1) Fix the egg with an intense stare. Do not blink.
2) Intone under your breath "OIP TEAA PEDOCE"
3) Vigorously wave your fingers at the egg. The best gesture varies by height, altitude, and astrological sign (of the egg), so go through a few until you find something that starts emitting smoke.
4) Repeat (1) through (3). Allow your voice to slowly become louder. You'll know the egg is almost ready when you begin to sweat and tremble.
5) Sink (when no longer can you strive, though your tongue by bitten
through with the effort and the blood gush from your nostrils) into the
blackness of unconsciousness; and then, on coming to yourself, write down soberly and accurately a record of all that hath occurred, yea
a record of all that hath occurred.
I don't think I'm flattering myself when I say that I may know more than the average human about the weird and sometimes dark world of the occult. For this reason I am often skeptical of articles posted claiming that a crime has been committed "for the purposes of witchcraft". All too often magic and witchcraft are used as ontological placeholders for the more honest but far more distressing notion that sometimes crimes are committed for no reason at all. But nothing sells tabloids like an article claiming that teens have killed a cat, or a woman has drowned her baby, or a man has murdered his girlfriend in the name of SATAN.
For this reason, when I read that a British national of Taiwanese descent has been arrested in a Bangkok hotel for allegedly attempting to sell six dead babies, my response was one of instant skepticism. Details are predictably sparse, but the police report indicates that Chou Hong Hun, 28, was attempting to sell the deceased infants on the internet, for use in ritual witchcraft. Apparently the man acquired the dead babies from another man, as yet unidentified, for 200,000 baht, or roughly 6,600 USD.
To decide whether my skepticism is merited in this case, I have decided to analyze what I know of deceased infants in magic. Follow along, if you can handle a little dark knowledge you might wish you didn't have.
You may know that it is a distressingly common practice in some parts of Africa to sacrifice living children in an attempt to alleviate poverty or disease, to the extent that sign like these have to be made:
From the The African Network for the Prevention and Protection against Child Abuse and Neglect (ANPPCAN)
However, it should be noted that in these cases the sacrifice is of a living child, not a dead one. Right off the bat we can rule out the use of these deceased infants in a sacrificial sense, as no religious or occult tradition that I can think of would use lifeless beings, no matter the relative holiness or unholiness of the entity to whom the offering is being made. Therefore we must view these infants as the magically active components of a ritual act, possessing some theoretical potency unique to their nature.
Dead bodies, of course, or portions thereof, have certainly been used in historical magical practices the world wide, and the use of these involves usually involves two justifications:
1) The Iconic, wherein the identity and life of the deceased is relevant. In the case of the infamous Hand of Glory, for instance, the hand in question is taken from a thief or murderer hanging from a gibbet. The criminal nature of the hand's erstwhile owner is seen as lending resonance with the magical artifact in question, whose purpose is to aid in burglary. Traditional relics of Catholic saints, of course, follow the same logic, wherein the physical remains in some way continue to bear some power associated with the life of the individual from which they were taken.
and
2) The Compositional, wherein a specific part of a human body is believed to possess a certain innate property suited to the aim of the practitioner. Often this aspect intersects with antiquated medicinal knowledge, such as the surprisingly socially acceptable practice of medicinal cannibalism to alleviate all manner of ills in Europe, as late as the 18th century. Take the following recipe from Oswald Croll’s 1609 book Bazilica Chymica and Praxis Chymiatricae or Royal and Practical Chymistry:
Chuse the Carcase of a red Man (because in them the blood is more
sincere, and gentle and therefore more excellent) whole (not maimed)
clear without blemishes, of the age of twenty four years, that hath
been Hanged, Broke upon a Wheel, or Thrust-through, having been for one
day and night exposed to the open Air, in a serene time. This Mumy
(that is, Musculous flesh, of the Thighs, Breasts, Armes, and other
parts) from the two Luminaries, once illuminate and constellate, cut
into small pieces or slices and sprinkle on them Powder of Myrrh, and
of Aloes, but a very little (otherwise it will be too bitter) afterward
by Macerating, Imbibe them for certain days in Spirit of Wine, hang
them up a little, and again imbibe them, then hang them up to dry in
the Air, this so dryed will be like Flesh hardned in Smoak, and be
without stink.
This recipe indicates that the redness of the man is better only because of the quality of the blood involved, not because of some sort of moral or spiritual aspect that the man in question may have acquired The corpse is then put through various preparations, This human jerky could then be powdered to form poltices, or consumed to heal bruising or "ruptures". Similarly, the scrapings of the inside of a human skull were believed to be effective in curing headaches.
Historically, materials taken from infants seem to combine these two aspects. Several medieval European grimoires, for instance, prescribe the use of infant fat for the creation of candles by which the ceremonial conjuration of a demon or spirit would be accomplished. The fat, clearly, would be chosen as the part of the body most conducive to the creation of a candle. Given that dead bodies, young and old, were an abundant resource, an infant would be used specifically because of the unique spiritual qualities imparted to infants by Christian theology: a soul residing in a complex state between innocence and sin. Traditional Catholicism states that an unbaptised or stillborn infant would be doomed to Limbo, a liminal spiritual dimension that was neither the Heaven reserved for the redeemed, nor the Hell reserved for the damned. Given that magic occurs on boundaries, peripheries, and transitional states, there is a certain rationale to lighting the boundary of one's magical circle with the fat of a being whose soul is believed to linger in an eternal Periphery. However, this traditional Western "ingredient-based" style seems strange here. Why transport a suitcase full of dead babies when one could smuggle less identifiable jars of fat? It would seem instead that the infant's form must be a necessity.
Thailand, of course, maintains its own historical stock of grisly magical recipes. Of particular interest along this line of thought is the Guman Thong, a seemingly benign wealth talisman that can be readily found in storefronts.
Guman Thong
According to legend, the original Guman Thong was created 500 years ago by the General Khun Paen. When his son was stillborn, the General took the corpse to a Buddhist Chanting Hall, baked the infant to a dried husk, gilded it, and imbued it with life with various secret mantras. The newly created Guman Thong then served his father throughout his life, bringing him great fortune. Modern Guman Thong, of course, are generally porcelain or plastic figurines painted gold.
If we accept the police reports claim that these infants were intended for "witchcraft", the creation of a more traditional Guman Thong is a possibility. Most abortions in Thailand are illegal, leading to cases such as the 2,000 aborted fetuses discovered in a crematorium, once again in Bangkok. If this theory is holds, it would not be difficult for the man charged with this crime to have acquired the materials in question. As we have no way of ascertaining at the moment whether these were aborted fetuses, stillborn infants, or infants who died after birth, we cannot necessarily rule out the potential of Guman Thong creation. However, the creation of Guman Thong in this traditional fashion would require a complicated process involving the cooperation of a Buddhist Temple, various exotic herbs, and a sizable quantity of gold-leaf.
It may be of interest to note, however, that should the Guman Thong theory prove to be the case, tradition states that the period between of transportation of the dead infant to the Buddhist Temple is supposedly an incredibly dangerous one, plagued by various aggressive spirits who will attempt to attack the bearer of the infant. Perhaps, even, going so far as to bring law enforcement down upon the offender's head.
UPDATE: Apparently Huffpo, BoingBoing, the Telegraph and others are reporting that the fetuses were indeed roasted and covered in gold leaf. I can find no confirmation that this was mentioned anywhere in the police report, and are seeking primary sources. But for now it seems like the gold baby golem theory may indeed be true.
A lovely recipe for the Nether Pastry of Aldesh Ra, the doughnut that will end the world. This video by Awkward Spaceship hits me right in my weak spot.
This journey is over. It all started seven years ago with Out There Radio, Raymond and Joe and I all crowded around the precarious microphones dangling over the soundboard in the studio at WUOG. The boys would tackle topics all over the conspiracy, occult, and paranormal radar, and they did it with such humor and insight that I was humbled and honored when they asked me to join them in the studio.
I was terrified and my voice quavered a little the first time I sat in front of that microphone to talk about the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Aleister Crowley, and the war between Magicians. Imagine my delight when they asked me to return, to contribute a recurring segment called The Invisible College. It didn't take me long to develop the persona of Austin Gandy, Sorcerer Supreme, emissary of the College of the Adepts, as this persona was simply a hypertrophism of my own tendencies to bullshit and swagger, paired with a mind predisposed to synthesizing peculiar connections between data points where there were none before. And so I became the purveyor of weird news and Forteana, refracted and reframed for humorous and illustrative effect into mystical 'insights', ostensibly in the form of press releases from the Invisible College.
It was incredible fun. While Raymond and Joe tackled the JFK assassination, faked moon landings, Jonestown, and 9/11, I was free to talk about pro-wrestler vampires, Tanzanian buttsex demons, squeaking aliens, botched exorcisms, and a nude wet meat soil bandit bent on what could only have been a mission to destroy the world.
After the Out There series wrapped up at fifty episodes, we joined Disinformation in 2008. We've been making podcasts for them ever since, and nothing could have prepared us for the places that this would take us. We met, networked, and collaborated with some of the finest folks I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. We kabbalistically deduced Obama's win in the 2008 election. We interviewed Alan Moore, and listened enthralled as he talked about his Magick for an hour, and terrified that he would become cross with us at any moment and hang up. We cracked the Lady Gaga Code, a moment that I hope will be preserved by some curator of high absurdity. Raymond and I, my girlfriend KT in tow, went on an official promotional tour for Disinfo, screening a movie and giving an "occult stand-up" slideshow routine across the UK and Amsterdam.
I wish to all the gods that we had a recording of the show at the Occulture Festival. It was one of the most thrilling and surreal moments in my life, a moment when it seemed possible for two skinny occultists to be treated like real rockstars.
I will carry to my grave the image of a cute young british girl bouncing up ahead of the applauding crowd, her face all admiration and earnestness as she proclaimed "I NEED to talk to you!"
I was so hopped up on adrenaline and endorphins, it was all I could manage to say, "I'd LOVE to talk to you, dear, but I'm going to go smoke a fucking cigarette now." I hope she didn't take it the wrong way. She really made the moment for me, but I really needed that cigarette.
But heavens do I digress. I treasure these memories, and many others which sprang from this collaboration, and am grateful beyond words for them. But now it is done. The final episode of the Disinformation Podcast is finished, edited, and published.
Click for listen.
Raymond is far afield on foreign shores, expanding his world and experience. Joe is closer to home, his love and life wrapped like a warm cocoon around his beautiful baby boy. This journey is over.
Should the Black God of the Wind and the Dead ride by your house tonight, remember that those who join the Wild Hunt of Slatterpat, the floppy-breasted she-troll who stole the sun, are richly rewared. Don't worry if you miss it, though, for "quen non vai de morto vai de vivo".
Unfortunately for the aspiring necromancer, the Beijing Olympics caused China to ban the export of human bones. This caused the price of human bone matter to skyrocket to record levels. Expect to pay no less than about $800 for a human skull these days, which ounce per ounce puts a human skull at approximately the trading price of silver. Nobody said raising a skeleton army would be cheap.
Dig the Bone Room for some raw material, you filthy warlocks.
I realize that by even addressing this I run the risk of ensuring its continuation. But I really have to ask: What in Odin's sweet name have I written about or referenced within the sacred confines of this blog that could ever convince the enigmatic algorithm which determines the targeted ads that wink at you even now from its periphery that a 'Christian Dating Site' belongs in the banner at the top of the page? Seriously, any theories are welcome.
But just in case, here's a dose of good old-fashioned conjuration of the Dark Powers, courtesy of the inimitable Vincent Price. Let's see if this can keep such an embarrassment from occurring in the future.
Pretty things; endless cigarettes and caffeine drips fueling all-night magical midrash; a cabal of the power-elite, not fatcat illuminati wallowing in their moloch game, no, the elite who hold the keys to heaven and hell, the arbiters of taste and joy, me, you, us.
"The third and, given due consideration, most probable of all my theorems, is that life is ordered by the principles of some religion so peculiar and obscure it has no followers, and none may fathom it, nor know the rituals by which to court its favor."
-Alan Moore, Voice of the Fire
Heads up, witches, wizards, and Harry Potter fans! Saudi Arabia's Anti-Witchcraft Unit has been mobilized again, this time in response to the discovery of the severed head of a wolf wrapped, apparently, in women's lingerie.
Those unfamiliar with Saudi Arabia's witchhunters should not be surprised to learn that the frighteningly conservative and mind-bogglingly religious state treats claims of its citizens meddling with dark forces very, very seriously. Established within the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice in 2009, the elite Anti-Witchcraft squad is devoted to investigating and eliminating alleged sorcerers, witches, and astrologers, breaking spells, and teaching the populace about the dangers of seeking after Forbidden Knowledge.
According to Abdullah Jaber of Al-Jazeera "In accordance with our Islamic tradition we believe that magic really exists. The fact that an official body, subordinate to the Saudi Ministry of Interior, has a unit to combat sorcery proves that the government recognizes this, like Muslims worldwide."
In the case of the wolf's head, the Anti-Witchcraft Unit in Tabouk claims to have broken the spell. The Saudi daily Okaz reported on Monday that the unknown family that had fallen victim to the spell had been "liberated from the jaws of the wolf.” No word yet on the methods used, but if I had to guess, I'd say they probably weren't combating dark sorcery with the power of rainbows and friendship.
The Saudi Press Agency claims that The Anti-Witchcraft Unit was created in order to educate the public about the danger of sorcerers and "combat manifestations of polytheism and reliance on other Gods."
TNT would not return our calls regarding the possibility of a new hit series, Law & Order: AWU.
Professional fear-monger Alex Jones recently went viral with a rant that has been universally derided as balls-out crazy, wherein he discusses his theory that the Power Elite/Illuminati/New World Order overlords are coming into communication with extra-dimensional beings through the inhalation of that most Reality-Shattering of molecules: DMT.
Here's a condensed version, for some reason haunted by the floating heads of Louis Wain's psychedelic cat paintings.
You're not ready for it!
To sum up: Alex "Bullhorn" Jones tells us that the 'Elite' are in contact with extra-terrestrials who are giving them access to advanced technology. Through the use of psychedelics, they open lines of communication with Another Realm and use the information which comes through from the Other Side to gain knowledge and power, and building devices such as the Large Hadron Collider at the behest of these Otherworldy Contacts.
Those familiar with my work with the Out There Radio and Disinformation Podcasts will know that I have no great love for Alex Jones. I once referred to his atrocious film End Game: Blueprint for Global Enslavement as a 'qlippothic sludgefest through the darkest possible interpretation of reality'. I should be very clear, however, that I do not rule out all, or even most of Alex Jones' World View. In fact, we share a common methodology, drawing connections between seemingly unrelated events to paint a sweeping Big Picture. The only major difference between us is in the interpretation of these facts, which causes our Pictures to diverge so wildly. Alex Jones paints with the sharp strokes of fear in a dark palette of paranoia. I choose instead to use the brighter colors of humor on an under-painting of Neurological Agnosticism.
Just days ago I picked up Cosmic Trigger I : Final Secret of the Illuminati for the first time in years and re-read the process by which my hero-and-mentor-ex-libris Robet Anton Wilson broke open his own mind through the use of hallucinogens. He describes visions of the Green Spirit Mesaclito, telepathic communication with Tim Leary, and the apparent reception of extra-terrestrial signals from the Dog Star Sirius. Within 48 hours I found myself unexpectedly listening to Alex Jones hysterically grumble about the very same subjects, but as if reflected in a dark fun-house mirror. I had no choice but to chuckle at the apparent influence of John C. Lilly's hypothetical Cosmic Coincidence Control Center in bringing these events into Synchronous Space-Time for me. As anyone who has read The Illuminatus! Trilogy knows, these sort of 'coincidences' are tremendously typical of those who dip their toes in the waters of The Conspiracy.
What really blows my mind about Alex's video is the degree to which people watching it have used is to demonstrate how incredibly crazy he is. However, contrary to popular opinion, the general idea that he discusses of DMT users believing that they come into contact with Otherworldy Beings is no fabrication of Jones' twisted worldview. Consult the works of Terence Mckenna, Jeremy Narby, and Graham Hancock for a veritable plethora of example of the use of DMT and other hallucinogens throughout history to the modern day. An incredible number of these accounts have in common the experience of coming into contact with what Mckenna refers to as "Self-Transforming Machine Elves." These Beings will transport the DMT user to different dimensions, take them aboard spacecraft, show them the Universe or themSelves, impart prophecies and even technological knowledge (of varying degrees of plausability). Those who prefer to believe that these experiences are purely hallucinatory do so at the peril of Leaping to Conclusions. Let us not forget the fact that the double-helix structure of the DNA molecule appeared to Francis Crick under the influence of LSD, and that Kary Mullis developed the Polymerase Chain Reaction technique under the same influence.
Given the prevalence, similarity, and powerful results of such experiments, it seems to me that there might actually be Something Going On with the sorts of experiences reported by shamans, mystics, magicians, and physicists throughout history. However, one instantly gets oneself into hot water when one starts to conjecture as to what exactly is going on here. Looking at these stories, one might conclude that :
a) The users of these techniques of consciousness expansion are all stark-raving mad.
b) The users of these techniques of consciousness expansion have come into contact with Extra-Dimensional Beings with access to advanced scientific and technological knowledge.
c) The users of these techniques of consciousness expansion are being manipulated by Demons.
d) The users of these techniques are coming into contact with previously-unexpressed aspects of their own Psyches, areas of the mind with have savant-level access to advanced scientific and technological knowledge.
e) And so on and so on, or any combination of the above.
Alex Jones' answer is just one of many, and by no means the wackiest. It is important to realize that in this, as in everything else, there is an incredible danger in ascribing to a Model That Explains It All. This danger, of course, is the unavoidable pitfall of ignoring data which does not fit into one's pre-existing beliefs, and clinging to the data which does. The resulting belief-structure is inevitably selective and arbitrary. The only way to avoid this pitfall is to entirely throw out the idea of reducing "Reality" to any single interpretation.
It is much safer and saner to approach the description of such outlandish theories (and the description of "Reality" in general) from the standpoint of General Semantics, which states that all interpretations of data are abstractions from Reality, and that no model which can be created will fully encompass this reality. Judgement on what this reality really is should be suspended in favor of comparing the descriptions of these models in terms of utility. This will avoid a great deal of cognitive dissonance, and allow for the creation of multiple models to describe individual events, a far more flexible and adaptable approach to World-Building.
Alex Jones lives in a dark and fearful reality wherein the Power Elite are a shadowy cabal that manipulates world affairs from behind the scenes, and they use ancient techniques of consciousness expansion to increase their power, gain dominion over the earth, and enslave mankind. The Illuminati are the most important and powerful beings in this reality, and they are against us, building the world according to their Visions. But this reality tunnel he has created is one of an unlimited number of interpretations, any of which might be horrible, wonderful, frightening, interesting, useful, useless, dull, confusing, beautiful.
But remember, remember, remember that all of them are models, descriptions, paintings, and that none of them are TRUE.
In the spirit of playful Interpretation, like Robert Anton Wilson, I choose to embrace one of the more useful, engaging, and empowering interpretations-- that my life is my own and no other's to direct and control, and that my mind is a tool to use and alter through the ancient and modern techniques of consciousness expansion to increase my own personal power, knowledge, and happiness and that of those around me. I claim kinship with any who feels the same. The Illuminati are the most important and powerful beings in this reality, and They are Us, building the world according to our Visions.
"When you define the Power Elite as somebody else, I view that as a Loser Script." - Robert Anton Wilson
The heat was already shimmering over the pavement as I smoked my last pre-flight cigarette in front of the Delta terminal. That's when she caught my eye.
Discarded by a careless child or a heartless caretaker, Fairy Princess lay face down in traffic. Though her dress and wings were still remarkably well preserved, her stiff legs jutted upwards in the rigid contortion of death. All fairy magic had clearly left her petite body.
I looked around me at the harried faces rushing to and from flights. No one else seemed to notice the microscopic tragedy in the pick-up/drop-off lane. I probably wouldn't have either if I hadn't arrived with an hour to spare. As it was, I found myself morbidly transfixed. I know that my mother managed to instill a greater-than-normal animistic sense of sympathy towards inanimate objects ("Tell the door you're sorry you kicked it.") which in some way influenced me to stride into traffic and document the sad fate of Fairy Princess Roadkill.
I'd already committed myself to looking like a deranged psychopath harmless eccentric by crouching in front of oncoming taxis to photograph a child's toy, so I wondered if I should give closure to the onlooking TSA agents by burying her in a planter or some other act equally unlikely to elicit a battery of difficult-to-answer questions at the security checkpoint. Didn't Fairy Princess at least deserve a decent burial? No. And you know why?
Because fairy princesses aren't like other road kill. Though all fairy magic and wish-granting powers had clearly abandoned her inert plastic corpse, this was not necessarily a permanent state of morbidity. Unlike, say, an armadillo, the fairy's sun-baked form could be instantly resurrected and restored to her former status as glittering companion by any passing child. Shit, I was almost tempted to scoop her up and chuck her at the next passing toddler to ensure her reanimation, but we live in a post-9/11 world and people aren't so pleased by the hurled gifts of strangers at the airport, even if the gift is a magical fairy.
My role was merely to document, like a National Geographic photographer observing as cheetah kittens are stalked by hyenas. The fate of Fairy Princess Roadkill was not mine to decide. It falls to a caring child, or a big-hearted caretaker. Or an oncoming Suburban.
So it's been a little while, hasn't it? Over a year has passed since the last post, so I'd say we have a little catching up to do. The following have occurred since then, in no particular order:
i. I took a massive hit to my self-confidence after having to leave my job as a wilderness counselor for medical reasons. The demoralizing process of leaping through workman's comp hoops, physical therapy, MRIs, steroid injections, weird medications, and finding a new job all combined to create an insidiously corrosive effect. This effectively wiped me out on all projects, clients, and magical activities for large swaths of last year.
ii. I got better. Not where I want to be, by a long shot, but at least I've picked myself back up and am back on the damn Path. Now I need to pick up the pieces and figure out how to make them into something better. Solve et Coagula and all that.
iii. My new job has required me to travel all over the country: Philadelphia, Chicago, LA, San Fran, Denver, Boulder, Memphis, Tombstone, New York, Phoenix, Oklahoma City, St. Louis, Seattle, Dallas, and more podunk towns in the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere than I care to count. I've visited dozens of bodegas, botanicas, creepy Chinese apothecaries, and occult bookstores along the way, amassing a ridiculous supply of herbs, incenses, candles, grimoires, and sundries. I'm technically traveling as a researcher, but for everything but the couple of hours spent actually interviewing people, I'm a jet set sorcerer.
iv. The Middle-East caught on fire, exactly as I predicted. Remember?
v. I made a few t-shirts on a print-on-demand site. The plan is to have all 72 demons of the Goetia represented on American Apparel products by fourth quarter. Go check it out.
vi. Lady Gaga has succeeded in convincing the pop culture world that being weird can be incredibly profitable, and now we have songs in the Top 40 about having sex with aliens. Well done, Illuminati. Well done.
vii. I met a young person who reminded me of what it was like to first start studying and practicing magic: challenging, strange, incredibly exciting.
For the record, it's a lot like this: The Klaxons - Magick
Feel like showing off your hard-won esoteric knowledge? As featured by my good friend Mona Magick on her show The Mystic Journey, you can take my Facebook quiz here. We're separating the adepts from the boys here, y'all!
Go check out the larger, more disorganized site now up at Illuminati Scum!
We banged on the door of St. Lawrence's Church for over a minute, but the vicar never came. Given the status of England's churches as largely historical curiosities, I guess we shouldn't have been surprised. Ken, our guide for the day, had gotten our hopes up with descriptions of a dimly-lit cloister adorned with mysterious masonic symbols, and I had played out a whole adventure in my head wherein we would decipher the cryptic emblems and discover the location of a hidden treasure that would make Dan Brown shit his pants. It was not to be. The vicar was out to lunch.
We consoled ourselves by wandering the grounds. Ken and I smoked a cigarette in consternation. Katie wandered wistfully among the tombstones in her black dress and Hepburn sunglasses, her tragic demeanor offset only slightly by the Diet Coke clutched in her pale hand. We circled the mausoleum of Sir Francis Dashwood that you saw at the end of To the Devil... A Daughter. Kev fantasized about breaking in and taking some intensely gothic glamor shots. We stared out over the rolling Chiltern Hills as sunlight glinted off the golden dome of the church, reveling in a beautiful outing, certain that the best was yet to come. We did not come here to see the church, mysterious though it was reported to be. We did not come to see the place where Sir Francis Dashwood and Hammer Films were both laid to rest.
We came to see the Hellfire Caves, the satanic sanctuary three hundred feet below where we stood. Ken, Kev, Katie, and I wanted to walk the gloomy passages where the aristocracy of a bygone age had reveled in blasphemous orgies and infernal rites. It was time to descend into those mysterious depths. Just after we hit the gift shop.
The entrance to the caves was as impressive as one could hope. A teetering wall of pinnacled stone rose against the chalky cliff. A yawning tunnel cut straight into the cliff before being swallowed up suddenly by darkness. The eerie effect was nearly spoiled by the music that warped out over the courtyard – sinister as the plinkety tones of an ice cream truck. We stopped into the gift shop to pick up some last-minute souvenirs for the folks back home, and were appalled to see that they were selling “Hellfire Club Sandwiches”. I began to suspect that this site that was once witness to some truly epic flaunting of social and theological convention may have become a tad commercialized. Then again, when has that ever been a bad thing for the Dark Lord? Kev kindly payed our £5 admission (as our budget had been strained beyond all expectation) and, turnstile tokens in hand, we prepared to descend into the Underworld.
The tunnel suddenly narrowed around us, and the ceiling pressed in. The voice of the most recent Lord Dashwood piped out from a speaker on the wall to fill us in on some historical details. We breezed past, winding our way deeper into the cooling darkness. Every thirty feet or so there was a recessed light to keep us moving in the right general direction. My American sensibilities were momentarily stunned by the atmospherically appropriate lack of illumination. This place would never fly in the States with its lack of handrails, handicap ramps, and track lighting. The music followed us down the tunnel, bending and deforming around the flint and chalk walls in a spooky way. A tingle ran down my spine. I was pleased.
And then we came upon the first of them. Tucked within an arched recess sat a mannequin meant to represent one of the wealthy gentlemen who once descended into those depths, but whose general demeanor suggested nothing so much as the “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride. Down to the skeleton popping out of a chest next to him. I cringed so hard I hurt my face. I made a decision right then and there that I would ignore any other mannequins that we might come across. This, unfortunately, would prove quite difficult.
Benjamin Franklin is a personal hero of mine, for many reasons, foremost among them being the fact that he was wry, diplomatic, hedonistic, irreverent, and intelligent. He stands out in history like a glaring hole in the argument that the United States was ever a Christian nation. I remember the strange feeling of vindication when I first learned that Poor Richard had attended the wild orgies of the Hellfire Club. As I walked those cramped hallways I could almost hear his deep laughter booming down the twisting cavern. And then there he was, manifest in mannequin form, standing with the plaster eidolon of Sir Francis Dashwood himself. My face twitched as a looping tape played a dramatized “conversation” between the two in which Franklin (the voice actor doing his best Howard De Silva) pronounced that the caves were a “passing strange undertaking!”
“Not at ALL, old chap!” replied the sniveling voice of Dashwood. The mystique was in serious danger of being permanently dispelled, so we fled deeper into the caves. We started to come across little faces carved into the damp walls. Once we saw the first one we started to see them everywhere. Little demons, imps, devils, skulls carved in the most crude of forms and worn eerily smooth by two hundred years of visitors started to repair the dark atmosphere. We emerged into the banquet hall. Kev gasped with wonder. Ken nodded appreciatively at the immense dome that vaulted above us. Katie snapped pictures of the statuary. Kev and I commiserated about the absolute necessity of throwing a Satanic bacchanal down there. Visions of his band playing in black robes and masks swam before his eyes and made his whiskers twitch with excitement. Next year, we told ourselves.
The River Styx was once much higher than it is today. In the heyday of the Hellfire Club it was an actual subterranean moat that had to be crossed in a tiny boat to reach the Inner Sanctum, where the dread and mysterious initiations were supposed to take place. Today it is little more than a bridged creek, but something liminal and evocative nevertheless remains. Any psychic sensitivity I might have was tingling. If any of the reports of ghostly activity in those caves were veridical, I would expect them to hover over those slow-flowing waters. Ahead of us was the final chamber, fabled to lie exactly three hundred feet below the altar of St. Lawrence's Church. What mysteries awaited us within that shadowed gallery?
More fucking mannequins.
A momentary digression, if I may. Let me tell you about Rock City. Situated on Lookout Mountain in Northern Georgia, Rock City is a place of intense natural beauty that was systematically transformed into what may be the single greatest example of American kitsch in existence. Garden gnomes peer at you from within narrow rock corridors, bizarre dioramas of children's fairytales line cave walls,black lights assailthe senses, and of course, all the grotesque architectures of miniature golf await the curious visitor. In all ways it is a work of outsider “art”, which is to say aesthetically offensive in extremis, yet by virtue of its childlike ingenuousness, it manages to express something deeply charming.
I did not expect the Hellfire Caves, of all places, to remind me so very much of Rock City. When I imagined walking in to that historic tunnel into the earth I expected to find a dark reflection of hallowed ground, a sinister shrine to the infernal. To some degree no amount of tacky decoration or cheezy voice over can rob those galleries of their strange atmosphere. But boy if they don't try. I'm no ghosthunter, but I am relatively certain that the best way to banish a spirit is to put up a hokey diorama.
We stood there for a few minutes, trying to imagine the mannequins out of existence, breathing in whatever residual aura remained of the diabolical revelries of the Hellfire Club. Finally, we turned and retraced our steps, leaving the dank, slick walls of the cold cavern behind us.
Katie, Ken, and I lit cigarettes simultaneously as we emerged blinking into the sunlight. Kev chuckled about the rubbery bats and witch hats for sale in the giftshop. Ken devoured a jacket potato piled half-a-foot high with tuna and sweetcorn. Katie expressed equal parts confusion and disgust.
.
's psychedelic cat paintings.
as a 'qlippothic sludgefest through the darkest possible interpretation of reality'. I should be very clear, however, that I do not rule out all, or even most of Alex Jones' World View. In fact, we share a common methodology, drawing connections between seemingly unrelated events to paint a sweeping Big Picture. The only major difference between us is in the interpretation of these facts, which causes our Pictures to diverge so wildly. Alex Jones paints with the sharp strokes of fear in a dark palette of paranoia. I choose instead to use the brighter colors of humor on an under-painting of Neurological Agnosticism.
for the first time in years and re-read the process by which my hero-and-mentor-ex-libris Robet Anton Wilson broke open his own mind through the use of hallucinogens. He describes visions of the Green Spirit Mesaclito, telepathic communication with Tim Leary, and the apparent reception of extra-terrestrial signals from the Dog Star Sirius. Within 48 hours I found myself unexpectedly listening to Alex Jones hysterically grumble about the very same subjects, but as if reflected in a dark fun-house mirror. I had no choice but to chuckle at the apparent influence of John C. Lilly's hypothetical Cosmic Coincidence Control Center in bringing these events into Synchronous Space-Time for me. As anyone who has read 
knows, these sort of 'coincidences' are tremendously typical of those who dip their toes in the waters of The Conspiracy.
lay face down in traffic. Though her dress and wings were still remarkably well preserved, her stiff legs jutted upwards in the rigid contortion of death. All fairy magic had clearly left her petite body.
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