…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
Letter to Virginia Woolf 21st January 1927

11th August

The truth is she’s tired of men not treating her like the gift she believes she is. It’s a problem she wants to correct – starting now! She has dogs, a pair of Airedales raised from pups. Both are as neurotic as she; as vain as she, in my opinion. The dogs guard the only exit from this room.

Often her mind lays open like a drawer of lethal kitchen knives. She touches the blades one at a time. Her touch is that of a lover, lingering on cold steel. Who ever saw such grace? Such monstrous longing for blood? With such blades as these she could shrieve a soul from the pangs of hell.

‘I have something here,’ she says, smiling like one driven mad by desire. ‘Something I want to show you. Come look. You’ll never be the same again, I promise – ’

Night visions

August 7, 2017

7th August

These daily rituals where I feel I have control of my life. Hold the world in the fingers of my hand. Until the vivid evening falls and the last shadows stand around us. Then the air is fixed and cold.

A world of huntresses, of women, Dianas chaste and rare – rare at least to chastity. Recklessly riding their men, displaying nothing if not their athletic female will.

Ah, to crack the skies with a stroke of lightening, or to run like fire through the neatly stacked corn stalks – surprising secrets from everyone.

Now, it is still dark outside. Countless lovers move secretly to nefarious purposes. Oh, yeah, the crazy viciousness of love defies all comprehension.

#

To A & L’s for supper yesterday. They have a pair of new black kittens. Frisky little hairballs designed for mischief. One went missing during the day and might have climbed out of a window. But no. After a comprehensive search of the house, A found it hiding in a table drawer… 

The human trap

July 16, 2017

16th July

He said, ‘Put your face down there,’ and guided her head lower. She lightly kissed his belly before taking him into her mouth –

She became like a she-wolf feasting on flesh – he cried out in pleasure, pain, terror, and she smiled as she feasted, sucking the very soul from his body in that fractured moment of time –

A wild thing, was she. Feral and ferocious – and, oh, so greedy! She felt liquid fire in her veins and the moon filling her head –

Gradually she released her claw-like grip, licked the remains of his soul from her lips, and spoke in a low growl. She said, ‘I’d like to keep you chained in my wardrobe. I’d have you there to kiss whenever I wanted. Have you there to fuck when I felt desire. See how eager I am? I came to you without shoes or clothes, dressed only in my fine grey fur. Yes, my love tastes of bitterness, and like the wild rose I’ve been covered in thorns. I will make a crown of thorns for you to wear in my wardrobe…my den. Your prison. And only I will see. Only I – ’

He lay silent an still beneath her. She breathed her life into his motionless mouth, and said, ‘You’re as nothing now. Nothing but what I mould you into. My pet, my dog. My slave. You are nothing but a blank canvass on which I can paint my darkest fantasies. You will be whatever I tell you to be. You have no choice. There is no other way -’

#

He knew she could cut his soul into a million pieces. Once, in a corn file, he’d heard the sound of raindrops whispering on her bare flesh. It was a poetry, softly recited on breasts, belly and buttocks, which came back to haunt him again and again. Another time she wrote him a love letter, the only one, and it was full of sadness and despair –

chemistry

July 14, 2017

i wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh
and you cannot help but want me.
you think it’s cruel
how i break your heart, to write a poem.
i think it’s alchemy.

Warsan Shire

Our Numbered Days

July 8, 2017

Neil Hiborn
Our Numbered Days

Before everything is over
I would like to make love to you
the same number of times as a gentleman knocking on a
door that will never open for him.

The same number of times a mirror fails to reflect the spirit
of a ruined man.
The same number of times a young woman
discovers in the middle of a noisy party
that she is alone.

I would like to make love to you like a man
leaning his face from the window of a passenger train to catch
one more look at the one woman he ever
truly adored, but now he must leave behind.

Like a circus performer looking up at a ceiling of trapeze rings,
crazy lights and precarious high wires,
knowing he will never climb that high.

Like a washed up prize fighter reaching for the canvas
because it is his only friend.
Like a bum reaching for a twenty dollar bill
that is blowing across a busy boulevard.

I would like to make love to you
before the passersby pass by
before the falling sun falls out of this world
and into the next, before the brown bear of winter falls
into his magnificent winter slumber.

I would like to make love to you with my forehead
pressed to your naked waist.
with my platelets pulsing in your veins.
With my brain on fire and snow falling on your
hissing flames

I would like to make love to you a hundred times
with the shuddering knowledge of
you, with your frozen smile and untraceable fingertips.
you with your indecipherable dreams.

Because I am doomed to live with you even when I am
without you – you with your incomplete shoulders.
You with your rainbow coloured lips.

You with your empty hands.
Your perfumed silence, your perfect elegance.
You, with the sunlight that leaks out of
your darkness and into my world.

George Wallace

Eroticism & Magick

May 20, 2017

Magical power is sexual power. Crowley understood this. Parsons understood this. Bataille understood this. Or to be more accurate, Laylah knew this, Candy knew this, Laure knew this. Witchcraft sometimes seems to have forgotten it, along with the body, a trend that technology continues to exacerbate. For the return to the erotic we need a physical culture that our dancing bodies weave and chorus into life.

Witchcraft is inherently erotic, by which I mean it is a construct of shadow and light. Of historical elements and of our current experience, of truth and lie; as it always has been. Witchcraft is an art of glamours which demands that we explore and harness our full erotic potential and that of others. Witchcraft is neither a glossy magazine, nor a gender studies module, nor a particular aesthetic; though they may be paths towards it they are not to be mistaken for the thing in itself. Modern expressions of witchcraft that appear to value style over substance are better seen as part of a continuum of erotic expression, of the necessary poses demanded in a culture of surfaces. Witchcraft is a practice with attitude, not a practiced attitude. The erotic is witchcraft if it not only attracts power, or the gaze, but if it is able to harness that power for its own ends. We are not here to please, or to be measured in likes.

Though it is often, and somewhat smugly, pointed out that the brain is the most important sexual organ to stimulate, that misses the fact that the brain is a direct evolutionary result of our need to process movement. We are not a series of selfies but bodies in motion. We are not a brain in a control tower whose interaction with the world is only done with our thumbs. The body awaits our rediscovery of it, for ours is a naked art, garbed only in the shadows we artfully cast and the masks that demand to be danced.

Touch marks and transforms us. It is the most eroded of the senses and the most necessary to our psychological health. Touch is a condition of all sentient life, the loss of tactility is death, and as Aristotle observed, thought itself depends upon tactility.

Though we deal with the intangible, touch is something we should be developing in the creation of a series of exercises to extend the range of our senses. It is not surprising that the blindfold is one of the key technologies of both initiation and sexual play. Leading and being led, hunter and hunted are the ways in which we extend our sensitivity across the country of skin.

Alongside the blindfold, the mask must be mentioned in this context, for the way in which it frees the body. In masking we discover hitherto unknown movements and voices, selves that we pull on like long gloves and that articulate potentials which animals have not forgotten. Masks can wear us, as gods often do. The blindfold is of course the dark moon and initiation, the mask, the sabbat at the full.

The erotic is the art of the extension and the anticipation of desire. It triggers a cascade of chemical releases that renew the body. We glow with it. What all the methods of eroticism and ordeal have in common is the body, and the function of the endocrine system. We can exploit this rather than taking it as a given, by training with the exactitude and presence of dancers and martial artists. The edge play of fight or flight, of tonic immobility, of extended arousal are the penumbra through which we are transvected. Our aim is to extend our mastery over the so-called autonomic nervous system, and in doing so, live more deliciously.

The work of witchcraft is best approached if you have a working energy body. The endocrine system in particular needs attention: hypothalamus, pineal, pituitary, thyroid, thymus, adrenals, pancreas and ova/testes. Unless you have an active method to address it, your system is either aggravated or in decline. Unless you are moving every day you are becoming stiffer. The challenge is that most people in our culture, which includes witches, are heavily self-medicating, particularly with alcohol, painkillers, prescribed pharmaceuticals and in a state of chronic inflammation. If this is not rectified then eroticism is impaired, ordeal work becomes blunt trauma wrought on muffled senses.

In tandem with this are the requirements of herb craft to provide the building blocks and support for the experience so that it is not catastrophic. I am not going to give a full herbal, but let me mention damiana, red clover and ginseng as general tonics as well as two of my preferred and less known ones, amachazuru and tongkat ali. If you are not taking Vitamin D and magnesium supplements I urge you to do so. For men I should add zinc, and testosterone support for those over 40, along with lifting heavy weights: these are far more effective than shunning ejaculation in order to stay vital. For women, dong quai, cat’s claw, ashwaganda, catuaba, and of course the master substance: chocolate, theobroma cacoa, food of the gods. And I recommend you consume your chocolate like your witchcraft, as dark, raw and unadulterated as possible!

The quick hit and subsequent body load of sugar and cooked fats, the over reliance on alcohol as a disinhibitor rather than a solvent for medicines, processed denatured food and death by sofa are the hallmarks of a slave society and a slave body. In addition we trash our adrenals with caffeine and crash our immune systems with cigarettes. This toxic approach does have some short term benefits, but it ultimately burns us out. The excess of energy in youth can lead us to self-destructive displays. I am not promoting abstinence, but an extended drunkenness of the senses.

Would it not be better if we were to stretch into ourselves like felines? If witchcraft drank from the cauldron of medicine and health? If we recognised that what we do requires sustained and sustainable energy work? If when we engage in the work of poisons we pay as much attention to recovery? Ask yourself: How powerful is your erotic response? Then ask, how powerful can it become?

Find a physical practice that you love. Make the body your magical weapon of choice for the performance of witchcraft. Keep extending and retracting your power like cat claws. It is a lunar mystery that we work, and it gives us supernatural seeming powers. The erotic is not linear, this genders witchcraft female whatever our biological sex. It teaches us to sustain from the smudged kohl of evening to the rose blush of day. It makes our witchcraft a full body art from the field of flesh through to our secret interiors that the blindfold and mask reveal.

Peter Grey
Forging the body of the Witch
Presentation given at the Occult Conference in London, England, 18th June 2016

A Certain Lady

May 27, 2016

girls in love

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You’ll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings –
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me — marvelling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go…
And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,
You’ll never know.

Dorothy Parker

sunday love

Desire is desire, wherever you go. The sun will not bleach it, nor the tide wash it away…