#but instead a magical construct which does what its supposed to do within the parameters of its creation

[that-guy-sleepy-miles]

HEEEEY i just went through the whole Monkie Queen AU tag and DUDE WHAT A GREAT AU. I LOVE ME SOME TURTORED RED SON I LOVE HIM. I STILL HAVE NO IDEA WHO IT IS OR WHY IS HE EVEN THERE THOUGH. can we get some more information about It?? like, origins? or his final goal??? is he taking this power trip all the way up to the Jade Emperor or like, what is he trying to do?? THANKS :D

I no longer have enough energy to be cryptic, so you're getting a real answer <3! This is all up-to-date lore!! Though it's subject to change, I don't think it will! Hopefully!!!

"It" refers to the ink curse from the scroll! Though, honestly, calling them a curse isn't correct. They're a binding spell (as they and Red Son will inform you). Its final goal is to survive and get the story right.

Survival is a tangential goal compared to the story. They attached themselves to MK not out of a want, need, or instinct to survive, but out of a drive to fulfill their purpose; a completely logical process. Any desperation they showed in the moment was a replication of the people they've held in their clutches.

It's spent a long while with MK at this point, and they've come to a conclusion: MK doesn't know how the story goes.

If It could feel bad, they would. They forgive him, after this many years by his side. Clearly, MK is lost. Clearly, MK has memory issues or SOMETHING because he cannot remember how the story goes. So, they will just guide him in the right direction, and take over when needed.

(Of course, there is no story they're retelling — no collection of memories beyond the present — but I don't know if the curse would have the capacity to know that. Its job is to make sure that everyone stays in the scroll, and sticks to the script and proper timeline. When there's no longer a scroll, there's no script, but there is a timeline… Where does that leave the curse? To run magic "coding" that doesn't properly function, I suppose.

We know where we've been and know we're going somewhere, which means we have a timeline. There MUST be a story if there's a timeline, so we have to figure out the story from the memories. Its data is biased, so It can't properly make up a new story from MK's memories. [Also MK's memories aren't reliable??? Who knows what's going on up there frfr.])

[melias-cimitiere]

LHP, ATHEISTS AND SPIRITS

I see at times so many attempts to define or to "purify" what the LHP is, while forgetting perhaps that the truth of it is not in simple dissections or refutations, but in a greater understanding that encompasses all the undercurrents.

For example, the classic opposition between Noetic (or Philosophical Approach) versus Spiritual (not blind faith). Why do these have to be mutually exclusive? By all means, it's like condemning a part of the self to favor another. It makes no sense to me. There is a place for logic and philosophical arguments (without which we would be like animals) and there's a place for the spirit. I am all in favor for experimentation but this doesn't have to be in opposition to magic for example. I totally don't get why some choose to set themselves against the belief systems of their supposed brethren, even if they are quite close.

Perhaps my own understanding of LHP is at fault; I know that by being solitary perhaps one may mistrust groups/guidelines, but on the other hand, it's a Path - meaning that it is a Way of Life, a Practice and something that integrates certain sets of behavior with belief, evidence, practice (ie ritual) and many more depending on the definition. So for a LHP person to call another person or a group not LHP just because they are focused more on the magical/ritual element instead of the noetic, seems absurd to me. I know that it is quite trendy to go against the theistic principle or anything that resembles faith or a spiritual system, but surely any person that would refute that as LHP would have to discredit the Yezidis, the demonolater communities everywhere, those who accept Set as a distinct Entity external to us, those that practice draconian magic, the Vodou and so on...  there are simply too many examples of LHP that the materialist or overtly sceptical tends to discredit all too easily, in favor of what? his mind?... and why would this be More LHP than those who practice on the Path under the tuition of demons, for example?

I personally think that all modalities of thinking have their use, much like the Aeon of Horus has/d its use but that doesn't mean that the Aeon of Set for example is not the prime example of xeper and deification. So why would anyone seek to adopt a certain stance that only would be useful in serving as a modality and not as a universal tool? Crowley's Thelema and La Vey's attitudes certainly served the LHP well, but to become stuck on these is to limit oneself while there are so many more things to experience and to explore. And in private conversations I have lately heard the same old argument, that faith stems from christianity... I would like to remind that faith predates christianity (or other monotheistic religions) for dozens or even hundreds of millennia (depending on whether one studies ancient Egyptian - Kemetian scripts or Sumerian including the Isin King List). Faith is much like logic; it's a tool. Faith, in the right hands can achieve certain altered states and access different experiences that could transform the self. Of course, we have seen the misuse of faith all throughout history with the fanatics, the burning of the libraries of the ancient world, the crusades, the inquisition etc... but just because monotheistic religions perverted faith and spirituality, doesn't mean we have to throw away traditions predating them since the Dawn of Man.

Evidently there are many LHP practitioners who are atheists and who simply choose to exalt the Self as the centre of everything in their universe. Whereas the Self is indeed very important in freedom, choice, and consequence, I never was an atheist nor do my personal experiences validate a cosmic paradigm devoid of spiritual presences. I also do not subscribe to the notion that all Deities/Entities/Spirits/Demons are parts of our brain. I believe that they correspond to areas of our brain (like linking to old phrenology charts) but that is all; correspondence is not the same as Identity, so through my own experience such entities have a truly external Essence and Identity. While correspondence to brain parts is probably essential in order to sense something that would normally lie outside the realm of human senses, I am certain that they do exist externally to me. The Self is important for many things such as initiation, becoming/xeper, constructing an interface with reality, however I don't accept that the Self is the only deity there is.

For example, let's take Set. I have significant personal evidence (but not proof to convince cynics) that this deity is Indeed a true Deity, external to me. Some would argue that Set is the only true deity, others could say there are others (neteru or something else) that are also true.

So assuming that one accepts the existence of deities that are superior or external to Self, there are different stances/ paradigms as to dealing with this: demonolatry for example would worship or offer ritual honors to such entities. While others would seek to control them for own gain using grimoires/demonologies etc which is something entirely different. Some would attempt to use such energies in order to "harvest" specific results for themselves, either as part of self-transformation or as part of micromanaging life with its problems. On the other side of the spectrum, RHP would use parts of this knowledge to attempt to exorcise these deities (for them they would all be classed as demons anyway).

Something metaphysical truly exists beyond the Self, whatever that is. Any model of self-transformation does not contradict to the existence of said deities/spirits/demons nor do I see any issues with tuition from such immaterial beings.

As for the other worlds and their denizens/ deities/ daemons etc, I accept the existence of a mental stratum acting as the interface between the entities and the mind. Even if the Otherness is extreme so that the entity cannot be easily discerned, this mental interface allows for it to be "clothed" in a particular disguise that is somewhat acceptable within certain parameters of the socio-cultural paradigm as well as the era in which one lives. Perhaps from a different stance all worlds are one in essence, despite their individual differences, much like hues in color in a vast and incomprehensible painting. If such entities / creatures of Otherness are known to exist, there must have been some evidence in the works of those that worked with them, such as Michael Aquino when contacted by Set, Aleister Crowley with regards to Aiwass etc. These Beings were described in such a way as to imply independent existence and individuality. Whether these voices were symbolic, or partly covered in archetypal forms, or actual Entities, matters very little since they had tremendous impact on the entire LHP spectrum. In terms of validity, it's almost impossible to discern whether these are actual Beings external to the Self, but even though LHP people like to believe in total freedom, they commonly accept what widely known figures such as LaVey, Aquino, Crowley say as authorities on the path. But even their words would have to be validated through personal experience. And here the endless arguments take place, hopefully eloquently and politely and with mutual respect between those who support the archetype theory or the beings from another world/dimension. Even if the conversation takes place with the best of intentions, I doubt whether much will be gained from it due to the fact that each side tends to be firmly entrenched and frankly it's quite difficult for experienced people to just change their mind. It is true that there's no clear yes or no to these things; for example demons could be true actual beings from another dimension, or they could be shells, almost robotic in nature, or they could be an Order's egregore, or a thought-form, etc. All these could be argued that they could produce results, but for different reasons / mechanisms. And sometimes this makes all the difference.

To me LHP is about the only type of Spirituality that can access and harness the power needed to break the chains put on us by monotheistic paradigms for millennia. It frees the mind from many illusions while redefining social cohesion under a new light, while assisting the individual achieve Luciferian Gnosis and at the same time, xeper as in Becoming and a state of being initiated all the time.

[mohini-musing]

A blindness that touches perfection

Chasing Ghosts universe, set not long after Tasha reentered James’ life

Tasha’s reappearance in his life in a lecture hall brought the two halves of his existence into conflict, a Venn diagram melding slowly together - the before and the after stretching out to meet, converge, and the confluence of those two parts of him would either be his undoing or salvation.

Now here they are three weeks into the semester in his living room, hunched over a cheap coffee table and assembling what he can only think of as atomic model tinker toys in preparation for an exam he’ll be happy to scape a pass out of.

Her hand is trembling as she reaches for the little colored baubles, meticulously constructing a representation of the compounds they have to deal with for this unit. Organic chemistry should have come with a warning about this particular endeavor for those lacking in all original parts, James muses, before he registers that the tremor is making it impossible for her to connect the little sphere to the corresponding cylinder.

“Tash?” he asks, voice low enough to be barely heard. The startle his question evokes scatters plastic atomic model pieces all over the carpet, and she curses before looking up at him.

“Dammit.”

The word is more hiss than anything, and he clenches his fist to keep from reaching out to her.

She presses balled up hands hard against her eyes, chest heaving as a gasping breath whistles through gritted teeth.

He wants to grab her, pull her across the space that divides them and hold her close. He wants to ask her what is going on, but he waits. Tasha hits harder than half the guys he fought alongside in the desert. Provoking her is a bad choice in the best of moments and right now it’s a particularly ill advised one. Long seconds pass before she looks up with red, watery eyes.

Her face contorts in what he supposes she intends to be a smile. It’s all teeth and no joy; lips chapped beneath perfectly applied stain. Deeply wired training makes every tiny detail stand out, each small tell seared into his consciousness and igniting instincts he thought he left behind in a home where every door held secrets and every utterance subtext he didn’t care to read.

“I hope you don’t think you’re getting out of telling me what that’s about,” he tells her dryly. Tasha doesn’t go for coddling. Better to be direct and hope for the closest thing to truth. She’s too good a liar to give him the actual thing, but he stands a decent chance at getting a shade of it.

“Give me my bag.”

He obeys, reaching behind him for her small canvas pack. There’s the rattle of a couple different plastic vials within as she rummages and withdraws a hand clutching a brightly labelled bottle. It promises magical fat burning and appetite suppression.

“Tasha,” he begins, his lips moving before his brain engages. No one on the planet needs to lose weight less than the girl in front of him. She’s always been thin, but this new version of his former baby sister is all sharp angles.

“Shut it,” she interrupts.

Spindly fingers dig a couple beige capsules from the bottle and she knocks them back without so much as a glance at him. Her throat works a couple times to get them down before she shakes her head one quick jerk and drops the bottle back into the depths of her bag.

She doesn’t look up when she speaks.

“It’s not like it’s cocaine.”  

He doesn’t know why he still has her micro-expressions embedded in his brain, but right now it’s immensely helpful. She’s biting at the center of her lips, but the set of her forehead tells him it’s not nervousness. It’s searching for a believable lie.

“And we both know how safe you are with that,” James shoots back when the silence stretches a little too long.

“I’m not a fucking child.” The petulant look she gives him almost makes him regret the words. Almost.

“You never were. What’s up with the not cocaine, then?”

“Hangover,” she mutters.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a fucking hangover. I don’t have time for a fucking hangover, so I’m drugging up and moving on. I presume you’re familiar with the concept?”

Now that he looks closely, her eyes are a little bit on the glassy side. He’s wired to think of her as perpetually a little bit buzzed, though, so it hadn’t been noticeable as anything worthy of further study. He doesn’t know where he stands, what the boundaries are right now. Years ago, he knew her as well as he knew himself. Now she’s as good as a stranger, while also being absolutely his baby sister.

“You have a hangover, which means you’re dehydrated, and you’re popping amphetamines?”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious, for that astute contribution,” she snarks back.

He resists the urge to snap at her, to tell her she’s being an idiot. Instead, he heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of Gatorade, and passes it to her. She takes it without a sound, twisting off the orange lid and downing most of the contents in a few long draughts.

“Why do you have a hangover on a Tuesday night?” he asks her. Even as the words pass his lips, he sees the problem. She’s going to hear accusation, and she’s bound to shut down hard. He hears the word on a ghost of a memory – incoming.

It’s not a projectile heading his way or a kid with a gun bigger than his arms. But it’s no less hard to witness. Tasha’s face transforms into marble, cold, hard, empty.

“I don’t have to answer that.” The words hold no inflection but they are true. She doesn’t. She has no obligation to him or anyone else to explain the hows and whys of what she does to her body. It doesn’t stop him wanting her to offer them, but it does keep his lips closed and the rest of the questions unasked.

Are you drinking every day? How much? Are you sleeping? Well? Food? Are you safe? – All the things he wants to know and can’t badger her with. Pushing too hard is a recipe for being shut out entirely. Failing to push tells her he doesn’t give a fuck. Tasha’s an expert at subtext, skilled enough that she can find it where it doesn’t exist. Every time.

“Point,” he says instead, before kneeling at the floor and gathering the model components and placing them back in front of her. It’s message enough that he’s heard her, that he’s giving her space to say what she’s ready for, and to keep her silence if she isn’t. He’ll keep the electrolyte drinks coming, stick a bottle of Motrin on the counter, and wait until she’s ready to explain. Patience has never been his virtue, but tactical planning – that’s a thing he knows well. Tasha is often best approached as a mission with unclear parameters. He has plenty of experience with those.

They’ve put together a half dozen more compounds when she stands, walking with long strides down the hall and hitting the rug before the toilet with a soft thump of knees on shaggy discount store fluff. He hears her cough a few times before the Gatorade makes its reappearance. Going to her and rubbing her back, holding her curls, offering comfort, all of those options filter through his mind and are discarded. He was on her path from the room. If she wanted him, she would have grabbed his hand and pulled him along. It was always her way as a child and so little else has changed he can’t imagine that has either.

The toilet flushes a third time before stumbling footsteps announce her return. Her face is a sickly grey, a vague flush beneath prominent cheekbones. He pats the space next to him and she drops into it, knees drawn to her chest as she slips sideways against what is now only some of an arm. A moment of alarm as he wonders if she’s going to be upset by the prosthetic. She doesn’t stare at the glove on his hand the way most people do, but that’s a far cry from cuddling metal and silicone.

A tiny sniffle pulls him from his insecurities. Tasha doesn’t do tears. Except she’s going to now. She plops her head onto his shoulder and he reacts on instinct, curling her into his body and wrapping his arms around in the embrace they knew as kids. She’s boneless, her trembling form going where he guides as he holds on for all he’s worth. She’s not crying, exactly. More like leaking saltwater from clenched eyelids while her breath forces warmth through the fabric of his shirt in shallow gasps. Regardless, he begins the litany he learned in another world.

“Just breathe,” he tells her. It’s all the comfort she’s ever allowed. He could tell her she’s not alone, that she’s safe, that he’s got her, but none of those have ever helped. Simple orders, direct but gentle, those are the way to go when Tasha needs whatever it is she needs right now.

“I have a new caseworker,” she whispers when her body has stilled. “She called me darlin.”

They’ve never really discussed specifics of what happened to Tash before she turned up in the group care home. James does know that there are words, phrases, snippets of everyday life that send her hurtling back to places she’ll do terrible things to herself to stop seeing.

“How long?”

“First visit was yesterday morning,” she murmurs. “I started drinking when she left.”

James doesn’t need to ask how much she had. He can’t smell alcohol on her so she must have had little enough to not leach it through her pores. That doesn’t rule out an exceptional amount consumed, but it does mean that it’s not a habit, not in a way that he needs to worry for her safety. He’s no idiot. Tasha needs her vices the way other people need oxygen. For now, he can trust that she’s hungover on a Tuesday evening but that she’s safe enough in her skin.