, bones tight against your skin. Famine peels off, surges ahead of his brothers to greet you with your own personal Apocalypse, your own revelation. You know Death is coming soon after – hell, you can see Him coming up from the Down Below every time you look in the mirror.

Riding up through flesh, patient and inexorable, becoming more and more visible as the day goes by. Even the fear of Him becomes attenuated, stretching thinner and thiner as the minutes slide into hours, slide into days. The hiss of sand in the hourglass becomes soothing, a familiar sound, ever-present as you count your last breaths.

Things narrow, and your last piece of focus, your last act is one of sacrifice – you must give up everything that maintained your life up to now. Must break the cycle, and gain new-minted coin to take you into a new world.

And Jack gets you Magic. Bloody. Beans.

It\’s all you can do not to kill him. In fact, you would kill him, had you the strength. But you\’re so damn weak, all you can do is gape at him, as he tells you the story:

As, says he, I led our beloved cow to market with my stomach all a-grumbling and a-growling. As I led her along the road to who knows where – whether it be green field, or red slaughterhouse – I chanced upon a traveller coming the other way. Richly dressed he was, in a tall black hat and bright be-ribboned clothes of the finest silk, and though he was wealthy, he walked while juggling three golden balls like a common clown.

I smiled at him politely, mindful of the need to get to market, and headed on my way. Yet, as we passed, he called out. \”Master Jack!\” said he. \”Why do you take this cow to market?\”

I stopped. \”You have the advantage of me, sir – you know me and yet you are unfamilliar. I take this beast to market for cold, hard coin.\”

He smiled and bowed, \”I thought as much – for you walk llike a scarecrow with knees all knobbly and face all thin. Allow me to introduce myself – I am Dr. Wolfkopf, conjurer and thaumaturgist exraordinare!\”

\”Begging your pardon doctor,\” I said, \”But I know of conjuring, yet naught of this thauma-whatsit. Pray tell…\”

\”Pray tell? Pray tell! Oh lad, you are a caution. A veritable caution. I am a thaumaturgist – a worker of wonders!\” He smiled widely. \”I take dreams and make them into coins, and take coin for making dreams!\”

He scratched Old Bessie on the nose and between the ears. \”Tell me master Jack, what is it that you dream of?\”

\”Why, a full belly!\” I said immediately, then a little later lest our beloved cow be upset, \”And a fine home for old Bessie, of course.\”

\”This I could do, and easily,\” said the doctor. \”But you have no coin…\” He brightened. \”Yet this old cow would fetch a pretty penny, no? Let\’s take out the middle man, young master Jack – I have need of milk, and you food. For her, I\’ll give you a full belly and riches beside. No coin needed.\”

What was I supposed to do? Jack asks you innocently.

Doomed and raging, too weak to really scream, you toss those damned beans away. You turn your face away from foolish Jack, and wait for death..

But you know how the story goes – you know about the beanstalk and the castle in the clouds. You know about the blood and the fee-fie-fo-fum, and grinding bones to make bread. You know about the golden goose and the fleeing from the realms above with gleaming wealth and fortune from magical wisdom.

You know the axe and the tumbling, falling tree-which-isn\’t-only-a-beanstalk. You know how Jack The Lad becomes Jack the Giant Killer – most feared slayer of monsters. You know the power and wisdoms of the giants and the other folks, the neighbours who don\’t live in the same time-stream as you.

All these you know by instinct – and so every once in a while, you find yourself asking, where have all the heroes gone? Where have all the bone-knowings gone, all the feelings and truths that you knew in childhood, before the world told you to shape up and fit into the normal skin.

You start to wonder if they never existed – or if they were \’just\’ stories.

So let me reassure you – you are indeed a victim of a conspiracy. Someone\’s pulling your strings, jerking you around. Click the link to embiggen the picture if you don\’t believe me.

Someone once said:

The border between the Real and the Unreal is not fixed, but just marks the last place where rival gangs of shamans fought each other to a standstill.

And that\’s an interesting thought to have, because if part of being a shaman is bringing back knowledge, in shaping and maintaining your people\’s relationship with In Here and Out There, then there\’s got to be story-telling involved. Storytelling is the transmission of culture, after all. Those who want to win a war often do so through shadow operations, pulling the strings from behind the scenes, acting through proxies. It\’s easier and more effective than a shooting match or a stand-up battle. Just have a look at how media influences politics, as I\’ve suggested many times before.

Remember how Jack cuts down the beanstalk, fells the tree? He seals the realm of the clouds away, burns the bridge between heaven and earth. You ask where all the heroes have gone – those human-divine hybrids, those children of gods, those changelings? These princes of the damn universe? Just think of that war for a second – think of a struggle that\’s so big, so complex that it isn\’t a war at all, that even the notion of friend and enemy begins to blur, if there was ever a distinction.

The advertisers and politicians Banksy and I have mentioned? They\’re using language and emotion to jerk you around, to manipulate your behaviour, but most of them are like extremely clever children aping absent parents. Because honestly, as with all conspiracies, there\’s another layer.

They say the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing people he didn\’t exist. Equally, they say that Punch beats the Devil – gets the Prince of Darkness kicking and swinging in the noose, while our favourite hunchback clown runs cackling into the night. Maybe you can hear that unmistakeable voice even now, nasal and grating: \”That\’s the way to do it!\”

He\’s right. Bend over – here it comes again, the Tragical Comedy.

They\’re just stories – they\’re not real, or so they\’d have you believe. Which is shorthand for Stories don\’t matter.

They don\’t matter, they\’re not real, so they can\’t have an effect.

Bullshit.

Ask anyone who\’s ever been a child. Ask anyone who has had recurring nightmares. Ask anyone who has PTSD. Ask anyone who\’s been betrayed, or in love. Ask anyone who has been inspired.

Stories can hijack your flesh, can make you do things that no effort of your rational, conscious mind can prevent. They can even make people kill, can make people love. Yet you\’re told again and again that they don\’t matter. It doesn\’t matter that people live their lives by them, following their whims. Doesn\’t matter at all.

Stories are for entertainment purposes only. Don\’t mind as we make you want the latest product or shape your self-esteem. Those stories you tell yourself, your natural tendency to create narrative – it\’s not important, just cede the storytelling to us. You haven\’t lost anything.

But we haven\’t forgotten the war, have we:

Subtle! Subtle!
They become formless.
Mysterious! Mysterious!
They become soundless.
Therefore, they are the masters of the enemy\’s fate. – Sun Tzu

Imagine then, that they do this by degrees. Piece by piece they slide into the roles of entertainer and mountebank, of juggler. Until at last, the disgust and disbelief sets in. They vanish, slowly, surely from the world of man. First the heroes become \”nothing but stories.\” and then the storytellers slip away in their rags, unwanted and unlooked for.

They fade away, appearing only as anomalous figures, shades and nomads, moving like restless ghosts.

Magic. Bloody. Beans.

Here you are, starving for meaning; struggling to make sense of things, to scratch that itch, to fill that damn hole, wondering where the heroes have gone, and Jack goes and gets you magic beans. Worthless damn beans, worth less than a cup of over-priced  coffee in one of the endless corporate coffee-shops that fill your streets.

Jack\’s a Big Gorram Hero. The Giant-Slayer needs magic beans. Without the beans, without the magic cloak, he\’s nothing. All a damn pipedream, really. Just a story.

Except, if you know your wizards, pipe smoking isn\’t that out of character.  Neither is juggling. Bait and switch is bread and butter, y\’know? Because the heart of the conspiracy is this – even the word magic is a smokescreen. The notion that you can cut down the beanstalk, seal off the place where the Neighbours live, is wishful thinking.

The  Storyteller knows their weapons – they fought the first and only war, and know it isn\’t about winning or losing. They could tell you where the heroes have gone – they have drinks with them every night.

Yes. It is a conspiracy. From conspire. Which is an act of union – a breathing together.

You know the doctor, passing out his pills, his poultices. You know the doctor, the physician – the Miracle Man who can make you better. You know the power of a uniform; the white coat, or the medal encrusted chest – the badge and staff of office. The door\’s been slammed shut, the stars are no longer right, and yet you still have the knowing.

And they\’ve been shaping it, bending it to their own ends, for generations – cultivating, culturing you. Whispering about \”Good\” and \”Evil\”, trying to lock down this or that – to divide the In Here and Out There into their own petty fiefdoms.

Maybe.

Or maybe they retreated without retreating at all. Maybe the storytellers aren\’t in on the conspiracy at all. Maybe it\’s you that have been conspiring together, breathing as one?

Maybe you don\’t want to see the world as it really is, so you\’ve given what you have quite freely, so that things make sense. Think about Jack The Lad, being given the beans. Without them, he would never have climbed the beanstalk. Without the travelling doctor giving him those magic things, Jack would have sold the cow for coin, and when he did that, he and his mother would have perished when it ran out.

Instead, the good doctor Wolf-head – for that\’s what Wolfkopf means – broke the pattern, and changed things. That\’s what magicians and heroes do.

Magic. Bloody. Beans.

The ordinary turned extra-ordinary, that breaks the pattern. The mortal turned immortal – the lead turned to gold.

Time to grow your own, kids.