Bye Bye Beautiful

It’s not the tree that forsakes the flower
But the flower that forsakes the tree
Someday I`ll learn to love these scars
Still fresh from the red-hot blade of your words

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Broken dolls, broken toys, even Satanism attracts them. Actually, the darker and deeper the pit, the more of them buried in it. Some people think that the mere switching of labels and ideologies will cure them of their emotional issues. When they realize that Jesus hates them, they start searching for love in Wicca or in some New Age bullshit. If they don’t find love in Wicca, they turn to Thelema. If they don’t find love in Thelema, they turn to Atheism or LaVeyan Satanism. If LaVeyan Satanism doesn’t fulfill their need for love, they turn to theistic Satanism or the ONA thing. If they find that the theistic Satanism or the ONA thing don’t love them, they fly to some other mystical or pseudo-mystical mambo jambo. The usual reason is: People are bad, they don’t like me here. Perhaps, they will like me if I “reinvent” myself. Sometimes, those broken dolls return to Christianity as new-born Christians, ready to preach the gospel of love to everyone, if only to drown out their own inner demons.

Meanwhile, the tumor of self-hatred grows and grows, feeding regularly on ever-present guilt and shame. External circumstances and other people merely activate what is already festering inside.

There are consequences for even minor kind of non-compliance. Conformity is often rewarded but defiance is punished. Always. Whether you go against social norms, someone’s expectations or your own habits or principles. There are no exceptions to this and there will never be, even if you think it should be otherwise. As one smart guy once wrote “Life sucks, and yes, people do suck. Fuck forbid you also suck... The devil is not an advocate of pleasure, at least, not without tribulation. One must earn their horns and hooves. Endure some of what Hell has to offer, and baby if you do it right, you’ll come back on fire, and smokin’ hot.” The social rejects sometimes join the Satanic or other avant-garde groups, temples or orders expecting to be rewarded for their naughtiness and freakishness, to get some cookies for their Satanic rebellion. Perhaps, the Devil was lying when he lured you to the dark side promising cookies.

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It’s really amusing when some ONA kiddies, when they feel unloved and unappreciated, get all neurotic and have an emotional meltdown. For the purpose of this blog, let’s assume their all too embarrassing meltdown is for real. Then they start complaining about Uncle Myatt being an asshole, so full of himself and surrounding himself with ass-kissers. Now, what if they are right? Suppose Uncle Myatt, despite all of his poems and mystical writings, is really an asshole, has always been an asshole and has never stopped being an asshole. Why should the guy who is said to have founded the Satanic order be like Virgin Mary? Especially if we take into account that many Holy Fathers of the Catholic Church were most perverted libertines, it is quite strange that some expect Satanism to attract guys with the heart of a dove. Satan was an asshole himself, a pathetic fuck, who refused to serve in heaven because he was… so full of himself. So he was cast into the fiery pit where he was served and adored by his minions, still being proud and arrogant.

I can’t really blame the chap if he likes others adoring him. I would go even further and claim that he founded the Order of Nine Angles for the sole purpose of having his sinisterly-numinous Ass worshiped. If someone does his job of ass-kissing well, no wonder he is rewarded. Now let’s push even further and assume that all the orders, Satanic or otherwise, exist only for the worship of their founders’ asses. Let’s now entertain even braver conspiracy theory that Anton LaVey was in fact a Christian and invented Satanism to con gullible people who thought of themselves as special snowflakes but, in fact, were searching for the peer approval. Would any reasonable person trust a bald guy, with the goat’s beard, who was moreover stinking like a foul goat?

Ass-kissing is a true Satanic ritual of initiation, kinda like the one the witches at Sabbath were practicing when they were kissing the Devil/Goat’s ass in a truly religious frenzy and sexual ecstasy. The Devil is no gentleman, he’s no aristocrat, don’t be fooled. He has no manners, he’s a foul stinking and evil creature having no consideration for anyone. Even old guys indulging in “mystical peregrinations” and Greek translations can be perverted sociopaths. To err is human.

Does that a lil bit exaggerated picture strike a nerve with you, dear reader? It’s because you deny darkness in yourself and in other people. You focus only on the light, ignoring the shadows. Thus you miss the Whole that is a human being. You idealize people because you need to have some perfect and pure idol, a sacred cow that you can put on a pedestal and worship. You are a natural follower who gets furious when your idol doesn’t live up to your sentimental expectations. You are disappointed and denigrate the mythos because you were deluding yourself that the real people were as beautiful and fucking romantic as their mythos. The mythos exists for its ow sake. It’s real as long as it continues to inspire. And real people… well, they probably suck. As you suck. As I suck. As we all suck. Enlightenment is nothing else than shattering your illusions.

 

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The Circle of the Fallen

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Rene Magritte

The whole idea of mutual admiration societies and inner circles within the established cults in the context of Satanism makes me raise my eyebrows. I can understand one can set up a cool kids’ club or join one to peddle one’s agenda but more often than not it’s just an excuse for seeking validation, often at the cost of one’s own interests. How the hell (pun intended) can one claim to embody the archetype of Satan and, at the same time, seek peer approval? Or try hard to please people in order to join their clique? How the hell can one claim to be sinister and, at the same time, follow the Master and Mistress and take what they say at face value? How the hell can one claim to express the genuine essence of Satanism while jumping on the hate bandwagon?

Milton’s Satan was kicked out of the most prestigious and elitist club, called Heaven. In spite of that, he remained proud and arrogant, and defiant. Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. So how can you act against your own interests or betray your own Self just to win someone’s approval, especially if that someone behaves in a rather tasteless manner? People can’t even lie properly. They will bad-mouth you and, if that doesn’t work, they will shower you with insincere praises and dishonest compliments. I like you but, please, talk shit about person X or person Y. You have to be totally deluded to accept unfounded praise, to fancy yourself a special snowflake, even more special than other special snowflakes. All people are the same in their belief they are unique and better than others.

How full of shit one must be to judge another person after one meeting or, worse, on the basis of their writings? And those delusional people claim to have the skill of “esoteric empathy”, whatever the fuck that means for them. You’re not full of wisdom, you’re full of shit, trying to figure out the nature of the person by the way they write. It’s easy to categorize people, make assumptions and cast unfounded judgements left and right. Who the fuck cares about the personality of the writer? Maybe he’s a total asshole, maybe she’s a stupid bitch. Who knows? And who cares? If you write well, then you write well. If your writings are lame, then they are lame. Your life is your business. If your judgement of other people is questionable, then you’re fooling no one that you know what empathy is.

If I appreciate someone’s writings or artwork, I have no problem with admitting it. I don’t think my crown will fall because of that even if someone writes better than me. The character of the writer/artist is irrelevant just like whether I personally like him/her or not, whether we are buddies or not. Who cares about your drama, about your personal bullshit, your jealousy and your inner “esoteric order”? It’s as exciting as the shit in a plastic bag, a herd of sheep patting each other on the back, a prime example of mindless conformity.

 

Hell Is Other People

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Sartre in his play “No Exit” describes his unique vision of hell. It’s an ordinary room in Second Empire style, the style that the characters/victims find quite repelling. There are no tortures there apart from one; other people constantly watching and judging you.

Garcin, Estella and Inez have no eyelids, they are forced to stare at each other for eternity, mercilessly judging each other’s crimes, weaknesses and sins, shattering each other’s self-deceptive illusions. The light never goes off and there are no mirrors so the condemned victims can’t see themselves but watch themselves through other people’s eyes. This penetrating gaze of others judges and defines their very Essence. They exist only as part of other people’s narrative.

The absence of mirrors is particularly troubling to Estelle, who without seeing herself in the mirror is not even sure she exists. She’s not conscious of herself:

When I can’t see myself I begin to wonder if I really and truly exist. I pat myself just to make sure, but it doesn’t help much.
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So Inez offers her own eyes as a mirror. Estelle looks into Inez’ eyes and doesn’t recognize herself. Inez’ eyes are like a warped mirror showing Estelle as grotesquely small so she can’t see herself properly but Inez assures her that she sees her clearly and will answer all of her questions:
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ESTELLE: Oh, I’m there! But so tiny I can’t see myself properly.

INEZ: But I can. Every inch of you. Now ask me questions. I’ll be as candid as any looking-glass.

But Inez acting as a mirror is far from objective and Estelle knows that, asking herself:

How can I rely upon your taste? Is it the same as my taste?… I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become!

Inez lies to her saying she has a pimple on her face, she mocks her and boasts she has a total power over her. Estelle is at her mercy as she’s not conscious of herself and has to rely on Inez to define herself. Allowing Inez Inez to define her being, she’s under her control. Without her she doesn’t even exist:

You know the way they catch larks—with a mirror? I’m your lark-mirror, my dear, and you can’t escape me. . . . There isn’t any pimple, not a trace of one. So what about it? Suppose the mirror started telling lies? Or suppose I covered my eyes—as he is doing—and refused to look at you, all that loveliness of yours would be wasted on the desert air.
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Other people are like warped mirrors showing a grotesque image of us. This image is far from true and objective, yet by overemphasizing the ugly things, it shatters the illusions we have about ourselves. Only Inez is honest with herself. She is able to admit her guilt to herself and others and take responsibility for it. She knows what she did wrong and why she is in hell. She has no illusions about her own life and she’s the only one who is always conscious of herself. Other sinners, Garcin and Estella, delude and deceive themselves and each other, saying they are innocent. They desperately try to turn their crimes into virtues. Garcin was accused of desertion and shot. He refused to fight because he was a pacifist. Should he be punished for being loyal to his values? When he tries to pose as a brave idealist he hears his friends on earth calling him a coward. Inez also sees his true dark motives and tells him that he is simply a coward:
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Exactly. That’s the question. Was that your real motive? No doubt you argued it out with yourself, you weighed the pros and cons, you found good reasons for what you did. But fear and hatred and all the dirty little instincts one keeps dark— they’re motives too. So carry on, Mr. Garcin, and try to be honest with yourself– for once.
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Estelle’s lover shot himself, because she refused to leave her husband. Is it a sin to be faithful to your husband? She tries to cheat herself that her motives were noble. But Garcin and Inez strip her bare and reveal her cruelty and egotism. She treated men as her playthings and murdered her own child.
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If other people are your mirrors and judges, if you only exist as an object they gaze upon, then you must find at least one person who has a positive opinion about you. It’s the only way to salvation for the person who is not conscious of his/her own being:
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GARCIN: A thousand of them are proclaiming I’m a coward; but what do numbers matter? If there’s someone, just one person, to say quite positively I did not run away, that I’m not the sort who runs away, that I’m brave and decent and the rest of it– well, that one person’s faith would save me.
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Garcin is unable to judge himself and take responsibility for his own actions. He doesn’t know whether he’s a coward or a noble man. Someone has to figure that out for him. It can’t be Estelle, who is in love with him so she’s biased and will tell him what she wants to hear. Instead, he turns to Inez, who hates and despises him and is more honest and blunt, hoping to hear the truth from the enemy:
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And you know what wickedness is, and shame, and fear. There were days when you peered into yourself, into the secret places of your heart, and what you saw there made you faint with horror. And then, next day, you didn’t I know what to make of it, you couldn’t interpret the horror you had glimpsed the day before. Yes, you know what evil costs. And when you say I’m a coward, you know from experience what that means.
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Garcin opens his heart, explains his motives and beliefs and justifies himself but Inez’ judgement is cruel. She rejects all of his excuses and explanations, in her eyes he can only see condemnation. The door opens and he has a chance to escape and leave hell forever, yet he chooses to stay and try to convince the Other of his innocence. He can’t bear a thought that she will condemn him in her mind for good without ever pardoning him. Yet he has to live with her irrevocable sentence passed on him, being at her mercy. He is what she thinks he is:
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You’re a coward, Garcin, because I wish it. I wish it—do you hear?—I wish it. And yet, just look at me, see how weak I am, a mere breath on the air, a gaze observing you, a formless thought that thinks you.
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In the end they understand that they are their own torturers, they are brought together to torment each other. There is no exit out of hell:
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GARCIN: This bronze. Yes, now’s the moment; I’m looking at this thing on the mantelpiece, and I understand that I’m in hell. I tell you, everything’s been thought out beforehand. They knew I’d stand at the fireplace stroking this thing of bronze, with all those eyes intent on me. Devouring me. What? Only two of you? I thought there were more; many more. So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. HELL IS–OTHER PEOPLE.

 

.:. Shit .:.

 

You know who you are. A puppet on the strings. How can you cut them off if you don’t see them? Day by day, you’re given shit to eat till your brain becomes full of shit; other people’s shit that you absorb uncritically and then parrot it, the shit of your mentors, gurus and priests that you worship, the politicians you vote for, the experts you revere, the writers and poets you’re a fan of. You bask in other people’s glory because you have no thoughts or ideas of your own.

You think you’re a special snowflake, that you’re better than others but you’re one of the many guinea pigs here. The rhetoric about the elite is to lull you to sleep, you gullible idiot. Meanwhile, the people behind the glass observe how much shit you consume and what it does to your mind. Other people mold you in their own image because you’re too stupid to stay yourself or reinvent yourself. And you have a nerve to call that enlightenment.

There will be no enlightenment. Shit – that’s all you will get. It has always been like that and will remain like that forever. What sits there in your mind, whatever you think, say and do is other people’s work, not yours. A brush and a canvas are not a painter but that doesn’t mean they are not useful. Perhaps, one day you will wake up and notice the prison of mirages all around you. When they are gone, there will be Nothing left.

Mirror Mirror

“You said you were a fairy princess
You said you were a shooting star
You said we’d go to Bora Bora
Now look at where the fuck we are”

Please, come in Mr Smith, said the doorman taking my coat and hat, Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment. I looked around the shabby room bewildered. The golden chandeliers and Persian carpets, this is how it looked like in the advertisement. Dreamland. Let your dreams fly on wings. They must be fucking kidding me…

Thank you, I’d rather stand. I began pacing round the room. When she calls me in, I’ll be ready. Excuse me, when is Miss LaVie going to call me in? I asked the doorman after an hour passed. I have no idea, sir. Could you ask her? Of course, sir. He came back in a minute. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment, Mr Smith. Meanwhile, please make yourself comfortable. I was sitting in an armchair while the clock on the wall was counting hours. Its sound was getting louder and louder. Finally, I rushed into her room infuriated…

Oh Mr Smith. Welcome Mr smith! Here you are at last. I was waiting for you, thought you changed your mind, she said smiling. I… I… I…I’ve been here all the time, I stuttered confused. Never mind, I have a brilliant offer for you. Let me see… and she began searching through the papers on her desk. Fuck! Where did I put it? She looked in her drawer. No, not here, perhaps on the shelves… Finally, she came back to her desk. Mr Smith, I don’t know how to say it. So damn awkward. There’s been terrible misunderstanding. I’m so sorry, but but but…. I don’t have anything for you. Perhaps, if you dropped in next month…

You fucking stupid bitch.

I’m sitting alone in my quiet empty bedroom. My grey face is looking at me from the mirror. Once again the king is naked. I wanted you to tell me how great I am. I hoped you would comfort me and say I’m someone special, better than anyone else. You shut the door on me, you cruel life. You called me an average Joe, gave me an ordinary job, ordinary friends and common pastimes. You made me look like anyone else. I worked so hard; studies and three part-time jobs only to see my dreams shattered. Mirror mirror on the wall, how can I even look at you now?

The easiest way to escape from oneself is to become someone else…

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo for our star! People are clapping their hands, cheering and throwing confetti. My Mistress is whispering praises to my ear. I’m everybody. I’m everything. I’m special. No gain without pain. I had to pay. The price was well… reasonable.

The Savior

Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy – the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much in hope and expectation. – Eric Hoffer

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There comes the time in your life when you realize it is impossible to put together the shattered glass or that the diamond you cherished for so long is only a piece of trash. You can hold the sham in your hand and still delude yourself it is a gem or accept the bitter truth and throw it away.

Disillusionment has many faces. Each will haunt your memory for days, months or even years and hurt like a knife stabbing your chest. Whenever your dreams are shattered, the part of you dies. The reality you must face is too often gloomy, unfriendly or even scary. This and the painful realization that you have been deluding yourself for so long.

When the guy you were in love with turns out to be someone else than a prince in the golden castle, when your dream job turns out to be a nightmare, when your friends reject you, when you lose your religion and when you see you’re not as perfect as you thought you were, bafflement, bitter disappointment and remorse are likely to follow. How could I be so stupid? How could I be so blind? I was in love. I was totally enchanted. I trusted my friends. I thought I could do that. Perhaps, I disappointed my friends. I was not a good wife. I could be more attractive. I could do better…

Cold evaluation of yourself and others is definitely in order, though not before you bury your dreams and illusions and let the grief pass. They deserve the mourning like the dead children, because they were part of you. Then and only then can you move on.

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Every wall is a door. The end of something is the new beginning, an opportunity to look inside. The God that can save you will come from the darkest depths of your mind, your inner voice, your real self, real, not imaginary, not illusory and that voice will lead you along the path, your own path of life. The feeble voice so often unheard because of the loud and persistent gabble of experts, religious leaders, authority figures and all those who think they know the best how you should live your own life.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.