Hold on to the old, and you will perish. A time of reckoning is upon us. Just as the library is now obsolete, so is the church. Of course, we will continue to read, just as we will continue to believe, to worship, to pray; but through the books in our hands, in churches not made with hands. History lies. Why sanctify those lies in libraries? The church lies. Why consecrate those lies in churches built to separate women and men from direct, personal cultivation of relationships with the universal, the eternal, with nature and with the divine, however perceived?

All that you deny, because you lack the courage to accept it; all that offends, because it tempts; all that angers, because it controls; all that you refuse to see, to hear, to touch, to taste; all that you slander, abuse, loathe, abhor, and despise; all of this will defeat or destroy you in the end. No one should be held to blame, censured, for the lies others live. Between hypocrisy and truth, there is tolerance. All that you at first find objectionable, repellent, painful, vile, when observed with an open heart and mind, may be transformed into, lead or open onto, a source of wonder, beauty, joy, and fulfilment. Life does not give itself to one who tries to keep all of its advantages at once. Live it now, or lose it forever. It is better to be hated for whom you are, than to be loved for whom you are not.

I will not be held to blame, censured, shamed, for the lies lived by others. Between hypocrisy and truth, there is tolerance. Between mystery and identity, there is compassion. Where truth and magic collide, there is love. The hypocrisy is the lie that others tell you about yourself, urging you to falter.  Fearless, of course, I have no remorse; I cannot fall from a favour, a grace, I never sought nor claimed. My self-determination; thus my self-respect, incapable of indignity. Dishonour, only in cowardice; depravation, mere gratification. Assurance that I have stood alone, stood last, against intolerance, parochialism, persecution – my solitary exaltation. If this be I. If words from earthly durance loosed to earthly right of meaning cannot belie their wisdoming, the doubt-schooled care that bent back sense from skyish startle, faith’s delirium. Shame not the aberrant, the divergent, the eccentric. Fame her, fame him.

Of course, what one is told may be and often is false. What one hears and sees may also be false. Though the perpetrator of the deception is someone else – some group, some community, some government, some religious group – the actual deceiver is the eye, the ear, the mind, of the beholder. There is no right or wrong. There is no good or bad. There are freedom and responsibility, obsession and mediocrity, defiance and obeisance. Freedom, obsession, defiance are manifested in immorality, ungodliness, sinfulness; responsibility, mediocrity, obeisance, in restraint, inhibition, moderation. Lust motivates the sinful; fear, the obsequious.  

I do not believe in what I see, hear, or read. I believe only in what I feel, what I sense. Deception, illusion, delusion, all distort or alter reality. The mind is a liar. I believe only in what I perceive through my senses. Belief alone in these sensations renders them real. And how is belief confirmed? Through consummation.

All craving is real; its fulfilment, the natural order of the universe. When choosing between two evils, choose always the one yet to try. Temptation should be the only thing one cannot refuse. A vast surrender to that seduction, one’s only strength.

Porn, though its viewing, though never discouraged, should be but the vicarious punctuation to real sexual encounters, the more perverse, the more extreme, the more blasphemous, the better. Porn may be the excitant; consummation should be in either the climax, ejaculation, or elimination of the participants, on in their feeding, seeding, and breeding.

Within its highest realm, at its most sublime periphery, lapping the menstrual blood between the legs of Lilith, in Satan’s phallic penetration and embrace, poised upon the very abyss of Hades, there, being as you appear, appearing as you are, one with all that is profane, and obscene, and filthy, emanating from your core of darkness, enhanced in its yielding to the Prince of Darkness, you both reach and descend into the very fount of transcendental sexual bliss. 

A pornographic portrait or portrayal is not a likeness; it is an interpretation. The moment an emotion or fact is transformed into pornography, it is no longer a fact, but an opinion. There is no such thing as inaccuracy in pornography. All pornography is accurate. None of it, however, is the truth. Objective truth and reality are, then, essentially, less certain than any subjective deciphering. Hence the essential necessity of rendering one’s sexual fantasies – however degenerate – realities.

All the images and representations of God, in all of Her, His, or Its manifestations, are merely the fanciful notions either of the manipulators, motivated by the propensity for domination, or the sycophantic, either fettered by fear or upon the predisposition to enslavement. God, then, to both, is an accomplice, a co-conspirator, a collaborator; never an antagonist before whom or which one might cower. Only Lilith, though, the Divine Succubus, and Satan, the Divine Incubus, make no pretence of hypocritical motivation, claiming to be other than She or He is. In Her or His embodiments and exhibitions there remain only craving and its satisfaction, lust and its satiation, debauchery and its intoxication.  

Magic is control of the authorship of one’s own destiny. As a magician, you hold the pen in your own hand with which the story of your life is written. Claim mastery over your own fate. Become the truth that is magic. You are the magician. Cast yourself – fearlessly. You are the spell. Either seduce, or be seduced. 

That is the moral of the story – of every story. Believe what you will, then make it real.

When angels fall, they call them devils. When mortals fly, they call them saints. Some angels have horns; some devils have wings. 

Every saint has a secret past; every sinner, an awaited future. The past creates, nurtures, and sustains fear. There is no fear that is not founded in the past. There can be no fear without submission to the past. There will be no fear once free of the past.

Between recollection and reverie, there is life unencumbered by fear. Fuck fear. Forbid it. All fear is fallacy. All fear is delusion. All fear is fatal. Disentangle yourselves from the ravelled, choking maze of caution.

Your fearless surrender to whatever befalls you, to whatever calls you, is your only guarantee of the fullness of the present. You want to perform a miracle? You can – a mere mortal. Simply forgive yourself, your past; forgive others, their pasts. Merely concede to yourself your destiny’s path; concede to others, theirs.

There is no sin without guilt; no guilt without shame; no shame without fear; no fear without servility. No truth for the poet but that soaked in blood.

Just because you are offended, does not mean that you are right. In offending, I am not inferentially wrong.