Aphrodite Rising

Agent 007 (I of III)

The lambent flame flickers over the dark candles. Dragon’s blood essential oils permeate the room, as incense smoke faded into the walls and the ceilings, in a make shift cave, one of three cave like dwellings, established to contain the spells.  

I was sitting on a faux leather chair, at a desk, both purchased at the local thrift store.  I held a transfixed gaze into sacred space, seeing or feeling a savage fierceness behind my own eyes.  

On the desk was a makeshift altar, composed of a small, independent wooden shelf that I found on a garbage heap…  Repurposed, you might say.  A black bandanna, stained by blood, covered the shelf.  I had the bandanna for a while, at length I forget.  On the altar was an assortment of objects.  Sacred objects.  A lapis amulet, a Cross pen, columbian emeralds, amethyst, obsidian, tourmaline, moldavite, Holy oil, and other items.  

Crowning the altar is a citrine crystal tower.

At the base of the altar was a circular shaped carving, made from a tree, fallen by lightening, on my family estate.  The carving represents the Kaosphere and had a wide variety of applications; your imagination is your only limitation.  

Suddenly a tunnel began to form, beginning in the depths of my perception, extending to the forefront of my mind’s eye.  There was a swirling imagery at the periphery of the tunnel.  I could not tell if they were entities, memories or both…  Memories and entities.  

I held this state of thought.  This thought form.  Without being able to discern the type or kind, with exactitude.  I stared into my periphery, as I held the thought.  I could feel a certain sorrowful impulse in my heart.  Maybe they were entities; maybe they were memories.  My past held both, and both contained sorrow inducing qualities.

What I have learned to do is to laugh.  This will make the ghosts go away, shorely.  And I did.  Laugh.  In my mind.  Nothing can touch me or hurt me.  Can you not see my scars.  I say.  Silently.  In my mind.

I have known banishment and therefore I may banish.

I decided to go for a run.  I decided to initiate the operation.

*   *   *

The crisp spring air and the night captivated my senses.  To be in a meeting place between two seasons, I could see, simultaneously, the extent of the two, like being between parallel depth and height.  Like being shipwrecked out to sea, in between parallel ocean and sky.  One becomes the other.  The sky is upside down, an upside down sky.  Like Heaven upside down.  Heaven becomes Hell and Hell becomes Heaven.  An exquisite convergence of terror and serenity.  Like a self aware dream enfolding into itself, in a state of self realization, elevating in a vision of spirals of smoke...

…  Running is a meditational activity to me.  I’ve heard it said that running is a way of teaching yourself to exert your will upon things, in a magical way, by pushing through the physical boundaries, introduced by seemingly impenetrable, cardiovascular walls.

Seemingly mirroring such a sentiment, that of running as a fortification of will, I saw this video where this guy replaced drugs with running.  If it works, use it.  Poly-paradigmatic.  

The road at my feet presented a stabilizing firmness as my body started to move.  I could hear my feet finding their rhythm, followed by the pace of my breathing, as I increased the volume on my music player, and depart into the night.

I love the empty world.  Spaces echoing with the dissipated remnants of day light.

I crossed the empty street, running past an industrial building, a Subway, a Burger Joint, a car dealership, making it to the Highland Street tributary I was seeking, which passed a few office buildings that produced itinerant light and spaces.  I ran past a few houses, staying on the grass, finding a rhythm.

From there the run becomes like a current that I follow.  

I read this article about free diving.  Into The Blue.  These people who break records for the deepest dive, packing their lungs full of air.  At a certain depth, they just relaxed and got sucked into the void, as the currents and buoyancy levels take you down into the underworld.  Life, meditation and thought.  

I think this is like distance running.  Going into deep waters.  There is a serenity to the kinetic force and gravity that comes about.  

Embraced by shadows.  The houses I passed were solemn and seeming to be asleep.

I turn when I got to the graveyard.  A deep solemnity.  We’re all just dead skin.  I thought of an old friend who appeared with tattooed letters on his fingers…  DEAD SKIN.  I read the words as I inspected the new ink.  

“That’s all we are.”  He said, as his green mohawk pointed at the sky.

In the graveyard, a deeper texture of darkness was prevalent.  My awareness shifted, instinctually being prepared for flaws on the path.  There were no flaws.  Everything is perfect.  I trained my legs and they formed a solid base of movement.  The music in my ear buds plays.  

The darkness loomed and seemed to be alive, like wave form notes of jazz music, written by entities who have received the revelation of death.

This was the part of the run where I begin to drift in the darkness.  Lost in my thoughts, amidst the ancient trees and graveyard monuments and darkness that pulsated like magnetic icebergs in Antarctic, ice laden waters, glowing with depth.

Life is the blink of an eye on a deep breath that precedes a dive into the deeps and the depths like dying and being reborn in the solemnity of synchronicity.

And my legs carrie me out of this wilderness of contemplation and truth.  I saw a car’s headlights speed past, feeling the centrifugal force generated by the car’s weight, moving through time and space.

I sent a biochemical message, from my brain to my body, as I made slow motion of reality, perceiving the synapses flooding with microcosmic entities that were sent into the inner space network of nervous systems and catacombs.  I sped up the pace, my arms pumping in forty five degree angles that were as sharp as gleaming razors.  

I could feel a transference of alternative vibrations, similar to those of the graveyard, as I approached a park that was established next to the water, a scenic refuge for families, photographers, and escapist travelers.  

I picked up the speed again, tearing through the hills and a winding path through darkness pulsating with water spirits, exiting the park, taking a side street, crossing a bridge, running past a nature preserve, past the shadowy trees of a another park located in a more primal area, exhibited by the nature and the texture of the midnight fabric of the waving pennants that were placed upon this path, this path that seemed like a pathway of the immortals.

Past the park were a few expensive condominiums and houses, as well as houses built at varying epochs of time.

As I drew near my destination, I felt like a 007 Agent, which seems appropriate, given the destination, as 007 was inspired by the sigil employed by John Dee, in his correspondences with Queen Elizabeth.  

The destination?  The House of Satan.

*   *   *

The House of Satan.  The Satanic House.  There really is no official name for the dwelling.  

A staple of local lore, I first heard the story at a dilapidated apartment building that was a haven for fiendish squatters.  I stopped there, momentarily, and smoked some hashish out of a wooden pipe, carved with strange symbols.  

I remember the pride and mystery in the aire of the owner, as he removed it from a bag made of quilted patch work.

What got us on the topic of such things was the pentagram, drawn on my associate’s hand, as he was into a whole lot of countercultural interests, and typically had the demeanor of a frightening individual.

“Dude, are you a Satanist?”  

The question was met by a cold gaze.  (He was of course beyond both, Satanism and this question about Satanism).

“Have you heard of the house of Satan?”  He continued, as though his question was answered and an invitation was made to engage in conversation.

I, being a connoisseur of exotic information, immediately encouraged him to continue, refilling the pipe, and casting my attention upon the story teller.

He told of an enormous house with a very long driveway and statues of goats.

He did not know the location of the house, just that the legend had been passed down from generation to generation.

*   *   *

From this point on, the legend was in the forefront of my thoughts.  I believed.  I always believed.  But how in the hell could I find out more.  I grieved the broken chains of history.  

It is strange how your wants and your desires can attract things to your hemispheres.

I would find the key to the kingdom in a somewhat unlikely source: a fugitive in an alley way, with whom I exchanged money for merchandise.  

He had a few more pieces of the puzzle.  There was a house.  A House of Satan.  There were goat statues.  There was also a wishing well, with a glowing pentagram at the bottom.  There was also an approximate location.

I nearly forgot about the large bag of neon green, aspirin sized tablets in the hidden large, inside sleeve pocket of my Hilfiger denim jacket.

After some dedicated recognizance, I found the house.  And there were…  Goats.

The property, on which the house was built, was extensive; the front driveway was the length of two football fields; there was a wall around the parameter.  To the right of the main yard was a forest of trees, all equal in size and stature, with a separate entry way, this being two pillars with a gate, a miniature of the design of the entry way of the main driveway.

To me, and no one else, there were unspeakable treasures through those gates, behind those walls.

I had to know.  Gnosis above all things.  Above all things gnosis.