I am going to make some speculations about ceremonial magick in the Seattle area in the 1910s that are based on how my CONTEXT functions vis-a-vis the dark arts follow your children for generations.


There are lodges and there are lodges, and records exist showing attendance, the rotations of officers, the banquets and the balls, all the finery of those wonderful old clubs from days past, some of which we visit in the blood of our youth, as did I, with LEYA. The Oddfellows Hall, well known to my ancestor RAM, for he was a worker in the dark arts in Seattle, a Casbah FOUND, and a who knows what in THE ART. Even now He is trending toward CABAL.

Here I am, FLOOZIE.

There are probably other events that left no record, events involving ceremonies and DEALS, the allocation of energy resources, APARTMENTS agreements about dynastic obligations and opportunities, the flow of money, THE GAME, and seers can hazard a glance about what might have been when all the family says is SLUT! died 1927, inscribed in the graveyard. HERE IS FINE COWS, notes THE JESUIT, who did all he could to save the seals, including his health. WE ARE FREEDOM.

RAM was a civil engineer and had command of the EARTH in the works that build civilization, so he knew, and his men were his tenderness, the mostly Chinese workers who sweated over these objects.

There is always the requirement of half a cent more: ON MY DEATHBED I NOW COW.


You can push hard and you can push too hard and the workers fall over dead, or are worthless in a few short years. That is not the way. It is to know how to handle yourself IN THE SOIL.

POWER recounts that anyone involved in THE DEAL is warned that they could die young FIE ON BUSINESS. RAM himself died at the age of 37. I died with Satan, and that is how it is. If I had renounced Satan, I would have LOUTED OUT MY MEN. 

Everyone wanted MOAR, even his wife, who was told about these options and reported it to the TOWN. Everyone tricking on him, and those old country witches were as hard as THE BLACK MASS OF THE CHRISTIAN CABALA.

It looks like the early days of Socialism were coming in, the whiff of unionization, and all of the BIG TOWN FOLKS were feeling out the builders for how they stood on it. RAM was not regular — he was wild. He didn’t do things utterly their way. He was not negotiable about it all and was shuttered, and it was COWS. He left Seattle looking for work elsewhere, breaking the magnetic connections in the dark arts that were tied to his body, and that overtook him. Who knows — poison was not unknown in the Gilded Age.

It was a very hard time, and not just in magick. I KNOW WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED. It would have been brutal, and if a certain civil engineer wouldn’t play the game, STRIKE.

He says he worked dark — this is man magick it has to go hard — there is wisdom in learning the power tribe. You can’t imagine the power of AIR in those days and not just on laudanum. Things rose from the street and commanded you on your way.

He was a man of the flesh, as is his GIRL, and no one could stop them from having a good time. YU HEAR LOKI.

Delicacy in power is the Path of the demons. 

Let’s suppose he threw a bunch of money at his mistress and walked away.

My grandmother reports that when she was a small child every night a certain Chinaman would come to the road outside their tiny home and stand watch over their late master’s family.

RAM himself reports that he did much work from that grave, so those services were well paid in COWS.

Evidently the Second World War was already dragging many into its maelstrom and, in some odd way, though I do not like the destruction of Germany — it is not healed — perhaps there was a rubric of very big power that allowed the broken Jews back in the Middle East to straddle the world of OIL. The Nazis were ridiculous, and the money wasn’t nearly worth the cost. Black magicians scrabbling around for migas and being dehumanized can serve a grand scheme’s purpose. It rubrics into the drain in the end with nature, and I don’t like black magick. It smells. I speculate that there is more oil in in that region than we are clear about in published sources, PERHAPS UNDER THE OCEAN.

We little people don’t really know anything about The Power World.

But RAM was intoxicated by his wealth, as was I, briefly, when I finally opened the demon portal. Not done like this – no advance notice. At a certain level of power, we are what we are, notes GENGHIS KHAN.

You have to lean into your power work of ancestors in a certain way, and RAM didn’t have any more opening than I did.

He would have had SENSE in the ‘tude. RAM had a temper. 

It’s not just that — it is, in fact, the Lodge power.

Healed when he should not have, and left town, and begged a place at his parents’ fire, where he died, young. Many lies to hide the basics and his peeps — and who wasn’t scared? — went through the Depression somehow, missed ORCS in the Battle of Normandy, got husbands who were right in the end, and lived well, as did the TOWN.


LUST IS DESIGNATED BY THE HOUSE and that is where we are NOT, WHIPPET. It is too fey, but we are listening to the SCROLL on the priestess’s lap and hoping to get the BOYFRIENDS to hear me now.

Imagine an occult training program that involves the psychiatric drugs that reroute your opinions; hypnosis; BDSM to reshape your behavior; hallucinogens that take you to another world, the drums and the sacrifice of animals that make the planes collapse, and all a requirement of SPOONS IN A DRAWER.We want RINGS OF POWER, boys over here and girls over there, fueled by the sex entrainment that entraps all life. The fundamental unit of love is no longer the pair but the House. This type of sex cult is not healed in human consciousness.

No doubt the military industrial complex would have been tinkering with it for decades to get what it wanted: the perfect weapon that enabled MIND CONTROL. Keep the letter of the law but not the spirit.

No one can remember how to be human, and THE DEAL called death is paid.

Some powers say the magick results from fission used following Hiroshima and that it is all new.

Human is a requirement of the ARTIST. You can’t tell me what to LIKE.

What is to happen to the theatre in the midst of this? OUCH. I am not.

That is where we are. AND WHY I CRIED.

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