“If AH TSA – the very bright star – appears, then, if you work with steadfastness and carefulness of mind, there will be a good result.”
I repeat the reading in my head, looking over the dice laying in the box before me. Its impossible not to feel a sort of dreamy quality when the word Star comes up for me. Stars exist outside our world in most ways. Our day to day existence sees them only as lights in the sky, with those of us unfortunate enough to live in metropolitan hellscapes unable to even experience that. Even the Sun’s constant light and warmth make it feel closer than a lone distant star.
“increasing the power of air like the revolution of the energy currents in the sky”
I ponder it momentarily, staring over at the altar space in the corner. It laid strewn with objects of significance, sacred art and tools that were rendered meaningless by a dark lens over my soul. The angst of life has broken me down. “It’s a mood”, I tell myself, thinking of Hubert Dreyfus lecturing on attunement. “We always exist in a mood, and moods color our world”.
On the altar is a painting I made a few years ago. Artemis with her bow, the Lion, the Goat and Aima the beautiful, all beneath the glorious Star. Its mysteries aren’t revealed to me fully. Its mysteries right now are hidden, like the stars hidden by those city lights.
An internal voice reprimanded me,
“Don’t die, master, but take my advice and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or any hands but Melancholy’s making an end of him!”
“Oh to be Don Quixote with a squire like Sancho…” I say to myself, sitting onto my cushion.
“And be Quixote you shall.”
Candles are lit, the stage is set. The world shifts and the stars come out. A house that once glazed over into a beige background reveals its hidden mystery. Incantations and invocations are often not written down in narratives. Sometimes it kills the mood, sometimes for safety. This time it’s an inability to properly describe them. These aren’t words of old magic, no Koine Greek or Olde English rhyme, nor beat poetry or glossolalia. Words can’t do it justice, words will only flatten it for the reader. No, the gestures and tongues remain hidden from me and from you, Reader, because they are what brought us both here, and neither you or l may know fully what has set these wheels in motion.
The Sword slowly moves aloft, deifying the Source of All. My hands are clenched firmly at its hilt, sweating under the effort. The Queen of the Void sits before me, veiled and terrible, upon a throne of carrion. Vultures and worms are her retinue, picking at the countless forms that have died at her feet. I am stone.
No words are exchanged. She raises a finger towards the reader. The Author does not turn to address them. The Empress of Emptiness lowers her hand, leaving the request for the moment. A lone dove flutters towards me, landing on the tip of the Sword for a moment before taking off towards the empty desert at my side. I stand and follow. No words are exchanged.
The shadows of the desert are not new to me. Whirling sand and cutting wind pelt my hide, never touching that glorious dove that floats above its hardship. It leads me on to my Bethlehem, my star in Winter’s night. What child shall it lead me to?
I come upon a small encampment. The dove recedes from view, as is its want. Several men sit about a fire, faces low and bodies cold. “Come brother, the night is cold and lord Agni will have to provide.”
The voice was much softer than the battered appearance of this man would imply. His skin is amber, worn hard by wind and age alike. Coarse grey hair sticks out from his hood, covering parched lips and wrinkles. I sit down upon a stone across from him, Agni dancing in ecstasy between.
“What brings you to us, friend?” he asks, alternating from rubbing his palms and holding them close to the flame. “Chivalry, as always.” I laugh, mimicking his movements.
“But there are no women out here!” cackles another man from a sand bed, his belly jiggling beneath a blanket. His white teeth reflected the light of our own personal Sun.
“Of course not, why would one send me here if She could come herself?” I answer in kind, matching his malice like the former’s hand-warming.
“So you are a Knight? We haven’t had one here for many years.” muses the whiskered one, his coal eyes studying my stocky form with more curiosity than fear.
“Knight, troubadour, dumb love struck fool, take your pick, it’s all the same to me.” This softens him further, a meek smile revealing itself from sand and beard.
“What could you possibly find out here for the sake of Chivalry? Inspiration? A sad sonnet, perhaps?”
Another man, turned from the flame and dead unto us all until now, rouses himself in song at that suggestion.
“Ges pel maltrach qu’ieu sofèri De ben amar no’m destòli, Sitot me ten en desèrt, Qu’aissí’n fatz los mots en rima…”
The song felt poignant, even with comedic intent. The stirring in my soul would not still as its melody fled into the hollow darkness.
“I’m looking for a star.” I finally spoke, what felt a mere thousand years later. Moments felt eternal in places like this. The crackling flame twisting in the wind was a transient eternity; constant change, but never progress. The bearded leader raises an eyebrow, his hands finally resting in his lap in the first real change of scenery.
“What can a star bring that a fire can’t? It gives light, it gives warmth. More light than any lone star, more warmth than that distant glow. A fire can be made. Fire can be fed, maintained. Fire is here before you, upon the Earth, my friend. Stars sit upon the firmament, far far away from the concerns of men…”
A strong wind blows, dragging a torrent of sand to smother the flame between us. The rabble of the men drowned out by the wind over takes the rest of their learned leader’s words. In the dark, a lone star shows itself on the horizon. I resolve to take my leave. No words are exchanged.
“Bel companho, si dormetz o velhatz,
no dormatz plus, suau vos ressidatz;
qu’en orien vei l’estela creguda
c’amena.l jorn, qu’eu l’ai ben conoguda,
et ades sera l’alba”
S.M. FITZGERALD
A musician, magician, poet, philosopher, writer, painter and researcher, in that order. He spent the majority of his formative years in small town Middle Georgia making experimental art and taking copious amounts of drugs in an attempt to reach artistic genius. At the age of 20, he read Aleister Crowley for the first time, and his intuitions were finally given a firm grounding in a metaphysical system. From then on, magick permeated his work, with his first album of experimental hip-hop produced with his group Nthman, titled Work Week, becoming hypersigil with horrendous power, leaving him struggling for several years and neglecting artistic ventures for monetary gain.
After years of dubious dabbling in creating art and music that would inspire and bring about change in his world and others, results were varied. A collection of poetry, several essays on phenomenology and magical practice, a slap dash of paintings and many musical ventures all saw limited release through the late 2010s, as well as foray into Gonzo journalism in occult subcultures.
He currently works with the Oklahoma based Shiny Rare Media, writing and producing music and podcasts, creates paintings no one else will see, and continues covering current events and pop culture from a magical perspective. He lives with his wife Elizabeth and his cat Menace in Detroit, MI.
