You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2014.

  • Me:*reading, minding own bidness*
  • God A:Hey. Psst. I need stuff.
  • Me:well that’s nice.
  • God A:. . . so you should help me with stuff.
  • Me:*ROLLS EYES* name please.
  • God A:*gives name*
  • Me:did you check with my boss [Lu] first? Pretty sure he says I’m not supposed to talk with strangers.
  • God A:yeah he said it was fine.
  • Me:*SIGH* Fine. What do you–
  • God B:Hey! Me too while you’re at it!
  • Me:now just a–
  • God C:Oh and me!
  • Me:No I can’t–
  • God D:Hey I could use a hand over here!
  • God A:fuck off I’m a god!
  • Spirit B:no fuck you I’ve been waiting in line forever.
  • God D:No, she probably hates you. And you smell.
  • Spirit B:WOOOOOOOOOOOooOOOOOoo *spooky noises*
  • Loki:HEH HEH HEH. Sucks to be you.
  • Me:Loki. I will club you.
  • Loki:I’ll set you on fire.
  • God B:No one likes you Loki. We’re not ur friend. We R srs gods
  • Loki:So? fuck off I’m not your friend either. Also your sister was great last night.
  • God B:RAWR
  • Me:. . . T>T
  • Lucifer:. . .
  • Lucifer:. . . . . . .
  • Lucifer:. . . . . . . . . . . I can’t leave you alone for five minutes can I.
  • Me:. . . SIGH.




I ACTUALLY FINISHED ONE. All my poems that have been on this blog are in there, as well as a WHOLE BUNCH that aren’t!

So I need to sell a few now so that I can like. You know. Buy more copies and autograph them and junk. If you can’t pick up a copy, spread the word, I’d love you guys forever! Spread this shiz like a wildfire!!!

((If you want a signed copy, please just let me know! You can either mail me the one you’ve bought or you can wait until I can generate some monehs to buy a few for that express purpose; the book will be ready for listing on Amazon by Christmas)).

People have been telling me to publish my poetry for years and I’ve finally done it! I’m super excite!

I have this tendency to make a lot of people really mad with my ideas.

And I think to myself. ‘Why the hell do I do this’?

And then I remember I’m a Luciferian.

It’s kind of like being a Lokean. Only instead of lighting a firecracker and throwing it in a room, you just slowly hold a lighter up to the good rug and wait and see if anyone notices before the room is in flames.

There is enough of eternity for everyone to dwell in their own private heaven. Live with the consideration that your definition of does not and shall never have the right to deny another theirs, and all else is circumstantial and trivial. ~Lucifer

Behind Blue Eyes – Limp Bizkit

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it’s like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

No one knows what it’s like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

When next he looked in on the brittle bit of skin and bones, she was not at all where he’d predicted she’d be.

Court intrigue was wearying. He sat on the frozen throne. . . watching the flecks of white drift down in his vision idly, listening to forked tongues and teeth that dripped venom beseech him for favor, for bargains, for allegiances. . . desultory planning that was beyond lacking in finesse and hardly could have been spoken to have even roused his interest.

It was all so tedious.

It might have been a thousand years, for all the track he’d kept. He’d found himself thinking back to the little pink skinned, black eyed creature more than once, the din of voices in that black hall for the first time since he could remember, fading into the background; ironically, like so much white noise from a television set.

I’ll call you ‘Saint’.

His thin fingers had brushed his pale lips in idle contemplation. He’d faced his own temptation, several times, to go rise and find that tiny, frail female. Like Eve in the Garden, she drew his attention in a way that he could not adequately convey in words.

So on that day, when he rose from his seat and looked over them, he only turned to one Chief of his army and declared he would take leave from the Lower Worlds for a time, and go to Earth to seek news of one particular mortal in whom he held interest. There was no objection, of course; any such idea, even, was dangerous. And so without protest, The Mourning Star departed, following the faint note of the little mortal’s life-song all the way to break the surface of form and substance . . . and on Earth, he came to rest his feet.

You . . .bizarre thing. . .

It was autumn; and that was just as well. The heat and light of springs and summers on earth were nigh intolerable for he who found only a modicum of solace in silence and darkness and yes, endings. He found the rays of the sun warm and harsh; the long days too noisy and too bustling for his preference.

Thankfully, the scenery there was much different. He found himself in a thick curtain of mist, the smell of damp decay layered over with something burning almost pleasant. His eyes adjusted quickly to the sight of towering deciduous trees interspersed with those still dropping their leaves in vivid hues of carmine and ochre. The Mourning Star pause for a moment to appreciate the intricate painting that was His Father’s doing, finding it remarkably unsullied, as was rare for a place on Earth in present days. All around him echoed the voices of time, and something else. Magic; not just the sort of idle knotwork chanting of folk-singers and their ilk. No, this was something rich and ancient, lingering in the air like the smell of old cedar.

It didn’t take him long to spot her. There were voices; and not far off he could spot a winding trail comprised of broken cobblestone. The girl had wandered off the road and was now crouched a short ways off that path with her recognizable lavender book tucked under her arm and a fountain pen in her hand. As he watched, she seemed to pick up several leaves and inspect them with a critical eye-and it gave him just enough pause to find himself asking just what *is* she doing? before his question answered itself, and she seemed satisfied with one particular specimen before retrieving her book and placing it between the pages, pressing it beneath her palms for good measure. Interesting. If nothing else her nostalgic nature made her far less superficial than others of her kind. Humans, he was of the opinion of, had all the depth and clarity of a dingy mud puddle and about as much common sense to boot.

Not that she was endearing herself to dispelling that latter opinion. There was a subtle snap! off in the mist of the thick, dense trees, and it caught her attention immediately. Straitening, he saw her squint off in the direction of the noise. . . and for a moment he was curious if she was about to perhaps be beset by some rather large, irate bear. Did they have those in this part of the world? He need only turn his head for a moment to see the very peek of a stone bell tower off in the distance, and suddenly the forest he found himself a guest to jogged his memory. Oh yes: The Black Forest indeed. There was many a good reason why it was party to myths of dragons and the dead wandering it’s foreboding trails and precarious drop-offs. Bears being only one of them.

If she was frightened, however, she didn’t show it. Rather she remained in a fixed spot, her eyes moving slowly over the fog, as if she could will it to part just for her. But when no more noises came and there was no enraged bear to swipe for her, nor angry ghosts to come shrieking out from the trees, much to his surprise, she nearly seemed to sag with disappointment. Shaking her head, she turned, and several footsteps that crushed already sodden leaves under too-small faux leather boots saw her making her way back in the direction of the trail she’d wandered from; and the party of other people with it.

He didn’t understand it. Of course, it would have been easy to intrude on her thoughts; after all he’d listened to them before. But he found it much more engaging to simply guess at whatever tumultuous emotions plagued the tiny primate. Rather like taking a bet on who would win the world series, he mused to himself. She would not be the first human he’d met who carried in them a spark of hope for something fantastical and mythical, only to have the world’s conventional concerns crush it from them with day to day tedium. Some of those artisans couldn’t handle the weight of the disappointment. More than one had come to his realms and faced an eternal freeze just to escape their own well of torment. Forever burning in a cold frost just to rid themselves of the spiritual anguish they endured. Sometimes he envied them that choice; he had no way out of his own. Other sorts of humans who somehow managed to retain that spark would occasionally find themselves in an amicable situation-be it employment, patronage, or some other stroke of luck, and from there, their life expectancy increased considerably. Looking at the little thing’s malnourished frame, he rather suspected she would be a case of the former.

What a waste, he roiled bitterly.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Her voice jarred him from his momentary lapse into speculation. Blinking, and perking up one ink-black eyebrow, he responded, “Beg pardon?”

“The woods. I love it here. It’s so quiet.”

He took another glance around to be sure that she wasn’t speaking to someone else. No. . . she was still several meters behind her group, and in no clear hurry to meet up with them again.

“Is it your intention to get yourself lost out here  . .? If so, straying away from your companions is an excellent way to do it.”

“Yeah, that’s what the tour guide said.”

“And you clearly did not heed their word.”

“I don’t really care. I couldn’t stand listening to those people talk anymore.”

That got the better of his curiosity. “Oh? How so?”

“Some princess in Britain died, or something. That’s all they want to yack about. We came a gazillion miles to live here, and we’re in one of the most beautiful woods on the planet and all they want to do is talk politics. I hate it.”

“Understanding current events in your world is important. Especially for making informed decisions when you choose to elect your leaders.”

“What’s there to get about a princess who died? I didn’t know her. I could care less. Look at these trees. Have you ever seen a red so pretty? They don’t have anything like this back home in California. Almost everything there turns brown in the fall. I like how foggy it is, too.”

“Do they not have mist where you’re from?” he returned dryly.

“Oh yeah you bet they do. Sometimes in the morning so thick you can’t even see your hand. But it’s different here because it’s in the woods. I keep expecting zombies or something.”

“Clearly, you are disappointed.”

Her expression looked a bit taken back by that. “What?”

“You always seem disappointed when some horror or another doesn’t seem to jump out to devour you. I think perhaps you are too engaged in your fictitious horror novels if you are always so let down that there is no terror to chase you.”

To his surprise, her footsteps halted a moment, and she frowned. “Shut up.” she bit, a fraction of a second later.

That was not at all the reaction he’d been expecting. He tilted his head again, too interested to bother to be insulted by her daring. ” . . .What did you just say?”

“You heard me. I told you to shut up. You sound like my dad. . . that’s all he ever says. ‘You read too many stories’. ‘Life isn’t a fairy tale book’. ‘Get your head out of the clouds’.’It’s not real’. Yeah well you know what? He’s an asshole, and I hate him for it.”

“And you presume this matters to me?”

“Look, are you going to be a total jerk or are you just going to enjoy this walk with me? Because if you’re going to be like him, you can just go the hell away and I’ll find another imaginary friend to talk to.”

The Morning Star coughed a laugh at that; not one that was jovial, but rather a touch spiteful, and factious. “I’m sure you would. Wouldn’t that be the day?”

Except for after a ticking moment, he found himself frowning. At what, exactly, he couldn’t be sure; perhaps it was the simple notion of being replaced. He’d already trod that road, after all . . . or perhaps it was that old, stinging bit of jealousy buzzing back in his ear again . . . his own personal demon come to call. Like a mortal, he sighed at himself, and with no shortage of withering disdain. Father’s little apes constantly had those things digging their claws into their spirits and spitting bile and venom in their ears. Did Fallen Host receive the same . . . ? Were they just as cursed? Or perhaps worse, that they were so sure of themselves and the universe theirs couldn’t even be seen, not even by one another.

He would have to focus his attention on that idea later, and perhaps seek out his own answers in time.

For now, he kept pace beside her. And after a cool hike in which they both came away refreshed and pale from the mist, she would look over her shoulder at the tower of the crumbling castle and offer, “Seems like I’ve always been here; or at least dreamed about it before. But it’s really pretty. I wish I could stay.”

He followed her gaze, and hummed his agreement with her, before he could catch himself doing so.

“I wish I could see you. I wouldn’t mind being able to hold your hand, just standing here.”

He swayed his eyes down on her, but found her looking only pained, and distant.

Neither of them would say any words after; they were both as still as statues.

It’s 4:57 am, and I’ve been up for about an hour, because I couldn’t sleep. It was a dreamless night, and that in and of itself probably wouldn’t have been enough to call me out of whatever black abyss I was in. But a little after three, I rolled over, blinked my eyes open. . . and suddenly I couldn’t get back to sleep again. I have no idea what got into me then; except for I went into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea, and then came back into the bedroom and, just out of the blue, decided to turn on Supernatural and get caught up on some of that. I have several pertinent episodes I’ve been meaning to watch downloaded onto my iphone, so I just hit ‘play’ and let it go. The episode that came on was the final lead-up battle between Michael and Lucifer, relatively speaking. I didn’t know that when I started the episode itself; but I sat through it, and jumping Joshua on a pogo stick. . . .was it ever painful. I don’t discuss my cosmology much any more; mostly because it never comes up in conversation, but aside from that, every Theistic Luciferian that I’ve ever spoken with seems to have some intuitive understanding that, with regards to Lucifer . . . Michael is a very sensitive subject. I’ve never spoken about it with him, because I’m afraid to broach it. Not because of fear of his anger. . . but because I don’t want to hurt Him. But this may be a signal from him that he’s ready to discuss it with me. Or else I’m ready to discuss it with him. One of the two. I have very deep and conflicting feelings where the angel Michael is concerned. When I was younger and going through Massage Therapy class, as I’ve made mention, I was very close to all of the angels; I considered Raphael my patron, but Michael was easily one of my favorites, which isn’t too far of a stretch for someone with a Catholic background. However in my time in certain online communities, the stories an gnosis I started hearing from other people regarding Michael was very troublesome; his attitudes towards Lucifer, whom even back then I was always sympathetic towards, and his ‘ask no questions’ demeanor-at least according to those folks. I listened, but there was always a feeling of nagging disparity in me, because that didn’t sound like the Michael I knew. But who was the Michael I knew? I think to Paul Bettany in Legion  (and Dominion)-which is ironic given that other’s actions, and maybe that’s more Lucifer I’m feeling and not Michael anyway. That being said, what I saw this evening throws me right back into where I was, and that is, Lucifer and Michael have crossed blades, so to speak, no matter what version of The Story you ascribe to; either that Lucifer was simply cast out and Michael was the one that did so, or, as in my cosmology, if Samael was the one thrown out for his pride, and Lucifer’s exile was voluntary (and the Second War was a result of him rising back up to fight for the freedom of those who wanted to follow him).  Feeling this, I have to wonder, as I have on occasion, what words were exchanged between them. What went down when they fell to blows? I’m having a huge dilemma trying to sort my feelings about as Michael the Good Son, the Wise follower of Father’s word. . . .and the arrogant holy poster boy that keeps trying to break through this image I have of him. I’m wondering now if what I feel about one is a history, and if the Michael I know now and have interacted with in the past is the one that has weathered more than his share of loss and conflict and had grown that much more through it. And if that’s the case, but he and Lucifer are still not on speaking terms, it leaves me with one more question. Who isn’t speaking to who? In SPN Lucifer makes one last ditch, feverish attempt to call off the conflict with Michael. We don’t have to do this, he pleads. But Michael refuses with a pointed, ‘I’m not a rebel’ and a reminiscent speech of, Lucifer why couldn’t you just do what you were told. . . ? And I think this is the past playing out in front of my eyes in the present. Obviously nevermind the medium. What I mean to say is, I think Lucifer at some point pleaded with Michael. Please, don’t do this and it doesn’t have to be this way. And I think Michael refused. For glory, for duty. . . who knows why. But I think fighting Michael hurt Lucifer more than whatever answer or silence he found from God on that day he went to him and said ‘why’/’I can’t’. No wonder Lucifer doesn’t talk about it. In my way, I love Michael. I always will; because of his early involvement in my spirituality. But knowing the situation he and Lucifer were in, and his choice . . . I can understand that. But I don’t know that I could forgive him for betraying Lucifer if he did. And maybe, his family just the same.

“Yeah I read that book. Thanks for the memo.” her voice was sharp, and clipped. “Clearly. There must have been something lost in translation. I used to think it was about love, and honor. ‘On Earth as it is in Heaven’. But I see I was mistaken. I’ve not seen anything of either since you arrived here.”

“[*]Do you know what that means?” She stepped forward with comets nearly burning in her eyes. “You should. That’s old Akkadian. It means ‘beside me’. But it was also something that was spoken a long time before I was born; in a place you might have heard of, called Gethsemane.”

“It doesn’t just mean standing physically there for someone, Michael. It means standing with them even if it makes you bleed. It means you don’t sell out your loved ones for the first few pieces of silver that come your way.”

“Take the hint. You wanna know something? Your arrogance doesn’t scare me. Or impress me. That’s all you are. A Judas. Only it wasn’t silver you sold Lucifer out for, was it? It was a chance for you to have the limelight. That’s all you know of ‘family’.”

” … Well big shot? Was it worth it?”

My spirituality isn’t based on any lore; it’s inspired by some, but in a certain unique way that I don’t think it well understood.

The foundation for my spirituality, is in fact, dreams. I view my dreams, no matter how crazy or weird or outlandish they seem to a waking mind (they’re certainly not that way when you dream them!) as a crucial center point to my practice. I think this is where I start to run into the problem of miscommunicating the whole thing when I’m attempting to explain it.

There are two parts of my spirituality that are constantly at war with one another; the part that believes in an afterlife, and the part that doesn’t, that takes an almost atheistic approach to it. By that I mean, I sometimes (not always!) *don’t* believe in a conscious existence after death; and it’s that very idea, which sometimes even makes it to the level of fear, that influences everything I do.

This is why I make stories out of my dreams; why I write them down (and write period, actually) with the fervor that I do. Because if all that’s left of us when we’re gone is a story. . . then isn’t it up to us to make it a good one?

Which I have every intention of doing.

The Lucifer I know and love has always been a very huge part of my very colorful dream life; his voice always the  same, his presence always as beautiful as ever, in a way that words can’t do justice.

Because of that constant presence, I really don’t care how much “substance” my practice and my spirituality has to other people. Obviously, people don’t have the same dreams I do. Do I have ones that are totally weird like walking down to the grocery store with different colored sneakers to buy Roger Rabbit a smoothie (or something . . . ?)? Sure. Everyone does. Do I have them about fights with my mom and husband or forgetting to pack my husband’s lunch for him before he goes into work in the morning or whatever? Of course. And I won’t even get started on the nightmares.

But I also have very vivid interactions with Lu, in places that are familiar, in (relatively) sequential fashion. Either as colorful imaginings of my unconscious mind (in an atheistic ideal), or as a “real” god/spirit/ect. interacting with me. You know? I really don’t care about the particulars of it.

So I guess, in writing this out (like I just did in my journal, pondering this whole thing) . . . I just think that I spend a lot of time worrying about other  people seeing my practice and spirituality as “legit”, when I really honestly shouldn’t, and it’s stupid for me to try. It’s a waste of time for me to try. Explaining how a spirituality can come completely from dreams and the stories that arise from them to other people would be like Da Vinci trying to explain his flying models to a turnip.

I suppose in the past a lot of the flack I’ve gotten as a person is because I seem like a know-it-all or have a better-than-you attitude. And maybe they’re right. I don’t feel insecure in my spirituality the way a lot of other people do because mine is a direct experience. I see my god, and his spirits, and their worlds, as clearly in my dreams as I do anything when I’m awake. And maybe when the electrons in my brain stop firing those dreams, that existence ends with them. And if that’s the case, my afterlife is only substantial and made real by the stories that I created while I was here.

And maybe it’s the other way around; maybe there is something after, in which case, I’ll be right, and I’ll also be dead, and probably find all of this hilarious.

But either way? If having a very tangible practice and a spirituality based around something I can see and feel and touch every day, and being secure in the same because of that fact, makes me a know it all? Well okay. I don’t have to wonder about a lot of things because really for me it can only go one of two ways. There’s nothing so I have to write it/live it, or there’s something and the joke was on me all along. I don’t *have* to be right about Lucifer. I don’t *have* to be right about ANY.THING. Not him, his worlds, or anything to do with either or. Because I know what I see and feel when I’m in those dream-places. There’s really nothing to argue about when it comes to how I experience my relationship with him because the dreams in and of themselves were fact; they happened. They’re valid for me regardless of if they are for anyone else. And while I welcome and even encourage others to share in my experiences with me; I love discussing them; nothing in this world or any other is going to convince me that my dreams and the spirituality that arises from them aren’t just as important as anyone else’s faith, or practice. This is mine, and spiritually, it satisfies me. And if that bothers or threatens some people, I really can only feel sorry for them;  that their own spiritual foundation is so shaky they have to set about trying to degrade and destroy someone elses. Likely in an attempt to detract from their own wanting.

About this Blog

Online Shrine and Devotional Space dedicated to Lucifer-Helel, The Mourning Star, The Lightning Bringer,and the Aeon of Air.

Blogger is Danyel, Pop Culture Pagan, Godspouse, Spiritworker, and Witch.

Member of The Internet Defense League

Follow O, Mourning Star. . . on

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 178 other followers

Twitter Updates