Tag Archives: magick

Best of Primevalism

A blog that expired before it’s time– I’ve been given the go ahead to post it’s contents on my blog so here goes.
These writings are here for archival purposes and do not reflect current policy of Onyx Angels. These writings are by (unknown number) of persons affiliated with (an ONA nexion?).

Primevalism starts immediately below.
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Time to take this to the next level. I’m tired of this fucking imagistic stasis which binds expression– mine and others– into a kind of pseudo-sinister fucking balancing act. I’m tired of everyone treating Anton Long’s perturbations as if they were their own Arcana. Fuck that. We’re more than that. And I’m going to show you just the fuck how.

Primevalism.

Behold, a causal fucking form appears. A new shade of suicide.

Basics: throw yourself forth into the world of mundanes. Spark a fucking fire in their souls. Fuck them till they scream, fuck them till they bleed, fuck them till they’re mindless fucking conduits for the heavens and hells you rape their little souls with. Seduce them to a primevalism before abstractionism, break down their cozy little crystallisation of life-force into a torrent, break them down from into a gushing, screaming, pleading whirlpool of ecstasy and terror and love and fear. And presence.

Tragedies, gifts from heaven, sudden destruction, wonder, numen (awe and terror). Make them puppets to a life-force writing plays which are their own dissolving into it, sacrifice them on alters to a heaven that they could know no other way, let them feel the brilliance of the rage and ecstasy which animates our kind. A nightmare destruction of all that they are by a vengeful resurgence of what they forgot… the moment they stopped being wolves, and became domesticated fucking dogs.

Actually, do whatever the fuck you want. That’s just what we’re going to do. And this is where we’re going to write about it.

Enjoy.

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We’re not going to talk about alchemy so much here, unless we find it seductive to do so. If you want to read about it, go look at Phase 1 or beyond. Whatever: alchemy is seduction.

http://rabbitsandrazors.wordpress.com/rabbits-and-razors-x/

If you can’t work that out, try seducing it into your consciousness. Fuck– it’s good, isn’t it?

External, internal, Aeonic– yeah, it fits.

So, my dears, external seduction: Nemesis and I (Sheliak) will be questing out into the world, seducing it to pleasure us, and then seducing you by writing about it here. I come just by looking at something beautiful (and pity you if you don’t… it’s an ecstatic blessing), but I’ll mostly focus on human beings. Nemesis can do whatever she likes. The primeval isn’t a fucking formula, after all: it is the death of formulae, the intrusion of what hadn’t been accounted for, long-standing stasis shattering and falling to the ground in a chorus of screams and wails and exaltation.

Sons of Typhon, Daughters of Echidna… revolt!

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I laugh so hard at these mundane, domesticated sub-humans who get all excited about being ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in bed. Don’t they fucking know that there is only being bad in bed, for anybody who that whole freneticism even makes sense to. If you’re good, it might happen to be in a fucking bed, but you’re certainly not ‘good in bed’—you are sex, and your life is the erotic.

Do you know what beds are? They’re cages. Break the fuck out, and take the world by storm.

Fuckin’ beds.

What the fuck is wrong with you dogs? You forgot how to be fucking wolves—that’s what.

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Razor-blossom star-fire, Cross the black sky
with white-cut tongues of sword-blood, trail the die
of life, rolled left, across a path of stars.
Tears fall from this crimson: eye of fate scarred.

Venom raining violet from the soft abyss:
Life. A gift, a chance, though hard? You are grist,
cursed grist to the mill of a soft God,
whose grace has all through you by your rough will…

And what if I were she? Would you kill me?
For hate of my infinite ecstasy?
You suffer for your sins you fool: you miss
the sole target of true virtue: this bliss.

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Primevalism is operant here; we’re currently working on ways to distil and communicate the essence of something which flows and manifests beyond words and their implicit linearity. We’ll probably, for the most part, write about specific missions, games, and acts of magic.

That said: fear.

The great revealer. The destroyer of artifice and affectation. Truly, an arena for magick.

If you can take fear, if you have been initiated by fear, if you have been dragged to the edge of sanity again and again by this primeval upsurge… you know. If you have machinated over and over, tried to implement your will and reason and causal orderings time after time, and seen every attempt smashed upon the rocks of unforgiving primality… you know. If you have had your most beautiful and loving comforts turned into hells whose beauties were only ever snares, dragging you into a fractally infinite world of pain beyond pain, that dominated time and intruded into your life from dimensions beyond its own… you know.

You know how this purifies you. You know how it makes you. You know its power.

You survived.

And, looking into the eyes of these so-called ‘magicians’ who proliferate, you’ll sense that they would probably be brought to their knees by it. That they would abandon their comforting illusions of occult power when faced by it. And that… they might not survive.

Learn how to evoke it at will, and to drag them into it; into it, where you know how to survive, and where your eyes will remain open and alert whilst theirs are rigid and frozen; then you will have dominion.

Observe any unrefined ‘satanic’ group; they turn into wailing, screaming children at the first sign of it. When their status is threatened, for instance. I’ve laughed my way through such situations, where so-called ‘satanists’ reveal themselves for what they are– ‘FUCK YOU. I’VE HAD ENOUGH. AND YOU TOO LYRA– FUCK YOU AS WELL. I’VE HAD EVERYTHING TAKEN FROM ME…’

But it goes far, far beyond that. It is alchemical, magical, dominant; it destroys what is built upon soft foundations, and elicits and potentially develops the virtue of what is not; terror is, verily, the greatest and truest of magical keys.

How much are your friends worth? Do you and your partner really love one another? What strength and truth really lie behind the protective veil of your normalities and emotional balances? This terror beyond terror will show you.

It will show you, rend what is weak or false from you, and bring forth the depth and strength in your life, if there is enough of it… If there isn’t, it will probably just scar you or destroy you.

Is this your game? Can you take this? If not, then Primevalism is a poison to you.

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speak. [Shrill white brilliance, tearing through flesh].

I am vengeance. [Hear the call, knife edge of forgotten dreams].

ARCANUM MAJISTERIUM.

Time, your prison time, collapses under my gaze. Transcend extension and be infinity realised, now– or die here.

[You move by plans and maps: dull lines stretching through infinity of fabric, half-sensed and with fleeting respite from suffering ever-extending you, crucified half-life drawn upon and from the ecstasy of the cosmos. I am the ecstasy, I am your beginning and end, I am your genesis and cessation, I am your heaven and your punisher.]

He lives through me. I crush time with laughter, these wretched sleepwalkers are shells and fragments of the totalities I cast aside thoughtlessly, infinite ecstasies trampled like blades in a field…

The world is in me, the world is through me, the world is my body, mastered.

My body is the body of paradise, hunting.

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One of the primary barriers between the average city dweller and Primevalism is… sitting down. Their peaks and depressions are expressed via the excitement with which they respond to their computer screens, the frenticism of their mentation, and the intensity of their sedentary self-indulgence. Their movement does not gracefully, dancingly express the energies they partake in– when energetic, it is an interlude between rests, or an exercise of what their spontaneous expression would not normally exercise. They are devoid of that primal pulse of life which expresses itself through the joy of a child, the ecstasy and terror of the hunt, the weeping of the desolate…

To dance through the city of London of is to be outside of the rigid mutual control systems– the tacit consent to a constricted and abstractly derived pace of movement, and thus of life– which operate within it. To be scared to run, scared to spontaneously weep, hesitant to laugh at the cosmic joke which you might, perchance, realise this charade of stability to be: that is to be mundane. That is to be owned in body, owned in movement, and thus owned in your primal, spontaneous expression of the Life you presence.

To think, and live, on your feet; to move through the environment you find yourself in without being internally constrained by the abstract environment which the city’s laws of movement superimpose upon it; to mock the very existence of the coward by your dancing, striking, loving body. That is to presence an intimation of the primeval…

Individually, this is madness or innocent courage. Tribally, it is a living expression of a heretical connexion, embodied and striking at the enemy’s heart. It is the magick of hidden Life encoded into symbiotic forms of movement: a nexion, burning.

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