Augoiedes

Invocation to end paranoia

Sweet mother Awilix, you blend with the night because you are the night.  You live in all darkness, watchful and waiting, the sky: too small to hold you.  Bear your teeth to light the path, your dripping bloody tongue.  Push your fingers through my chest, stop my breath.  Peel back the skin, for the face of your drum.  Roll out my intestines and wear them about your neck.  Grind my bones between your teeth to make your children dance.  My blood, your wine.  My lungs, your trumpet.  Mother of demons who live in all dark places, all haunted places, things impossible to understand.  Mother of 22,000 breaths.  The animator of tissue, the origin of the current.

A painful birth that almost killed you, this aether.  The strange place of the half formed somehow between and inside of everything. Mother of the beetle they call Kephra a pyramid and a world away.  Where he jumps your aether collects, the half formed transform into the darkest of things, resting finally manifest within the five directions. Where he jumps we break through great resistance, finding a better way. 

Bring madness and break me.  Change itself, your image brings pain.  You drip from above to the center of the earth, rotating behind your ribs. Calamity and fortune, twins in the same body, your horrible child.  Your dead husband planted his seeds, twins born from a crack in the serpent who outlives eternity. Turn the heads of your child(ren), show their face, the same face.  Their forms overlap, bend, change, but remain the same eternally.  The lookout changes, the red eyes of the jungle smolder.    

Your worship beats back aversion.  Fear of the dark is your yantra, the smell of disease in the feces of an animal your mantra.  Breathe deep, stop moving  and close the eyes, wait for time to pass.  Never fear the dark and she will always sit next to you.  No body remains, no mind, no self.

A splinter in the mind, the other entered.  Does it watch?  Do they watch?  No one watches.  No one cares.  The center of the universe, so crowded.  Take all for your master.  The wind whispers its secrets across the grass.  The insects speak in the night.  Find their message in the morning, written in the language of their footsteps describing a path to the center of the tree.   People speak in fragments that combine and instruct.  Invoke often.  40 days and 40 nights of silence, listen carefully.  Daily life becomes a dream.  Soon a lucid dream. 

Be still and the bricks tell you their story, show you their secrets.  To the world you stare at the wall, unreachable.  Channel yourself into something, changed by everything. Extract information: bits and pieces.  Silence, stillness, gnosis.  Stillness at length resembles pain, and pain teaches.  Use movement and the structure of the body to discriminate, lose the mind. An instrument and an appendix, gets in the way.  The enteric nervous system, gut instinct, sharpen this instrument instead.  The future requires preparation as it happens. 

Grab hold of the strands of what may come by honing the ability to observe what sits in front of you.  Your brain projects you outward and changes how you see.  Live in the prerecordings by observing trends that occur over time in your own mind and the environment.  In this way, the present also creates the past.

Don’t trust anyone who says they can see the future, even yourself.  An unpredictable life is one worth living.

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Sammasati

St. Patrick and Crom Cruach O Lord of Worms. Above your movement fields blight or fallow. The others who walk after you drink the wells dry or poison them with pestilence. Far above your children grow ill, suffering unknown deaths. You bring food and shelter, crows and disease. 

How difficult to comprehend, a gestalt so alien and inhuman. A god for worms. No arms, no legs, no eyes, a blind burrower beneath the earth. The tunnels. 

An intricately interlocking lattice that took millennia to craft, constantly changing as you move in blindness, directed by some geometry impossible to comprehend. Crumbling tunnels bend the bedrock into impossible shapes and tuck dirt into impossible spaces, coated in an ichor that drives men mad to smell at the surface, let alone to see it, touch it, be covered in it. A great rumbling from somewhere deep in the complex the only signal of a change to the lattice, this great 3 dimensional sigil. A great rumbling that only happens once every 300 years. What are you calling forth? 

St. Patrick who smote you? So that we would leave you be, to your work? The days I feel cold, like there’s no blood in my body, I can call you. Oh Lord of Circulation. What sacrifice for this boon? Your incense is a dead bird in the road, or the impression left in the eye after looking at the orange cap of a needle on the side of the road. How many earthquakes are yours? How many happen as you tunnel from here to in-between to the other world and back again? 

The place of dead houses, half a mile from here. Where the airport grows the houses are abandoned, no trespassing, slowly losing their life, the cicada having left. Soon decay and crumble and be reborn a parking lot. Nature sneaks in around the edges already soon to be manicured, beaten back by man’s hand. The land needs the change, humanity its agents, its workers. Its apoptosis.

Fear of transformation, the worst possible fear, due to the inevitability of metamorphosis. Extinction describes the strongest shapes and the deepest scars. The birth cry like bell peals that start fast and gradually slow and then stop over a lifetime. I used to work next door to crime scene cleanup. Once they threw some bloody carpet into our dumpster, making my boss furious. 

A phonecall later and 2 late teenage boys wander into the shop, angry, and insincerely apologetic. Baltimore gifted their employers with a high turnover rate. No child should see those things. Tourists wandering the inner harbor, in jean shorts, socks, black sandals and wind breakers while a bloated blue body is pulled from the depths by the science center. 

It is inevitable, it is life. It is horrible and it happens. Why block it out? Crossing your fingers or throwing salt over a shoulder, these are the wrong type of superstitions, ungainful not useful. One day you will die. 

Cemetery, Cemetery, 1, 2, 3 Looked at the ground its coming for me